She kept coming to group meetings, even as her stomach grew. Some weeks, it grew faster. Other times, it didn’t. She sat through the sessions, barely shifting in her chair. When she stood up, she held her stomach with both hands. After some time, people stopped looking in her direction. Then, she stopped coming.
At first, it didn’t register as an absence. I only noticed gaps that unsettled me. My eyes slid, unbidden, to the third row on the left during group meetings, then drifted back when they met another face. I reached for the attendance register and hesitated, my pen hovering where her name should have been. In church, my gaze wandered the pews, trying to spot her. My eyes avoided the doorway, as if looking too long might summon her.
She always attended the Tuesday Bible studies that I officiated.
I marked the days in my head. Two weeks passed. Palm Sunday arrived and passed, with everyone receiving blessed palm branches. Many parishioners weaved the fronds into small crosses. Some kept theirs at home, tucked behind doors and icons as sacramentals after the service. Others returned them later, dry and brittle, so we would burn them and create ashes for next year’s Ash Wednesday service.
Mother’s Day came and went.
When she returned, she was with a child.
…
I was seated, recording the offerings, when she stood in the doorway and didn’t greet me. She stood there with her child. Not much had changed about her. She was still beautiful, her fair skin a little tanned, her long hair pleated into neat cornrows. She had put on some weight here and there, which made her seem shorter than her five-foot height.
The child made a sound, as if waking from sleep, or maybe hungry, and she rocked him. I stood, watching mother and child as if they were a circus. I couldn’t believe all these months had passed without seeing her.
I didn’t know if I should continue with the task before me. The ceiling fan scraped the air above us, doing little more than shuffling the loose papers on the desk. The room was small and served as the church’s office for counselling and other administrative work.
I glanced at her and bid her to sit, but she asked for the parish priest. I wondered why she asked for the parish priest, but since it had been months since I saw her, I decided not to press it. When I told her the parish priest had travelled, she crossed the room and sat opposite me, anchoring the child, her fingers splayed across his back.
I searched my mind for the last time her body hadn’t been shaped by that weight. I searched my mind about my acquaintances with her, about the days she had come hungry for a word that would settle her restless mind. That was then, all in the past, before she disappeared. My mind didn’t know what to think now.
“You’ll be his godfather,” she said, her voice soft. “I want him to learn from you.”
She didn’t look at me. Her fingers worried the edge of the baby’s wrap cloth, folding and unfolding it.
I opened my mouth to speak but found no words. It was unlike her to speak with such finality. Perhaps, not with finality, because she looked at me then, stirring a restlessness I couldn’t name. Her gaze was soft, insistent, almost pleading, betraying the strength she carried in her voice.
I settled into the seat, and it creaked beneath me. My gaze shifted from her once bright face that now lacked colour to the infant cradled in her arm. I let out a low breath. In the silence that followed, the only movement was the child’s tilting small head, his eyes seeking mine, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. I felt the pulse of possibility in that gaze, a quiet insistence that left me with no choice.
But why me? I wondered.
I let my palms curl tightly against my knees. I couldn’t refuse her. Because the boy looked at me, as if he had always known me, I couldn’t refuse him either. I drew in a slow breath, letting it anchor me before I closed my eyes for a moment, a prayer threading under my breath: God give me the strength to bear him, to carry them.
…
His baptism happened after the evening service on Sunday. Only a handful of essential witnesses stayed back. We gathered at the altar beneath the soft glow of the sanctuary lights. The font had been prepared, the silver bowl filled with water, the white stole folded beside it, and the candles already lit.
They were all dressed in white — she, her husband, the godmother, and two other family members. The child was wrapped in a white cloth, his head a little visible above his mother’s chest. After the profession of our faith, renewing our own baptismal promises, and rejecting Satan, the priest poured water over the boy’s head three times. As the water ran down his hair, flattening his curls, he shrieked, his small limbs jerking against his mother’s arms. The priest took him from her and cradled him for the final blessing. Still, he cried out, his body twisting in the priest’s arms.
Her husband leaned in, smiling, speaking in soft tones to the priest, their voices rising and falling in casual conversation. When they turned from the altar and took a few steps, the priest paused and placed the child in my arms. The child stopped crying at once.
His body eased against my chest, his breath hitched, and his chest fluttered once, then settled well as his breath evened out. His small fingers found the edge of my dog collar, curling into it with small, determined strength.
“Is he accepting a priestly calling already?” the parish priest intoned.
Laughter filled the air with deep baritone peals from the men, lighter voices from the women rising and falling, filling the near-empty church. I glanced at the mother and noticed that she was neither laughing nor smiling. Her eyes were fixed on the child, unblinking. Her jaw set as if bracing herself.
I shifted the child, angling him for his head to rest on my left arm, so I would see his face. His eyes opened enough to look, dark and steady. They fixed on mine for a breath, then closed again. His mother’s gaze didn’t leave us. When my eyes met hers, she turned away.
I drew the child back to my chest, tucking his head beneath my chin.
“He’s such a beautiful boy,” I said as I placed the child back into his mother’s arms when the priest and her husband returned. The boy stirred, his face creasing.
Her jaw tightened, before she replied, “He takes after his father.”
…
His confirmation was early, at about ten and a half years. He recited the core prayers, the Ten Commandments, the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, and the Catechism with ease.
But before that, he had come to the church office alone on a weekday afternoon. I had risen from my chair to stretch, one hand braced against the table, when I heard the knock, once, then again, firmer. The door opened before I could answer. He stepped in and bowed, his right palm drawn to his chest as he lowered his upper body.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
I rested my hand on his head without thinking. His hair felt coarse beneath my palm.
“My mother said I should come and report myself to you.”
“What have you done?”
He hesitated, his eyes flicked to the cross on the wall, then returned to mine.
“I lied.”
“Talk to me.”
The words rushed out of him, about a plastic ball flying, a broken neighbour’s window, the neighbour coming to their house to report, as none of the boys snitched. He had stood with the others, quiet, saying they didn’t know.
His breath caught in his chest when he finished, and his eyes were wide, fixed on mine, waiting.
I studied his face, the curve of his brow. He had the stature of his mother, the complexion and strength of his father, and a spirit and disposition I couldn’t place. Whilst still young, he carried himself with a confidence beyond his years. Sometimes, he reminded me of my younger self.
I spoke to him about truth, about confession, about the strange mercy of being seen and known and forgiven. He listened without blinking. I prayed for him, and afterwards, he looked up at me and smiled.
“I feel lighter,” he said.
After he left, I caught my reflection in the office window. Jaw taut, shoulders squared, the same tension I had glimpsed on his small face moments before.
…
His mother had complained that he mimicked the people he saw on television. “Ó máà kọsẹ àwọn ìkan nínú tẹlifísàn,” she complained in Yoruba. She didn’t like it. She said he was going to make his life unanchored by mimicking others and not being his authentic self. I said, No, let’s watch him.
When he was twelve years old, he played the role of the father of Jesus on Christmas Day, with all the histrionics he could muster. It was childish but hilarious. My eyes searched the congregation for his mother. Her lips stretched wide, and her teeth gleamed with each laugh.
At the end of the service, he greeted me as he faltered in his step on the pavement outside the church and almost fell.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
I caught his arm. “You’re very talented and bold.”
“We’re taught not to notice the people watching,” he rubbed his eyes. “We were told to act from the heart.”
“Keep it up,” I nodded, tapping him on the shoulder.
…
She visited the next day with bags of what we called the prophet’s offering. She never asked what I needed. She would keep the black-and-white Bagco sack in the office close to the wall, lock eyes with me and leave.
Sometimes, she would call and ask where I would like to go. I was always sceptical about these outings. But she didn’t care. She would always come with something to eat and drink, and then she would seek counsel. I was the one who ate a lot. She always ate the portion of a toddler. She wanted to keep fit for her husband whenever he was around, before he set out to sail. I didn’t get the opportunity to ask her about him. Her voice was always a step ahead of mine.
Her words were soothing. I admire the way you stand at the door, shaking our hands, looking into our eyes, caring for us, and asking about our welfare.
I started doing that after my ordination. My heart was in its place anytime I was with her. All the pain, shame, guilt, and sorrow people dumped on me fizzled away. I would watch her as she spoke in long, unbroken stretches, marvelling at the way her mind moved, the rhythm of her words, the warmth she carried, and how her lips would feel on mine.
And, I never stopped noticing how much the boy, her son, was her carbon copy. But there were features unique to him alone, features even his father didn’t possess, the habitual flare of his nostrils when he was upset, the square line of his jaw, the long legs built for the long haul, straight, strong, thick-limbed, like timber.
…
The boy was fourteen when I reprimanded him in public for the first time. I had just returned from securing land for our new church building when I heard the noise before I saw it, the shouts and laughter tearing through the late afternoon air.
By the car park, a group of boys swarmed the mango tree, shaking its branches, hurling sticks upward. Mangoes rained down, thudding into the sand, some splitting on impact as the boys scrambled to gather them, stuffing them into bags and pockets. Bluebottle flies buzzed around them. Leaves lay part-crushed underfoot, some half-swallowed in the sand that made walking feel like carrying a sack tied to each leg.
I should have called one of the other boys, but his name slipped from my lips. He froze. A stick hovered mid-air in his raised hand, the throw abandoned. What unsettled me wasn’t the obedience, but the way he received it. He didn’t flinch or shrink. He didn’t even apologise. He drew in a breath and stood still, head tilting a little to the side. From where I stood, I saw his hands fall behind his back, fingers laced and loose, his weight settling onto one leg. Only then did I recognise the posture. It was how I stood when my father spoke to me, the same arc of quiet authority I still carried before bishops. And, for a heartbeat, I saw him, a boy on the edge of becoming a man.
The other boys scattered, shuffling past him, laughter dissolving into movement. He remained where he was. The late sun stretched his shadow across the parish school wall. When I looked up, he had taken his place among the boys, bent to the ground, their movements quick and practised. They gathered the fruits, leaves, and sticks from the sandy ground, clearing the place until the sand held only footprints, absorbing the chaos, stilling the yard once more.
No wonder so few mangoes ever made it to the parsonage from that tree.
…
When the boy was leaving for the university, his mother brought him to me for prayers. At that time, I had become the parish priest.
We sat in the sitting room adjacent to the church office, with a painting of the Last Supper on the white wall opposite the entrance. In the room, a small shelf held a wooden cross and books on priesthood and spirituality.
She didn’t sit back. She perched on the edge of the chair, her handbag clutched in her lap, fingers firmed together, moving back and forth on her lap.
My right foot felt cold against the floor as she spoke, her gaze shifting from her son to the window, to the bare stretch of the wall, then to me.
I spoke of Jesus. Of righteousness. Of the church. Of family. Of a mother’s blessing. Of good friends and company. Of hard work and success. She nodded at intervals, but her eyes never quite settled. Once, when I spoke of protection, her lips parted, hesitated, and closed.
I went on. Afterwards, we prayed.
…
Sani taught me how to pray when we were teenagers. We were still friends, though I didn’t know if he still prayed.
Last year, in my office, I introduced the boy to Sani. He had come bearing good news of how he made a first-class grade in his first session at the university, the same university where Sani had earned his PhD and now worked. I was proud of him that day. It reminded me that I, too, had graduated with a first-class in Theology, five years before he was born.
Niyi, a software engineering genius and cybersecurity expert, a mutual friend of Sani and me, was also at the same university. I had once considered connecting Niyi with the boy, thinking he could mentor him in computers and software, since the boy was studying computer and electronics, but I let it pass.
Today, Sani paid one of his usual visits to the parish. As I was seeing him off, we talked.
“Your godson… How is he?”
“What about him?”
“He’s growing up.”
“Of course, he is.” I eased my steps and fixed my gaze on him.
“His eyes are beginning to open,” he smiled. “I hear he’s with Inem now.”
I stopped moving. Only my eyelids shifted, lowering my gaze to the ground. A chill ran up my spine, ice crawling against my ribs.
Inem was one of Sani’s delivery girls. They moved what he called dynamite, a word I later learned meant cocaine and heroin combined. I knew her because, early one morning, a few weeks after my ordination, Sani had called in panic. He said he was away, that a mistake had occurred, and that I must not fail him. I went to the police station that day and secured her release.
How had they found him? I wondered.
The tightness in my chest worsened. My stomach twisted. Thoughts came too fast to hold and scattered like dry leaves in the wind. I wanted to call him, my godson, to take his face in my hands and shake him awake, but I caught Sani by the collar of his agbada.
“Sani, this boy is my godson! You know that! What are you doing?”
“What you’re doing,” he coughed as he struggled, “reverend gentleman, could interrupt your church supplies.”
A smirk lingered on his lips. I shoved him back before releasing him. He was stout, thick through the chest. Though we stood nearly eye to eye, I was a little taller.
He coughed again and tapped my shoulder, smoothing the sleeve of my white cassock.
“You see, a fox can’t raise a dove.”
I looked at him, willing my heart to remain in its place, praying no one witnessed the moment.
“You’re bold and confident,” he continued, smiling. “What do you expect from those under your tutelage, to be timid?”
I slid my hands into the pockets of my cassock. With my eyes fixed on the interlocked stones of the car park, I led the way to his car.
We’re the church of Christ. It didn’t get any more dead than that.
…
Exactly two weeks later, after Sani’s visit, the boy arrived without notice. I heard a key scrape in the lock. When it failed, the doorbell rang. I opened the door. He stood there, tall and broad-shouldered. His shirt clung to him. For a brief moment, I wondered how he managed ladies with all these features.
His face was expressionless. I had expected a surprise. I was at his father’s house.
“Good afternoon, Reverend,” he bowed his head. Then, almost as an afterthought, “You’re here.”
I smiled with effort. “Welcome, son.”
He picked up his bags and followed me into the sitting room. I hoped he would go upstairs to his mother.
“I planned to come to the church this evening,” he said. “But I won’t have to anymore.”
“Why?”
He met my eyes for a second, acting like he didn’t hear my question. He placed a hamper and a white envelope on the glass table beside me, then sat on one of the velvet sofas, his back straight, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. His eyes wandered over the high ceiling and the crystal chandelier.
“How are your studies?” I asked, still hoping he would leave to meet his mother.
“Smooth, sir.” He rubbed his chin.
My pulse thudded. I feared he could hear it.
“And, apart from your studies?”
“Not much.”
“You should consider the Bamgboyes,” I said. “Their Mount Movies Ministry is doing good work.”
He looked down at his shoes, rubbing his chin again.
We heard footsteps upstairs.
“My sugar,” his mother purred, slurring the r as she swung her hips down the stairs in a bandeau and bum shorts, “you still there? Sorry I kept you waiting.”
A lazy smile toyed with the corners of her mouth.
The familiar pull of her warmth curled through me, every nerve alert. My gaze dropped, though every inch of me wanted to step closer.
He rose and took two steps toward her, then stopped. Glancing at me, he returned to the sofa, leaned back, and stretched one leg out.
She stood there for a moment, then turned and went back upstairs, leaving her perfume behind.
“The Bamgboyes,” he said, and cleared his throat, meeting my eyes. “I joined them to become a fisher of men.”
“Tell me more,” my voice sounded far away.
I noticed he tilted his head as I often did when pondering. It made my heart lurch.
“We go out and catch men. Lost souls.”
“For Jesus?”
“We have a target. Fifty-two souls this year.” He rubbed his chin again. “One each week.”
I tried to nod, but my head refused. “Isn’t that ambitious?”
“Not at all, sir. Souls are perishing.”
“Have you found one this week?”
He paused. “Yes.”
“Good.”
“That’s partly why I came. To follow up.”
“Does this person live nearby?”
“Very close.”
I nodded. Fatigue crept into my bones.
“One more thing, sir,” he cleared his throat again, a faint tremor betraying the calm in his voice. “I’ll be travelling soon. I need your blessings.”
I glanced at him and exhaled. “Blessings?”
“It’s my first trip. I don’t want any problems.”
His voice was steady now, almost unnerving. Yet his foot tapped a quiet rhythm against the tiled floor. In a blink, his eyes caught mine, and my pulse quickened.
I stretched out my hands, and he placed his in mine.
“Where are you travelling to? And when are you leaving?”
“It’s confidential.”
I withdrew my hands and stood up.
“You can’t even pray for me?”
“Where are you going?”
“Europe. I’ll be leaving in three weeks.”
My chest tightened. “For what?”
“To deliver something.”
“What?” I pressed.
He hesitated, cleared his throat, and answered, “Parcel.”
The word struck like a gunshot. My chest tightened more, and my eyes burned. I wanted to ask if his mother knew about the trip. I didn’t want to mention his father. I was sure he hadn’t heard from him in a long time.
Europe? He must be joking.
“How and where will you get the money to travel to Europe?”
He looked at me, then at the floor. “God will provide.”
I took a long, deep breath, my head running amok. I wanted to shout at him, to reprimand him for his foolishness, to slap the stupid fantasies off his head, but I found myself stretching my hands again, with my palms open.
When, without hesitation, he slid his palms into mine, it was warm, solid, and unflinching.
I bowed my head and prayed: “Ikú tó bá máà bẹ́ẹ̀ ẹ lórí tó bá ṣíì ẹ ní fìlà, kòó máà dúpẹ́. That death that would cut off your head, may it knock off your cap instead. L’orúkọ Jésù.”
“Àmín.”
A shiver slithered up my spine at the sound of his voice. My fingers trembled in his palms. I let go first.
When I left the house, the echo of Sani’s words and dynamite, trailed me like smoke.
…
The boy’s mother and I didn’t see each other for about a month. I didn’t see the boy either. In that absence, I buried myself in my priestly duties — visiting parishioners, prophesying, guiding, interceding, and accepting generous offerings.
A few days before Easter that same year, while checking the church register for those who had given their Easter packages and those who needed me to visit, my phone rang. A member of my parish was missing.
As I was trying to make sense of the situation, another call came in.
Without preamble, a croaky and husky voice demanded, “We need ten million naira. We’ll call you tomorrow and tell you where to deliver it.”
“Who is this?” I stammered, trying to steady my voice.
“We know you make millions from the church. This is our share.”
“What are you talking about?” The words hissed through my teeth.
In a flicker of time, a familiar voice emanated from the phone. “Reverend, it’s me.”
That was all she said, and the line went dead.
My heart burned. Her son came to mind. I dialled his number. One beep, then silence. I tried again. This time, it went through.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Fine, sir.” His voice was calm, almost casual.
In the background, on the other side of the line, I thought I heard a husky voice.
“Son.”
He breathed his name, “Babatunde.”
I swallowed. “And your soul-winning?”
“It’s going well, sir.”
“Good to know. Well done,” I hesitated. “How is your mother doing?”
A pause followed. Then, he said he hadn’t heard from her in days. I asked why, and he said, “Nothing.” Then he added that he would call her later.
I still heard a husky voice in the background that sounded like the one that had called a few minutes ago. As I was about to ask if he had company, the line cracked.
“Sir, I have to go now.”
The line went dead.
I dialled the number that had called minutes earlier, but it wasn’t available. My hand traced the sign of the cross, moving from forehead to chest and across my shoulders, as a sharp breath escaped me.
…
The boy’s mother and I sat in an office at the police station, close enough that I could have reached for her, but I kept my hands folded. She avoided my eyes. I wanted to console her, to pray, but I let her be. Seeing her safe was enough.
The caller with the husky voice and three of his friends, all of the same age as the boy, were behind bars. The boy was nowhere to be found.
Niyi, my friend, had done what he always did with his laptop when I gave him the phone number of the husky caller, and within a few minutes, the precise location of the caller, the same location where the boy’s mother had been held, was revealed.
When the police arrived, the boy wasn’t there, and no one knew where he was, till now. I wanted to ask his mother if she knew about his plans of travelling to Europe, but I stopped myself, realising that this wasn’t the right time and place for such discussions.
“He knows,” she whispered, her voice breaking only after the officer in charge of the case had left us.
I turned to her, but before I could open my mouth, amid her quiet sobbing, my phone rang.
I looked at the screen and froze. “It’s him.”
She lurched to her feet. “Put it on speaker.”
I did.
“How can a priest be a godfather and at the same time a father?”
Around us, the noise continued — a phone ringing, someone laughing, a siren bawling.
“What are you talking about?” I blurted.
“Ask my mother.”
The call ended.
I felt a sudden misalignment in the room as if a structure had shifted by a fraction and thrown everything off balance. I turned to his mother, the movement heavy on my shoulders. My mind went numb, my head tight with pressure. Her eyes were swollen with tears. I opened my mouth to ask a thousand questions, but no words came. Only a tear slipped down my cheek.
“After all these years?”
She lifted her face to me. “They threatened to kill me,” she breathed. “I didn’t think I would come back.”
Her sobbing swallowed most of her words. I caught only fragments, breath breaking apart.
“I had to tell him the truth,” her voice splintered. “In case I didn’t come back.”
“Where… How did you see him? I tried to speak to him—”
“They held me in a room… hands tied… the first night. He… he was there.”
My eyes flew open.
She nodded. “I was shocked too. He said it was the only way you would listen.”
“Jesus! Were you the so…” I stopped. “You were the soul?”
“What are you talking about?” Her brows creased.
I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists. My eyes burned.
“After all these years, Nifemi? You let me pray for him. You sat there and let me lay hands on him, speak over my own son and—”
My right hand shook and slammed against the table, the vibration crawling up my arm. She shivered. I leaned forward, elbows braced, shoulders squared, and jaw locked. The pulse in my temple throbbed.
“You watched me. Brought him to me. Sat across from me and ate—”
I curled my fingers into fists, and heat crawled up my arms. Memories rose unbidden. The mango tree. His flawless recitation of the Catechism. Tiny fingers curling around my dog collar. A fire of warmth and cold roared under my skin, making my chest seize. I swallowed, and my Adam’s apple bobbed as I adjusted the collar of my cassock.
“You never intended to tell me?” I growled, the sound low and rough, startling even myself.
“I was going to… They threaten—”
“It took a threat for you—”
I pressed my right palm on the table and leaned back in the chair. My chest heaved. I felt disconnected from my own body, like I was watching myself through someone else’s eyes.
“Where is my son?”
My voice cut sharp, slicing through the room. I fixed her with my gaze, but she wouldn’t meet mine. Before I could stop her, she slipped past me, leaving the room with a deafening sob that froze my heart.
Joy Eyisi Jr is a Nigerian writer and teacher of English Studies at Covenant University. A first-class graduate of English from Covenant University, she is an alumna of the National Academy of Letters (NAL), having participated in the 2024 NAL’s creative writing workshop. She also attended the Ebedi International Writers’ Residency in 2024. She was the second runner-up for the 2023 Hashtag Kalakar Short Story Prize. Her work explores addiction, social justice, and identity, with a strong focus on resilience and transformation, giving voice to marginalised lives. She has been published in Kalahari Review, Selfies and Signatures, and Hashtag Kalakar. Willy Nilly Future is her first novel. She writes bilingually in prose fiction and enjoys formal experimentation.