“The mind, once imprisoned by its own sorrows, often knows no path but the darkest to find release.”
4.
On the table sat a miniature statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, draped in a blue cloak, her palms extended forward, her head tilted slightly to one side, and her feet crushing a serpent on a globe. The intricate details, once a source of solace, now seemed to mock him. Beside it lay the Good News Bible and the New Jerusalem Bible, a flower vase with synthetic flowers, his laptop, his phone, and an opened envelope containing a letter from the Rector advising his voluntary withdrawal from the Seminary—a document that carried the weight of nine years of dreams reduced to ash.
His younger brother, the last born of their parents, walked in, his steps tentative as though sensing the tension in the air. He found his elder brother face down on the table, unmoving but seated upright. Thinking he was deep in prayer, the younger boy whispered, “Senior, I came to drop your soutane.” His voice held a reverence befitting the sacred garment. He carefully laid the freshly ironed soutane on the bed, still bearing the impression of someone having lain there, then left the room as quietly as he had entered.
When an hour had passed, the younger brother returned to summon him for dinner. “Senior,” he called softly, but there was no response. Drawing closer, he noticed the stillness of the rosary clutched in his brother’s hand, the beads unmoved, frozen in a prayer that would never finish. Assuming his brother had fallen asleep, he gently nudged him while repeating, “Senior.” When his brother collapsed limply onto the floor, his body hitting the ground with a weight that sounded final, the younger boy froze. His voice broke into a shout, “Senior isn’t saying anything!”
Their father was the first to respond, bursting into the room like a song out of a speaker that the amplifier volume has been failed to be reduced, followed closely by their mother, who clutched at her wrapper in haste. Kneeling by her son, she prayed aloud, her voice trembling yet firm, as though willing a miracle into existence. The father, on the other hand, dashed out to retrieve his car keys. He lifted his son’s limp body onto his shoulder, ignoring the awkward, lifeless angle of his limbs. The rosary slipped from his son’s hand, hitting the floor with a soft clink, as the younger brother hurried to open the gate.
At the hospital, chaos and desperation mingled with the antiseptic air. Nurses rushed to take the lifeless figure from the father’s arms while the mother began to recite the rosary aloud, her voice breaking between sobs. Hours later, a doctor emerged, his eyes heavy with the burden of bad news.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his words sharp and merciless. “Your son succumbed to a drug overdose.”
1.
Six weeks had passed. Six weeks of being shunned by God, or so it felt. Six weeks of waking up to the crushing realization that his life had unraveled. His days were a cycle of silence, spent replaying the events that led to his downfall. He could still picture that day with perfect clarity—that ill-fated Wednesday afternoon, after the last antiphon for midday prayers was recited and the closing prayer said by the Rector, and being summoned to the Father’s house. The memory was still raw, like an open wound. While his brothers headed to the refectory for lunch, he had taken the brown path beside the chapel, bordered by two rows of freshly trimmed ixora flowers, leading to the Fathers house. This path had been his “parish”—as they were told to refer to their place of morning function—since his first year of philosophy after being admitted to St. Andrews Major Seminary, following one year of assignment and one spiritual year. Now this path seemed to be leading him either to his undoing or his salvation.
Upon reaching the veranda of the Fathers house, he picked up the hand bell on the wooden stool and rang it twice. The houseboy ushered him into the waiting room and informed him that the Rector would join him soon after lunch. After forty-five minutes, the Rector arrived. That was the beginning of his undoing. The Rector handed him a letter stating that His Lordship, the Bishop, required his presence at the cathedral that weekend. He was to leave the seminary that afternoon and head home. When he asked the Rector if he was in trouble, the Rector said it was for the Bishop to explain. So, he returned to his lodge, packed his clothes, including his soutane and surplice, into his traveling bag, along with his exeat card, and headed home. He did not tell his parents why he was home, and they did not ask, as it was not uncommon for him to come home for apostolic assignments.
2.
Saturday morning wore a somber demeanor. The sky seemed sullen, drizzling powdered confetti instead of rain. After undressing in the sacristy and assigning tasks to the altar boys, he went to the Fathers lodge to wait for His Lordship, the Bishop. He was ushered into the Bishop’s office. The Bishop joined him after breakfast and asked how he was doing. He lied about being fine when, in truth, he was troubled. Why had the Bishop summoned him? The Bishop quickly got to the point.
“My son, a scandal has been reported to me, involving you sleeping with the daughter of a member of the laity in the parish. What can you say about this accusation?”
Upon hearing this, he swallowed hard, as if trying to push down a confession that threatened to escape. The truth was, it wasn’t just any laity’s daughter; it was Esther, his former lover. He had ended their relationship the year he began his vocational journey. It wasn’t until last year, when he was home for an apostolic assignment, that something rekindled between them. It was a moment of weakness; there was no perfect explanation. When things are meant to happen, they happen. He had slept with her that night after leading a retreat session with the youth group of the parish. She had followed him to the small room he was staying in, beside the catechist’s apartment, for his apostolic assignment. They had reminisced, and in that moment, she told him about the toxic relationship she was in and how their relationship had been the best thing that ever happened to her. Desire had overwhelmed them both, and they had succumbed. Now, Esther was pregnant, and her parents were making serious accusations that he was responsible. He confessed everything to the Bishop, who said he could not allow him to return to the seminary to continue his vocational year. He would have to stay and serve the parish while an investigation was conducted to determine if he was truly the father of the unborn child, as well as face punishment for breaking his vow of chastity. The Bishop also promised that if he was found innocent, he might be sent abroad to continue his vocational studies to shield him from the shame that comes with rumors, and the disgrace would eventually fade away. The Bishop then dismissed him.
3.
Throughout all this, Esther did not reveal who was truly responsible for the pregnancy, nor did she respond to his calls or messages. The problem now was how to tell his parents or keep it hidden from them. It wasn’t long when rumors started spreading like harmattan fire throughout the parish. His parents who were pillars of the community, resigned from their church roles under the weight of public shame.
At home, the silence was suffocating. His parents avoided meeting his gaze, their disappointment palpable. Stripped of his identity as a seminarian, as the bishop prohibited him from serving at the altar during mass, he became an object of ridicule.
Children whispered behind his back. Parishioners avoided him. Even in his prayers, he felt abandoned, as though God Himself had turned away.
Each day added to his despair, the weight of his shame growing unbearable. He clung to his rosary, seeking comfort in its beads, but even the prayers felt hollow.
JOEMARIO UMANA, SWAN XVII, is a Nigerian creative writer and a performance poet who considers himself a wildflower. He is the author of the fiction chapbook with the Afrihill Chapbook Series, titled: BURNS. He tweets @JoemarioU38615.
