Coming back from morning mass

and walking into the house

to be welcomed by silence

I watched my father’s lips

break into a frantic dance

how I want to rain shame on his name

Then he went on

like an endless prayer

while the floor called my face

And there I sought—an amen

but even the floor held its tongue

Is this why you refused to go to the seminary?

Is this why you refused to become a missionary?

If only he knew that

shame is a hall of fame

I actually ran away from

For what is an hypocrite

in a cassock—if not a bull’s eye

for God’s wrath

At the corner my mother sat

chewing her heart in her mouth

and refusing to spit out

Every glare she gave

was a silent note

of a requiem

I—a walking epitaph

of the son she dreamed

Into the wind gone her hope

Into the wind gone her pride

Into the wind gone her grace

Into the wind gone her praise

Eka father—a crown

that could have sat on her head

But this is not her son

Not the boy that chose his flesh over God’s

Not the boy who refused

the body of Christ today

Because he had the body

of Joan yesterday

*Eka Father: a title given to catholic mothers whose sons are catholic priests in Akwa Ibom state.