MATS

By Adesope Adisa

The choir hymns swelled, filling the building with pride—the kind that squashes men’s egos like insects. The pastor stood tall, his voice booming about salvation, love, and sacrifice. I swear I was listening, but I lost him somewhere around the one-hour mark. The fan’s weak gust kept me alive. Without it, I’d be out the door in minutes.

The air reeked of sweat, perfume, and simmering judgment. It wasn’t God I smelled—it was people, and I wasn’t here for them.

The whispers began. Soft at first, like sinners confessing to their pews.

“She’s pregnant, you know. Minister’s daughter, my foot.”“Hah! She should just marry quickly. Iya Basiru must be so disappointed.”“Serves her right! When you’re busy being a slay queen, who will raise the kids?”

“Hmm. I told my husband he’s lucky. He didn’t follow these small girls. See what happens?”

“No time for their children, only face powder and Instagram likes.”

This week’s gist introduced new characters, updated old plotlines, and filled gaps in the storyline. The background snores from the tired and the uninterested added a bassline to the drama, and for a moment, I almost admired the production value.

All I was missing was popcorn, but even if I had some, the stench in the air would’ve ruined the experience.

I wondered what God would think of this sermon—the one preached in whispers behind the pews. Grace was selective, salvation conditional, and gossip the only holy sacrament.

**

The line for donations moved along, but I got stuck somewhere in my thoughts. Salvation, as the pastor preached it, seemed to have a new meaning today. Maybe it was the last 25 minutes of standing, but wasn’t that what salvation felt like? – according to his sermon of course. The act of waiting, of doing what’s expected, even if the weight of it was killing you? How well you did the bidding of other. I let myself wonder—do the people ahead of me really believe their salvation sits in the pastor’s hands? I got solemn for a moment…then snapped out of it. Too heavy for a Sunday.”

I opened my coin-purse wallet—a recent gift from Tunde—and pulled out a stack of cash. I usually transfer, but today felt like a cash day. The weight of the bundles in my hand was heavier than I expected, and for a moment, I wondered if I could quantify salvation in currency. If I could, my heaven investment account was looking hefty.

I added to the joke in my head like a conversation between long time friends. “God's accountant seems to be having an affair with the church - or maybe the pastor. He's precious sugar baby, parading salvation in designer suits”. I snickered into my hand, the laughter too sour to swallow

The laughter was still bubbling in my throat unfortunately exactly when Mommy Tunde made her move—tripping dramatically on a mic wire like a seasoned performer. Her smile was quick and polished as young men rushed to her aid, but her eyes shot daggers at me. A territorial warning: I was now in predator terrain, and war had begun.

AH, mummy Tunde, se wa okay? (are you okay?) Around 10 people at least whisper messages of concern. I must have missed the memo

She shoots me another look, and I echo with the choir , a bit off beat because I didn’t practice. I even instinctively threw in a triple curtsy, because why not? Salvation, like gossip, demanded a little extra 'effizy'.

"Ah, Sade," I could already hear it. The next week’s update will have a new main character "Her husband is abroad, you know. No children. Poor thing." They’d coat the words in concern, but the edges would be sharp enough to draw blood.

 Next week, she’d use my life to justify hers”. After all, why board a plane when your destiny is grounded?” why get lofty goals to still be disappointed.” I began hypnotising on her word play and when she would interject “sorry “looks

And the pastor? He’d hear the gist and weave me into his next sermon—a parable on humility, a subtle justification for why contentment is holier than ambition, maybe another way to justify the class divide the church enables and swears to curb , “Why aspire,’ he’d ask, ‘when contentment is God’s will?’”

All while his hand rests on the leather steering wheel of his latest blessing. God moves in mysterious ways, but only in the direction of the wealthy.

By Adesope Adisa