It is a rare Sunday when the guest preacher doesn’t speak about a seventh heaven. He speaks tangible stuff like life and truth with a peculiar humour that is inescapable and we laugh. But dehydration quickly causes dry saliva to settle like white candle wax at the sides of his mouth because an evangelist too, must drink. I am the girl sent forth to bring water unto the Lord’s own so that I may quench his thirst.
It is a slow jaunt. I am careful not to walk too quickly so that the five hundred Naira sandals I bought at Yaba Night Market do not give away on the rough tarmac, but I do not know where it is that I am going.
“Sir”, I say to a colony of keke napep drivers lounging at the side of the road “where can I find bottled water?”
“Walk down the road,” one of them tells me, “you will see a woman there. At the corner.”
And I do see a woman. Dressed in a sweater, her neck caught underneath the grey of her turtleneck. She has a large stomach and two breasts that poke out. Her hair is cut short and beneath her chin is a cluster of thick bristles as though she recently shaved. I see eyes that draw out too wide and lips set as though they might soon drizzle spittle. They make me conclude that this woman has slightly missed retardation. Then I see an average sized member poking through her jeans. And I wonder what it is that she is.
“There is no change,” she tells me confidently when I show her my one thousand Naira note, “none at all.”
I walk away, wondering if God created her on the Sabbath. When He should have been resting.