Chapter Fifteen

A man in apron tagged EMS, knocked on his door, and he opened and received a moment grin from the courier service man.

“You, Mister Jamike?”

“Yeah… Mister WyiWorri Jamike.”

“Here’s your parcel.” The man grinned again, but this time his grin had a real touch of hero-worship. “From London.”

“Thanks.” SonOfMan collected the big envelope, let a hero’s grin flash across his face, signed and closed his door. He was opening it, and hadn’t even gone across the centre of his room, when he collapsed on the floor.

This time it wasn’t just a seizure, his heart actually cracked. It cracked and received a sudden failure. And the causative parcel contained an injurious message that was just staring the empty room brazenly.

When SonOfMan woke up from his strange involuntary journey, he found himself back in the hospital he had so much reproached—and the same doctor that had sent him to the defamatory neurologists was staring down at him.

“It’s still never grandiose delusions!” he shouted, struggling to come out of the bed. “Yeah, I’m still certain about my super-impressive desire, despite that bleak note there!” he shouted the more.

He was a maniac; the hospital crew just stood watching him. Nobody should have known him with his physical description—but his purpose. And that was, trust him, the difference between his present condition and his future. Aye, it was grievously unfair to judge him with things without—instead of things within!

SonOfMan jaywalked along the streets of Okigwe. He had stubbornly left the hospital that had so much misread him, and was going to meet God to tell Him something confidentially—there he had once told Him something conjugally. He was going to remonstrate with God, but to reduce the blasphemous effect of the heresy about it, he was going to do it silently kneeling down there at the altar—just like he had once done.

Now he walked into St. Mary’s cathedral but met a crowd of festive people on ordination. Notwithstanding, he crossed them and headed straight to the sanctuary, ambling into this sanctum, and kneeling before the holy tabernacle. Then he complained;

“God, my creator, my father,” he swallowed hard saliva; “I’m going to say this; that You never received the doctorate degree award is not really because the scientific community has had a hard time replicating Your result, or because some say You had Your son teach the class, or because You expelled Your first two students for learning—no, but because Your cooperative effort to Your students, God, Your creatures, have been quite limited… yeah, hardly any as it concerns me, Mister WyiWorri Jamike, an image of You.”

He ended it that way and stood up and ambled out again.

He entered the church and sat like others, watching as these men of God queued in the entrance procession. The thuriffer. The acolytes. The deacons for the perpetual ordination. The concelebrant priests. The monsignors. The bishops. The officiating bishops and attendants.

He waited as the homily lasted. The address of homily emphasized on religious ordination as a gift and responsibility for the sanctification of research.

But the problem with him, SonOfMan crossly thought, was that he had disenchantment with the church right now. In fact, he was horribly going blasphemous with those thoughts Karl Marx had strangely hardboard. As if he had believed that religion was truly opium of the masses—as if the cranky genius had really made a lot of circumstantial sense there with that irreligious assertion. Of course, he had thought why God never received a PHD wasn’t because of what people poorly thought that He had only one major publication, or as some even doubted He wrote it by Himself. No—far from that; they were all subjective and off-base. It was actually because His cooperative effort had been quite limited to his candidates.

Now these men to be ordained were kneeling down; the chief celebrant was asking them questions on their readiness to devote themselves to God—and to seek perfect charity according to the constitution of the church.

The celebrant said; “My dear sons, are you resolved for this oath, with the help of God’s grace, to undertake the life of believing what you read, preaching what you believe and practicing what you preach?”

Aspirant priests said in unison; “I’m so resolved.”

SonOfMan was watching with deep chagrin; what was this taking as oath? The lassitude of the decay of the pulpit! In that weak vow, he saw no measure of Puritanism that would check gluttony for worldliness. Neither did he see a place for chastity that would come against immorality.

SonOfMan stood up; he was going to leave this place before he would become grossly irreverent to the chosen people of God—just for the cause of life displeasure.

“Brother, are you going away?” One of his neighbours there said.

“Maybe…” he said, but then decried what was harbouring inside; “I just can’t understand why this flimsy profession! I know that normally the aspirant priests of Catholic Church take vow of perfect chastity, poverty and obedience, which Christ our lord and His virgin mother chose for themselves, to persevere in it forever; why is this weak profession of lackadaisical call?”

“But they just resolved to believe and practice what they read, and which is from the holy bible.”

“Yeah, I agree it may not be just from the Conan laws; but without some serious resolve against evils of flesh, they’d choose to read the history of King David, and would feel that it’s not forbidden losing your head since you can always accept your sin and ask for forgiveness.”

“No, brother, these priests to be ordained are Diocesan Priests; that’s how their vow goes. I know what you’re talking about, but you’re swapping it. Religious Priests are those who have their vow that puritanical way.”

“Religious?”

“Yes; Religious like Missionary Fathers, Holy Ghost Fathers and Congregational Priests and Sisters… and the Monks… and the Nuns… not Secular or Diocesan Priests?”

“Eeeehhh, not Secular or Diocesan Priests?” SonOfMan mimicked stubbornly. “But these Diocesan or Secular Priests dominate… and they’re the randiest. You see, putting Catholic Church in dishonourable state of disrepair the Press from every mouth of the world are bashing about the candidates of Vatican City.”

“Brother, they’ve chosen to be in the house of God and by the grace of the Holy Spirit, to spend their whole life in the generous service of God’s people. They’re for your sake, so watch your mouth!”

“Thank you,” SonOfMan greeted; “but don’t forget that a guard of chastity would give people grim conscience… just like the vow of matrimony. And don’t forget still that Solomon was wise, but not prudent. Period.” He was moving away seriously. He was too disenchanted; he wouldn’t hear any other thing those aspirants were taking in their vow. He wouldn’t wait and hear that in the following answers they resolved to give themselves to God alone, in persevering prayers and willing penance, and in humble labour and good work.

Of course they could choose to read that Solomon was very generous and altruistic with his immoralities, despite his immeasurable wisdom. God knows, SonOfMan wasn’t really taking leverage of the unfortunate situation; the glaring lack of conformity and reverence for the ordained priests didn’t really bespeak of disappearing sense of religion—just that it had decayed to unthinkable condition. The church. Catholic. Protestant. Pentecostals. All. Religion, in fact.

Certainly, the Church believed that God had done some wonderful helpful thing since He created the world—He had sent his son to teach the class. Of course, to give salvation. But maybe that was only effective in the paradise. Paradise, mirage or utopia? No, real. But that was in the next world to come. It wasn’t this dubious world now that he so much lacked salvation—He cried.

The tears and bitterness congealed into hatred of world-weariness, and the content of that let-out force majeure from London flashed into his mind, letting the heart break once more. Pathetically—

Silke & Co Ltd

Silver House—Silver Street—Doncaster—DNI 1HL

Our Ref: WITC/IMR/PH/UR

Date: 5 December 2009

To All Known Authors

WILBURY SOLUTIONS LIMITED (FORMERLY ATHENA PRESS LIMITED) (“‘THE COMPANY”)—IN LIQUIDATION

Dear Sir/Madam

I would advice the director of Athena instructed us to assist him in complying with the formal requirement for placing the company into creditors’ voluntary liquidation.

I confirm that Ian Michael Rose of Silke & Co limited was appointed liquidator of the company at the meeting of creditors held on Tuesday 8, Dec. 2009.

Any money owed to you prior to the date of Liquidation forms your unsecured claim in the Liquidation. Unfortunately, unless further assets are discovered there will be no dividend to creditors…

Dubious world! The name of company he had contract with was even changed, and he made his payment on a fake set-up! Tears clouded his vision, he blinked his eyes to let them flow the more. No doubt about it, Mark Sykes, the Director of Athena Press LTD, knew they were having liquidation stress, even with the present company’s name, and he went ahead and encouraged him to pay that whole mind-boggling whopping amount he loaned, in one payment, without taking any step into the contract! Dubious world he said—yeah.