2. Sing Alleluia

The “corow,” as everyone called it, hit Jekwu like a rogue okada speeding down a Lagos street.  

Suddenly, the church doors slammed shut, the place that had been his lifeblood for eleven years. 

“God go do am,” he used to say, a mantra as worn as his favourite choir robe. Now, with the world upside down and the once-booming hymns replaced by the eerie silence of lockdown, that unshakeable belief started to crumble.

After the lockdown had been relieved a bit, one Sunday morning, the sight of Aunty Ngozi, all decked out in her best Ankara finery, heading to a church, sent a jolt through Jekwu. 

“Una still dey go church?” he blurted out, disbelief lacing his voice.  

Aunty Ngozi stared at him like he’d sprouted horns. 

Before, the sight of people getting ready for service filled him with a surge of joy, the promise of uplifting melodies and collective faith. Now, it just felt…off. The pandemic had ripped away the veil of certainty he’d clung to for over a decade.

Jekwu used to be the undisputed king of the choir, the man whose booming voice could silence even the most restless toddler during service. 

“Brother Jekwu,” the younger folks would call him with reverence. 

“If you serve God diligently,” he’d tell them, his voice dripping with conviction, “blessings go overflow like a full pot of egusi soup cooked by an Igbo woman.”  

Every gospel song, every Bible verse, resided in his memory so comfortably.

Leading the choir was his past, present and future. But even with such unwavering faith, things weren’t exactly as rosy as the hymns he sang. He held no proper job.  

Pastor had assured him, with a heavy hand on his shoulder, that church work was enough.

So, Jekwu lived hand to mouth, relying on the church’s meagre stipend and the occasional “small small” hand-me-downs from Pastor, mostly faded designer shirts that reeked of expensive cologne and a faint hint of something else Jekwu couldn’t quite place.  

His friends, especially Ifeanyi with his sharp wit and even sharper tongue, would try to talk sense into him.  

“Jekwu,” he’d say, shaking his head, “see as the pastor dey ball while you dey wear the same second-hand shirt every other Sunday. You no dey see wetin dey happen?” But Jekwu, blinded by faith, would dismiss their concerns with a pious, “Na man of God now.”

The pandemic was the wrecking ball in Jekwu’s carefully constructed world. With the church closed, his routine shattered, Jekwu felt like a kite with a severed string, adrift in a sea of uncertainty. 

He tried to reconnect with old friends, but their conversations about investments and career trajectories left him feeling like a stranger in his own town. The world had moved on while Jekwu was stuck in a time warp, singing hymns about prosperity while his own life resembled a bowl of stale eko.

“Jekwu, you need to get a job, abeg,” Ifeanyi would say, exasperation lacing his voice. 

“See how you’re just wasting away.”  

But what kind of job?  His entire life had been dedicated to the church. The skills he possessed – directing choirs, reciting scripture – weren’t exactly in high demand on the open market.

He took whatever menial work he could find – painting fences, washing cars, anything to keep the hunger pangs at bay.

But the joy he once found in leading the choir had vanished, replaced by a dull ache in his chest that no amount of steaming Agege bread and kuli kuli could soothe.

His family noticed the change, of course. His mother, her eyes filled with worry, would ask, “Jekwu, what’s wrong?”

How could he explain the emptiness that gnawed at him from the inside out? The church, his anchor, his lifeblood, had become a source of disillusionment.

The little money he earned from odd jobs dwindled faster than a pot of pounded yam on a hungry day. Rent loomed. Sleep became a luxury he couldn’t afford. His health began to suffer, the stress etching lines onto his face and a constant tiredness that clung to him.

He did not go back to church. The church, the pastor, had punctured holes in his life.  He wouldn’t return, a beggar for the faith he no longer possessed. Besides, the whispers he’d once ignored now echoed in the cavernous space of his disillusionment.

“Jekwu thinks he’s special,” he overheard Mama Blessing mutter to Sister Joy one Sunday morning, before the pandemic shut the doors. 

“Always boasting about how close he is to the pastor. Blind faith won’t pay your rent, my dear.” Jekwu, at the time, had scoffed, dismissing them as jealous gossip. 

Now, those whispers stung like a swarm of angry bees. Maybe there was truth to them. Maybe his unwavering loyalty had been misplaced. 

Maybe the “small small” hand-me-downs from the pastor weren’t just acts of charity, but a way to keep Jekwu tethered to the church, content with his meagre stipend. 

The frustration gnawed at him, a constant companion alongside the gnawing hunger in his stomach. He tried to reach out to Ifeanyi, the only friend brave enough to question his blind faith. But Ifeanyi’s number had changed, another casualty of the pandemic’s upheaval.

Days bled into weeks, weeks into months. Jekwu became a ghost haunting the streets. The designer shirts, once a symbol of the pastor’s favour, now mocked him with their faded glory and the cloying scent they refused to relinquish.

Three years crawled by like a rainy season downpour. Jekwu, a shell of his former self, threw himself into the unforgiving embrace of Lagos. He was now a man navigating the city’s underbelly.

His first attempt at rejoining the world was a resume cobbled together on a borrowed laptop at the computer centre in the area.  

The screen glowed harshly, each line a stark reminder of his limited skills: “Years of experience leading a church choir…” he started, then winced. How did that translate to the real world? He deleted the line. His frustration knotted his stomach tighter than the threadbare belt holding up his faded designer trouser. 

Job hunting became a daily ritual, and he got rejection letters as much as he ate groundnut. He tried security guard at a flashy Lekki club, but his weary body couldn’t handle the long hours and the constant vigilance.  

Construction sites offered a glimpse of hope, but the foremen, gruff men with sun-baked faces, scoffed at his lack of experience.  

One day, a glimmer of hope flickered in a dingy roadside mechanic workshop. Baba Musa, the owner, a man with grease permanently etched under his calloused fingers, looked him up and down. 

“You strong?” Baba Musa rumbled, his voice gravelly from years of shouting over engine noise.

Jekwu, desperate for any opportunity, puffed out his chest. “Strong like palm tree, Baba.”

Baba Musa grunted, a sound that could be interpreted as either agreement or scepticism. 

“Start by cleaning,” he said, tossing Jekwu a grimy rag. “Show me you no be all talk and no action.”

The work was backbreaking. Jekwu spent his days covered in grease, sweat stinging his eyes. 

The evenings offered a different kind of challenge. His tiny room in a crowded Oshodi tenement housed not just him, but the constant hum of life.  

Mama Idowu, his landlady, a woman with a booming voice and even bigger earrings, would gossip about the goings-on in the building, her Yoruba laced with colourful slang. 

“Jekwu, you see that fine girl wey just pack in next door?” Mama Idowu would ask, her eyes twinkling. “She dey find serious man oh.”

Jekwu would mumble a non-committal response, his heart hasn’t been in the game of chasing girls for years now. 

The thought of romance felt like a luxury he couldn’t afford, both emotionally and financially. Besides, the memory of whispers from church lingered. The church was a constant reminder of misplaced trust.

One day, a group of young men loitering by the corner store eyed Jekwu with suspicion. They were the area boys, notorious for petty theft and harassment. Their leader, a scrawny teenager with a gold tooth glinting in the afternoon sun, sauntered towards him.

“Oga,” he drawled, the word dripping with mock respect, “wetin you carry for that bag?”

Jekwu clutched the bag tighter, as his meagre dinner money was inside. “Nothing concern you,” he mumbled, his voice raspy from disuse.

The teenager’s eyes narrowed. “We no like strangers wey no dey gree share,” he snarled, his voice a low growl.

Jekwu steeled himself. He may not have had the booming voice of his choir days, but years of leading from the front had instilled a core of courage. He squared his shoulders and met the teenager’s gaze.

“This one? I no go share,” he said, his voice surprisingly firm.

The teenager hesitated, surprised by the unexpected defiance.  

His bravado faltered for a moment, then he shrugged and slunk back to his group, muttering curses under his breath.  

Jekwu continued walking, his steps lighter, a newfound sense of resolve settling in his stomach. Lagos, the church, his pastor, may have taken everything from him, but it had also given him something unexpected: resilience.

This newfound strength manifested in unexpected ways. But, one particularly humid Lagos afternoon, Jekwu collapsed on a rickety bus stop bench. His vision blurred.  

He reached for his phone, his trembling fingers searching for any familiar name, any shred of hope.  The screen displayed a single digit: 0. No battery. No lifeline.

Jekwu closed his eyes, the Lagos sun a searing brand on his eyelids. 

The once powerful voice that had commanded the choir was now a silent plea lost in the urban chaos.