Written by Audrey Obuobisa-Darko
“Leviticus 23:27,” the boarding school chaplain at Aburi Holy Mother of Homosexual Correction School calls out.
We crack the air with our seven-tailed whips. They make a communal whooshing sound, as though in chorus for the Lord. We unclench our aching jaws, and faithfully respond, “It shall be a holy convocation unto you; and ye shall afflict your souls.”
Our arms swoop down in one dance of an arc, fifty strokes across fifty backs: whip!
“Colossians 1:24,” Mother Abigail calls.
A spugna cradled in the palm of each left hand, we strike their jagged teeth upon our chests. Our bodies have known this pain for seven months; we know better than to cry. Fifty voices as one, we call out, “I rejoice to suffer in my body. I fill up my flesh with Christ’s afflictions.”
“Luke 8:2.”
Fifty arms up again: whoosh!
“And some women who had been healed of evil spirits: Mary who was called Magdalene, from whom seven demons had gone out.”
Fifty arms down: whip!
Mother Abigail clears her throat. She takes a measured walk down the middle aisle of the chapel. Eyes cold, face as stone, she examines each bare-chested girl kneeling on camel hair mats between the pews.
She stops abruptly next to me, looks me dead in the eye, and calls, “Paenitentiam Agere, Pope John XXIII, 1962 encyclical, thirty two!”
Tears burn the back of my eyes and threaten to fall. My face begs to fold itself into a wince. But how dare I, she who hopes in the Lord and has her strength renewed, she whom God will never let grow weary, give in to suffering? How dare I, while Mother Abigail’s holy gaze is upon me?
I clench the whip with an even greater force, armed to show Mother Abigail that I too, can suffer as Jesus Christ did. Arm jerked up, a mightier air-splitting sound than I have ever heard: whoosh!
The words glide effortlessly down my tongue, an overdone routine: “Shall not we be moved by God’s grace, to impose on ourselves some voluntary suffering?”
whip!
whip!
whip!
“Christie,” the priestess calls.
The sound of my name breaks my trance. I realise my eyes never left hers. “Yes, Mother Abigail?”
“See me in my office, Christie.” She turns to the congregation, “Nhyira ne mo nyinaa. Amen.”
Forty-nine voices as one, “Amen.”
We walk into the small decrepit vestry, Mother Abigail and I, and shut the door behind us. The discord of shuffling feet outside wanes gradually. We sit in silence until there’s no more life behind the door.
I’ll be thirteen when I return home. Right on my birthday, just like when my mother sent me here a year ago. Right on my birthday. I wonder if she’ll be proud of me when she sees me, the correction so engraved all over my body it’s impossible to ignore. I wonder if she’ll be proud of the extra correction Mother Abigail gives me. I do not question the priestess’ ways. How dare I, a woeful sinner, doubt the one whom God has anointed?
“Bend over there,” Mother Abigail points to her table. “There’s not much time today.”
I take the priestess’ hand, guide it up my thigh: “Oh fuck oh fuck right there ohmygod right there please yes lord yes.”
Scourge in her right hand, her arm goes up, whoosh!, she calls, “Jeremiah 10:24.”
“Punish me, but with mercy and in just measure,” I whisper, my eyes shut, my head bowed.
Across my buttocks: whip!
“Psalm 38:2.”
whoosh!
“Thy hand presseth me sore.”
whip!
“Verse six.”
whoosh!
“I am bent over and I am crushed.”
whip!
“Verse seven.”
whoosh!
“I am burning with fever and I am near death.”
whip!
“Nine.”
whoosh!
“You know what I long for and you hear all my groans.”
whip!
“Ten.”
whoosh!
“My heart is pounding, my strength is gone, my eyes have lost their brightness.”
whip!
“Psalm 18.”
whoosh!
“I love you.”
whip!
“Eighteen.”
whip!
“I love you.”
whip!
“I love you.”
whip!
“I love you.”
1 comments On Passion of Christie
This story broke my heart.