Okala’s POV
Wondering heart and frail temper. That's what he is. Even when he calls me Okala mmadu, Okala mmuo, half man and half spirit, there's no telling whether he means it. I should be all-knowing but I kid you not, many times, I have no clue what goes on in his mind.
Yesterday, he broke kola and poured gin on my parched earth. His father, elderly, joined and they bemoaned their fates silently. It is bad for a son seeking to measure up to the father. But it is worse for a son looking to fill vacuums left by the father. In the case of this mass of cells assigned to me, he seeks to be the latter. In many ways, even when he breaks kola and makes libations with gin, he believes it's impossible.
Yet, he beats his chest at work and says his chi won't leave him hanging. Which chi? The same one he doesn't believe in? The finiteness of his mind wearies me. How many favors is a tepid soul even worth?
He must think I'm drunk. To not answer when he calls; even after he baths himself in ash and whatnot. To keep busy with the oceans and the billion other galaxies while he rots in obvious lack. He must think to himself, oh but what father does this to a son. I see it all. I see that he never asks: oh what son does this to a father. Besides, who says he is worth anything? Who said I must? My promises? What promises?
It's interesting now as I watch him again. He's chipper, it's salary day. In this moment, all is right with the world and I, Okala, am the sweetest thing, rivaled only by his wife's loins. There he goes again, solving problems that were asleep, and would have remained unbothered. It's a curious thing how he goes about with a chip on his shoulders, thinking he can save everybody. At what point during his creation did I make him savior of the world?
There is no line, this lot. They have no line. They would do anything to feel good about themselves, then make it about charity. Which, in turn, they hold over my head as a means to an end. Hey, look at me Okala, I am helping this woman pay her bus fare, now can you multiply my blessings by noon tomorrow.
And yet he wonders why I sit from above and laugh.
Oh here he goes again, staple of his character.
“Brother, how much did you say Chimdalu’s school fees is again? Oh you've paid already? Alright, I'll still help you with half of it, for next term.”
Every month he makes the same request, every month his elder brother says there's no need. Yet, every month, he insists.
Tonight, his wife will make it about me. They will break kola, hold hands, and pour spittle and fire in tongues: “You promised to fill our jar to overflow, we have helped others, now, please help us. Give us more, so we can help more.”
The ridiculousness of their audacity. They mistake me for their slave masters. As though my mercies are hallmarks of trade by barter. I have given you this, now give me that. The insincerity of their love.
Yet, he thinks I am drunk when I don't answer. He trembles feverishly when problems he thought were solved ahead of time return ten-fold. Does he not see how lilies of the valley just…be?
There is no limit to how much awe his kind makes me feel.
He seeks superiority yet hopes I can teach him humility. Lust is like a veil over him that he wishes never to tear through, yet he burns candles hoping I teach his daughters virtue.
There is no limit; I can go on for days.
The message is false, the songs are false, the traditions… all interpreted falsely. He and his band of feeble-hearted men must think I care about might of muscle or strength of prayers. They do not understand that my concern is the heart and spirit. Broken and contrite; it's to such I grant mercy.
I made him, so I know what is next. It's a script I factored into creation. When he asks, heaves, and weeps without any response from me, he will go on to declare to anyone who cares to listen that Okala is non-existent. That I am the paradigm of falsehood. He will speak of the potter like he isn't just clay. And should a calamity befall him, like it can any eight billion of them, he would build a house of unbelief on it.
You see, even before he was conceived, I already knew him, and called him by my name. And that, confounds me the most: a father who has given a son a name above all else, and a clear-cut set of instructions to reach him anytime; what more can the son need?
Well, it is my fault. I made him in my image, so I must take responsibility.
Which is why I must cut this narration short and hurry to his aid. He is my doing, as they all are, and he won't stop calling. So I will grant him, despite his performative contriteness. I am after all: Okala.
God's POV!!!!
Jeeez….why did this feel so real?!
Woah I’m mind blown. This was such an interesting POV. Funny how it teaches a lot but is also funny.
Only a creative mind can come up with this. Well done!❤️👏🏾