“Is there anything wrong with your fuckin hands? Ride the damn car, you asshole!”

Papa’s voice echoed throughout the entire car as he yelled at our driver, Bro Kelechi, who gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles almost turning red as he struggled with the car’s clutch.

Despite his years of experience as our driver, today presented a special challenge. The car’s clutch had been faulty since the day before yesterday, but he did not know how to tell Papa, who would never for once stop cursing to listen.

“Nitwit?” Papa called. Bro Kelechi spun his head to stare at me and my younger sister, Ifunanya, in the back seat and then back at Papa. His eyes flickered with a mixture of fear and worry. “Me?” he pointed at himself.

Oh! Poor driver. Ifunanya and I muffled a laugh as we stared with a look of deep sympathy at the fazed driver, who must have peed on his pants by now. Using the back of his palm, he cleaned a sweat traveling down his face and resumed staring at Papa’s face like a moron.

“Nitwit, why are you looking at me like that? I said, start the damn car!” Papa growled directly in his face. Ifunanya and I could not endure it anymore, so we busted into a peal of deafening laughter, holding our bellies alongside.

Papa turned to glance at us with a surprised expression as if he had done nothing funny. “What the fuck is funny?” he asked with a growing irritation in his voice. “Nothing,” we replied at once and feigned serious faces.

Mama sighed beside me and said, “Ozugo. Kelechi, please try anyhow and start the car. We’re running late for church.”

“Yes, ma,” Bro Kelechi replied and started the car.

My family is the most renowned family in the entire Oko community. If there is one name that we are popularly known for, it is “the sassy priest." This is because Papa, with his sharp tongue and penchant for cursing, stands out as the sole priest in Oko with a brassy and tug-of-war demeanour.

The people of Oko oftentimes wonder how a sassy individual like Papa was ordained as a priest in the Anglican Church—a sentiment Ifunanya and I both shared.

In the church, Papa’s wrath has no boundaries as he unleashes his aggressiveness at any member who dares to turn away from the church’s doctrines. Even the choir is not exempted from his wrath—he would complain about how they sing like pigeons chirping dissonantly on a rooftop.

He called members who chose to clap instead of dance during praise hour “miracle sticks.” Once, he had yelled at the youth secretary for shaking her buttocks during offering time and squeezed the ears of the man behind her for staring lustfully instead of looking away.

I have asked Mama several times if Papa was born that way or if it was a bad habit he picked while growing up. Mama would always laugh and say, “He was born that way.”

Papa grew up in the United States and according to Mama, was a renowned bully during his university days before God called him.

He was in his final year when he joined the Anglican Church, where he served as a youth leader for years before he was ordained priest and was posted down to Nigeria to continue his ministry as a Presbyter in St. John The Divine Anglican Church, Oko, Anambra State.

The air smelled of anticipation this Easter morning as we ran behind schedule for the church service. We were supposed to be in church before eight a.m. for the Easter morning prayer before the grand celebration later in the day. But instead of the peaceful atmosphere of a typical Easter Sunday, we found ourselves hurtling down the road in our family car, the engine roaring with each acceleration as Papa sat close to the wheel and barked orders at Bro Kelechi to go faster.

Mama, Ifunanya, and I clung desperately to our seatbelts, our hearts racing in sync with the speeding car.

We ran past a grocery shop where Mama had intended to buy some bananas before they closed for the holiday. A police checkpoint loomed in front of us like an obstacle in our path.

The tension in the car was worsened by the screeching of brakes and the sudden lurch as we narrowly dodged knocking down three policemen who shouted, “Idiot! It is us you want to use in place of Easter fowl, abi?” after their attempt to halt our reckless progress proved futile.

As we fled along, the chaos of the situation worsened when Bro Kelechi zipped past our church, resulting in a slew of rainbowed curses from Papa. Bro Kelechi reversed the car and drove back to church as Papa did not stop saying, “Asshole, stupid asshole!”.

“Christ the Lord has risen today..." I sang along with the church choir, ensuring my voice rose to the highest pitch.

I always desired to be a church choir member since I was seven, but Papa never allowed me to join them till I turned seventeen. His reason was that they would corrupt my mind with worldly thoughts.

I smiled in satisfaction as the whole congregation sang the last part in unison. “Alleluia! Sing, ye heavens, and earth reply, Alleluia!”

“A-men," Papa said as he climbed to the pulpit and everywhere became silent. Papa’s deep voice resonated throughout the church as he admonished us on Easter's significance in Christians' lives.

The congregation listened attentively; some were even crying like widowed women. As soon as the sermon ended, the mood shifted.

Papa’s demeanour changed immediately as he moved on to announcements, this time scolding the members for allowing their children to litter the church floor with biscuits.

The congregation stared at Papa with august and tired faces as he promised to deal seriously with any child caught holding biscuits or sweet sachets. After the announcements, we prayed and sang, “At the Lamb’s High Feast, we sing”, as a recessional hymn, and the service ended.

“Hey! Chidinma, how far with the stuff?”

Afam, the band leader, asked me, coming out from the chancel with two broken drumsticks in his hands.

“Ewo! I forgot it oh,” I exclaimed, remembering that I forgot to come along with the drumsticks they asked me to buy. “You eh…” He trailed off and moved closer to me, encircling his hands around my waist.

I wanted to remove his hands, but too late—Papa saw it and was already ambling towards us.

“My guy, there is a magnetic gold attached around her waist. Can’t you see it?” Papa stood akimbo with his stole dangling around his neck.

Afam stared in confusion and stuttered, “Si-r?”

“You can’t fuckin see it, huh?” Papa asked again in bogus confusion. Afam still could not notice the mockery in Papa’s voice, even while he glared maliciously at him.

“Get your fuckin hands off her waist you circumcised heathen that the Lord took mercy on!” he barked, and the entire church turned their heads in our direction.

We bowed our heads in shame and mumbled, "Sorry, Reverend.”

Papa walked away, leaving us to the hands of the women who cast us judgmental stares and gossiped amongst themselves about how we wanted to waste our lives living for the devil.

As the members were dispersing, a few remained in the church, attending to various tasks. Papa concluded his session with those seeking his attention and prepared to leave. We were about to enter our car when Sister Chinwe, the women’s leader, ran towards us, panting slowly.

“Reverend–Sir, good afternoon,” she greeted Papa with a slight bow. A basket containing ripped bananas, pears, and pawpaws was clenched in her fist, and a tambourine was under her armpit.

“This is for Easter,” she said, handing the basket to Mama. “Thank you, thank you very much. Please extend my greetings to your family,” Mama said, collecting the basket from her. “I will,” she replied and turned to leave when Papa called after her.

“Sister Chinwe?” Papa sounded like he was reminding her of something. “Yes, Reverend–Sir,” “What the heck is that…” Papa paused and pointed at the tambourine under her armpit. “Doing there?” he completed, frowning.

“Oh! It – i– t – it,” She could not find her tongue.

“Why don’t you put it in your damn breast so that we can know that the Lord likes smelly things eh?" he bellowed.   

“What did the Lord say about uncleanness in first Thessalonians chapter four verse seven?”

She furrowed her brows, searching her memory for what was said in the Bible verse. “For He has not called us unto...” she began.

“Uncleanness, but unto holiness,” Ifunanya and I completed the remaining line. Papa glanced at us and said, “Get into the car, you little pumpkins.”

We opened the car door and rushed into the back seat with the agility of a frog. Bro Kelechi’s laughter filled the car as he watched Papa through the window, releasing his madness on his new prey.

“Daddy, it is okay. She has taken corrections. She can go biko,” Mama chipped in. Papa turned to Mama and gave her a stern look that said, “And how is that your concern?”

“Sorry, oh,” Mama quickly apologised and joined us in the car.

“Please greet your husband for me and take care of your children,” Papa said to Sister Chinwe and did the sign of the cross, “May the Lord be with you and your family.”

He joined us in the car, and we left. Sometimes, when I observe Papa’s behaviour, I can’t help but wonder if he usually hits his head on a stone or takes hard drugs before engaging in conversations.

His temperament changes like a flickering switch, changing from harsh and unforgiving to gentle and kind in the twinkling of an eye.

Only God knows what type of unbeliever he would have been if Christ had not called him to the ministry.

The ride back home was quick and rough. Bro Kelechi had maintained the same speed we used while going to church.

Papa, Ifunanya, and I dispersed to our various rooms to change while Mama hurried to the kitchen to prepare the Ofe-akwu stew we would be using to eat rice.

The scent of Mama’s stew traveled through the corridors and got to my room. “Hmmm,” I inhaled as it hit my nostrils. After a quick change, I joined Mama in the dining room, and we set the table together.

“Go and call your father while I call Ifunanya,” Mama said to me as soon as we were done setting the table. I inhaled the air as I climbed the stairs to Papa’s room. The air smelled of stew and spices, blending perfectly with the fragrance of fluffy white rice.

Outside, the entire neighbourhood echoed with the orchestration of Easter melodies and festive sounds from movies. Papa was not present in his room, so I checked in the chapel. He was there, on his knees, bowed before the Jesus cross that stood tall in front of the chapel, with a big Bible in his hands, praying.

I just turned and left. When I got downstairs, Mama and Ifunanya were already sitting in the dining room, waiting for Papa and me to come down.

“Where is your father?” Mama asked. “He is praying in the chapel.” Mama nodded at me as I joined them in the dining room, and we waited for Papa with our hands folded under our breasts and our eyes gazing at nothing.

It is a taboo to eat before Papa, except when he travels. According to Papa, eating without the head of the house is denying the head of his authority, which is a sin to God.

“The TV,” Mama said, picking up the DStv remote and turning to Papa’s favourite channel. They were showing ‘Passion for Christ’—an Easter movie.

Mama sobbed loudly as they nailed Jesus to the cross. If she does not sob, Papa would call her “a fuckin unrepentant soul.” Ifunanya and I just gazed around the parlour as hunger dealt mercilessly with our stomachs.

“Papa, please come, abeg,” I cried silently. “Don’t cry, nne. He did it for us,” Mama said, thinking I was crying because of the movie.

The sound of Papa’s rubber slippers on the stairs distracted our attention, and we whirled our heads to him. “Shall we pray,” he said the moment he took his seat.

We closed our eyes and listened to Papa’s prayer that seemed to bridge heaven and earth. The resounding chorus of “Amen!” permeated the room as he concluded in the name of Jesus.

Mama stood up and began to share the food while we waited patiently, like salivating dogs, for it to drop on our plates.

“Daddy, you preached excellently well today,” Mama said to Papa.

“Thank you very much, Mummy, you’re my strength,” he replied, winking at Mama.

Hmmm…is Papa trying to flirt or what?

Mama’s cheeks turned a darker shade of red as she exclaimed, “Oh! Daddy, don’t say that, please. The Lord is your strength biko. I am next to you after him.”

“Damn! This gown is nice. It brought out your curves,” Papa changed the topic. I was right. Papa was flirting.

“Thank you, Daddy,” Mama left the food and went to rub Papa’s back fondly. What is all this now? I am hungry!

“And you will fuckin eat, you glutton!” Papa gawped at me.

“Wait. Did I say that aloud?”

“No, you did not,” Ifunanya rolled her eyes.

“Sister Chinwe has done well. She saved me the stress of searching the whole town for bananas today,” Mama said, returning to the food on the table.

“Yeah,” Papa nodded his head absentmindedly, intently staring at her waist.

“Papa well-done oh,” Ifunanya mocked.

Jesus! This girl has no respect at all. “Shhh,” I pinched her leg under the table.

“What the fuck is that, Ifunanya?” Papa asked her.

"Ha! Papa, it is nothing o. It is just a new song that I heard from one brother’s phone at the church,” She replied with a tricky smile and drummed her fingers on the table as she sang, “Papa well-done oh, Jesus well-done oh. Papa well –“

“Ifunanya, well-done oh,” I purposefully interrupted.

“Sister, what is it, kwá?”  

“Nothing. I am just singing along with you, or don’t you want me to sing again?” I asked and creased my brows.

“Papa, look at what sister is doing now,” she whined, but Papa did not say a word to any of us.

Everywhere fell silent as Mama put the steaming food on our plates. The silence stretched further—no one said a word, only the clink-clink of our spoons against our plates and the sound of our chewing.

I took a spoonful of rice with enough Ofe-akwu stew and brought it to my mouth.  “Fuck! This is good.” I spat and shut my eyes.

“Shut up!” Papa barked and banged his hands on the table. “Now listen, I do not want to hear any  fuckin curse word in this fuckin house!” he snarled. 

Wahala. We just watched in silence, unsure of what to make of his outburst. A sheepish grin spread across his face before he quickly averted his gaze as if embarrassed by his outburst.

“Pass me the damn water, Chidinma.” 

We dropped our spoons and gaped at Papa in bewilderment. Like, what the hell just happened? Papa's contradictory nature never ceases to amaze me. Did he not declare a stern ban on the use of curses in this house a few moments ago? Yet he has broken his law within seconds.  

Well, this is nothing new—Papa would make laws only to flout them himself. Even in the church, he would caution the children against the use of curse words, but he will not even know when it slips off his lips. Mama has long ago given up on correcting Papa after so many failed attempts.

“Ozugo. Please, let’s continue with our meal,” Mama reminded us. She spoke like she was tired. Well, she should not be tired. We are going to keep hearing it for as long as we stay on earth—in this house with Papa.

“Fuck! Chidinma, I said, pass me the fuckin water, you asshole.”

“Papa!” Ifunanya and I shouted at once.