A February God

I told the priest"my God is a black woman"he poured holy water on meand scheduled me for an exorcism

—Questions for Ada, Ijeoma Umebinyou

It was the year I began to walk like sorrow, the year I stopped singing.

God slapped me in February, and by March, God no longer bought sugar. God hardly used salt. God bought insulin and drugs. God commanded Dad to stop smoking, to rest and exercise instead. In April, God spoke parables of lower cholesterol and calories and saturated fat and trans-fat even though Dad had never been fat. By May, God no longer spoke to me. God began to beat me often and forgot my birthday in June. By July, God was juggling two jobs along with nursing. In August, God was always tired, always yawning. In September, God was always late. Church, appointments, birthday wishes, anniversary wishes, anything at all. If God said, "Good morning!" it could be 4:00PM.

My mother's life became a long sigh. The God in her shook.

She began to talk about Dad and his diabetes more than God. God, jealous, gradually walked out of her body, leaving her emptier each passing day. Soon, God was completely out of her. Her soft tongue went wild, and she began to yell at my father often, to curse me when angry.

I wondered whom God would move into, where God would choose to live. God could not live in my father. I was sure of that. My father was a tall man who hated going to church. He came home late every night, always drunk, with strange lip stains often shimmering on his cheek. He was obsessed with money and was too away chasing it, shamelessly plaguing me with absence.

That year, until September, God was a tenant in my mother's body, coursing through her entire body in sweet, loving rhythms. It hurt to watch God leave. The devil was soon inside her, trying to devour me. I begged God to move into me.

________

God, breathing in and out through my mother's nostrils, smelled all my father's sins, all his women. God, infinite in mercy, never struck.

My mother loved to personify God. As her only child, I'd often hear her say, "God lives in me" or "I am God's home." I grew up believing it was literal, that she was God embodied in flesh. I imagined God searching the world for people to live in and then beaming at the sight of my mother. I pictured God declaring to angels, "It has to be this nurse. It must be her. It has to be here," and then settling in my mother gently, gradually, like the smell of sweet cake.

God's voice was carved into my mother's throat so strongly that she could hardly say a sentence without saying God's name. I heard God call whenever she called me. Whenever she mistakenly cut herself in the kitchen and blood trickled from her thumb, God bled too. When I misbehaved and she looked at me sharply, I saw God looking through her eyes.

God was in my mother's legs. With time, God modified her walk into a slow, self-confident kind, the walk of someone who possessed the earth. God was in my mother's vocal cords. Until September, my mother never raised her voice at my dad. She never gossiped. She never cursed. She hardly got angry. The few times she did, it was often because of another person's woes, not hers.

________

The end of salt began in February. That unlucky night, God shook my mother's insides and woke me up from a Sunday nap.

"You want to kill my husband? Look at the salt you rained into his food."

"Rained? What are you saying?

" "O ti baje ju."

"I'm not spoilt, Mum."

God slapped me through my mother. "Will you shut up? I'm talking and you're talking. Who is smiling with you? I'm not in the mood oh, you this girl. Your father now has...