My mother’s back was always turned to me. It was like she had an
internal sensor for when I’d be entering the room to deliver the koko. I could
picture the movie montage of us, the days spelled out at the bottom of the
screen, my outfits changing, our actions the same.
After about five days of this, I entered the room and my mother was
awake and facing me.
“Gifty,” she said as I set the bowl of koko down. “Do you still pray?”
It would have been kinder to lie, but I wasn’t kind anymore. Maybe I
never had been. I vaguely remembered a childhood kindness, but maybe I was
conflating innocence and kindness. I felt so little continuity between who I
was as a young child and who I was now that it seemed pointless to even
consider showing my mother something like mercy. Would I have been
merciful when I was a child?
“No,” I answered.
When I was a child I prayed. I studied my Bible and kept a journal with
letters to God. I was a paranoid journal keeper, so I made code names for all
the people in my life whom I wanted God to punish.