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“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was a god.”

– John 1:1 (New World Translation)

The thought of your wet T-shirt clinging to your chest, revealing your swollen nipples, terrifies you. There are not many boys your age whom you have seen with your kind of chest, areolas like those of a girl just entering puberty. That is what the boys who mock you have said. You have never seen the chest of a girl who is just entering puberty, but loud guffaws suggest all the other boys probably have.

You do not play football with a bare chest like everyone else. You make sure to change while still in the bathroom. Even your mother stares at your chest. But now that you have emerged from the water in the concrete baptismal pool, there is nothing to stop people from seeing the outline. The T-shirt’s cheap, thin fabric exaggerates the swelling, you think.

You rush to the male changing room, though everyone – members of your congregation and people who know you from other congregations – wants a photo of you: a newly baptised, dripping wet servant of Jehovah.

During the break, after you have slipped out of your wet clothes, six different families invite you to their cars to eat. Dozens of people take turns hugging you, shaking you until you vibrate, high-fiving you, taking photos with you, smiling and nodding solemnly. The photographer had promised to freeze you in time – just before you were swallowed by the water, the moment you broke its surface, eyes screwed shut, nostrils sealed, airtight between your index finger and thumb.

– Three copies each, your mother reminds him.

In the swirl of excited Brothers and Sisters, Mary advances towards you, like a blade through parchment. Her hair is in a tight ponytail. Her teeth are white like a baby’s, and straight; you wonder how she keeps them so bright. You manage to smile back, though you really want to escape her lengthy sermons and high-pitched admonishments. But you are firmly rooted to where you stand. Dozens of people have already surrounded you and your parents, offering congratulations, asking to take photos, telling you how proud they are. They can’t wait for you to grow spiritually, to mature through the natural next steps: to become a Ministerial Servant deputising for Elders, and then eventually, become an Elder yourself.

Sister Mary speaks at the speed of a determined mosquito, and much of what she says whizzes past your ear. You know better than to ask her to repeat herself and risk prolonging her sermon.

Her sinewy arms extend toward you. You avert your gaze from her chest, which meets your line of sight, and lift your eyes to her face. Her hands rest on your clavicles. Then her right hand drifts, nestling in that tender space between your neck and left ear, creating a faint tickle.

– This is a bold step, K, she says, symbolising your dedication to Jehovah by water immersion.

The rest of the words you know by heart; they dance in your mind even before she speaks them. The same words that accompany every baptism, a ritual of repeated words.

As she speaks, you can feel your nostrils flare. You do not know why. You are not even really listening to her. Just hearing the key words strike your heart like a bird flying into a clear window.

Consecration...

Disowning the self...

No part of the world...

Works of the flesh...

Pioneering...

Regular pioneering...

Exemplary...

A sudden chill sluices over you, although there is no breeze. Goosebumps erupt on your arms and neck. You are now a baptised publisher of the good news. Because 1 Corinthians 6: 19, 20 says you no longer “belong to yourself”, the weight of this mantle is immediate. Each sin you commit from this point on will have consequences. Every action you take, in your public and private life, will matter.

And because 1 Corinthians 15:33 says “bad associations spoil useful habits”, the possibility of public reproach looms. Should you sin and be deemed wicked or unrepentant by the Elders, you are liable to be disfellowshipped, shunned, kicked out of the Christian Congregation of Jehovah’s Witnesses and cut off from all of the people you have known since you were born – friends, and the few relatives who are also Witnesses, the only ones you socialise with, the only ones whose houses you have slept in, the only ones who constitute good association.

– From this point on, says Mary, carelessness is not an option o!

You nod in agreement. She says you must scrutinise your associates both in school and within the congregation.

– With this step you know Satan has marked you!

She pauses for effect, looking deep into your eyes. One of her eyelashes seems about to fall into her eye and it makes you blink repeatedly, as though it were in your eye.

– And you know what target is the hardest to hit?

As if it were a rehearsed chant, you both say: a moving target.

Saturdays are no longer for football, she says. You want to tell her that you do not even enjoy football that much, seeing as you are too afraid to let other boys see your chest. You nod. As if convinced the point hasn’t sunk in, she continues.

– You are now a target. You have gotten out of Babylon the Great, rejected Satan and sought protection in the loving arms of Jehovah.

– The Devil will try you just like he tried Job, she says. You see how Job suffered. As a servant of Jehovah you will face this too. You have to be ready for this, to make Jehovah proud, to make your parents proud, to make the congregation proud.

She reminds you that the Devil can even use people within the congregation. She pauses here, moving from your left eye to your right and back again, gauging just how much you are absorbing.

You look away, but not because of what she is saying. The lone eyelash pointing into her eyeball makes your eyes water. The subtext of her words is clear to you. Paul, who was baptised last year, has an older brother, Victor, the funniest person you know. You all watched Victor escape official sanction for his occasional smoking. He refused to get baptised. If I am not in, you cannot kick me out, Victor always said.

One Saturday, when preaching door to door, your group of witnesses passed Victor, immersed in a football game. He was unfazed, even as you all stared at him. It was Sister Mary, with a tone of reprimand, who called out to him just as he signalled, fingers snapping, for his teammate to pass the ball.

– So this is why you did not join us for field service? she asked, hoping
to stir some semblance of remorse.

– Sister, I am spiritually weak, he joked.

It was less than a year ago that you began the studies required of anyone getting baptised – with a full immersion, not a sprinkling, like others in Christendom sometimes did. Because this was the truth according to the Scripture. Because, like the Elder who gives the baptismal talk always says, every instance of baptism was in a large body of water. When Jesus was baptised he came up from the water. When the Ethiopian eunuch was being baptised by the disciple Philip, he came up from the water.

And now, as Sister Mary’s fingers tickle you, all you can think is to not look at her chest, which would remind you of Song of Solomon 8:8, which would make you laugh, which would most certainly be a sin. A sin you worry you might have to confess to. A confession which would embarrass you and your parents. Which would involve sitting in a room with three Elders who grill you and could decide at the end that you need to be disciplined, which would be announced on the platform in the presence of the entire congregation. Which would declare that you would be stripped of treasured privileges, like leading prayers at public meetings or delivering talks from the platform. So you look at her bony feet instead and nod as she tells you that she expects that, as a baptised publisher of the good news of God’s Kingdom, you would consider increasing the time you spend in the Ministry, preaching from door to door.

She wants you to apply to become an Auxiliary Pioneer, spending a minimum of 60 hours a month, bag in hand, distributing literature and teaching strangers the Bible. And eventually, perhaps even a Regular Pioneer like she is, doing 90 hours a month.

– You will see it, how Jehovah will bless you. The blessings of Jehovah, that is what makes rich, and what?

– And he adds no pain to it, you finish, quoting Proverbs 10:22.

– So what will you do now?

– I will get the form for Auxiliary Pioneering.

With a soft smile, she pulls you into an embrace. Tears glisten in her eyes and her fingers trace comforting circles on your back. You sense her delicate clavicle meeting yours.

– Should I tell the Congregation Secretary you want the form? He can give it to you here already. So you don’t forget. He is sitting at the back, down there, do you see the green canopy?

Mary points to where her husband, Jehu, is sitting with her son Zephaniah, eating a plate of jollof and chicken.

Mary is taking no chances. She needs to be sure you will promise to spend 60 hours every month going from door to door, because there is no other way to show gratitude to Jehovah.

Mary walks slightly too briskly for your comfort, clutching your fingers. You half-walk, half-run to keep up. Her fingers clutch yours as she moves resolutely toward her husband, like a proud mother.

– Brother Jehu, K has something to ask our Secretary, she says before reaching his seat.

You find it weird that she calls her husband Brother Jehu.

Brother Jehu looks up from his jollof. Zephaniah has a drumstick between his fingers and his mouth.

– Oh, I can wait for you to finish eating sir, you say as he tries to swallow.

He smiles, dropping his plate on the bench in front of him.

– Ah, Brother K! Is it what I think it is? Congrats o!

– Yes. I want the Auxiliary Pioneer form. But when you finish eating.

– Ah no, let me give it to you now. Physical food can wait. We are all here
for spiritual food na!

He gestures to the plastic basket on the floor and without a word Mary bends and retrieves a tissue for him. He wipes his hands and traces the tissue over his mouth. Then he rummages through his huge bag and pulls out a bundle of forms, bound by stretched rubber band, from which he carefully selects a single form and extends it your way.

– Thank you, you say.

Mary bares her teeth.

She hugs you again.

– Will you not offer him food Mary, Jehu says, picking up his plate.

– Ah no sir, my mum has food for me in the car.

– Then you must come and eat with us tomorrow, Jehu says, and then turns to Zephaniah and adds, Have you told Uncle K congrats, he just got baptised?

– You did bamtism? Little Zephaniah asks, meat in his mouth obscuring the word he already finds challenging to pronounce.

– Yes Zephaniah.

– Is the water cold? Are you afraid of the water? Did the water enter your eyes and nose?

– Yes the water was cold but it didn’t enter my eyes and nose. I closed them tight.

– Me, when I am in the bathroom and I close my eyes water and soap still use to enter.

A sudden flick behind your right ear makes you swivel. The perpetrator retreats swiftly to your left, but not swiftly enough to conceal his hairy, light-skinned arm. Victor is wearing a short-sleeved shirt of the softest blue, meticulously tucked in. No neck tie. Tucking in his shirt is as far as Victor will go to look like a proper Brother.

His jet-black jeans still have the lines from being folded in the store. Knowing Victor, he could have bought those jeans just this morning on his way to the convention. His feet, conspicuously unsocked, sit in dusty brown loafers.

– Where is your tie, you tease him.

– Ah, because you baptise today you wan turn to Elder?

– I have an extra tie in my bag if you want.

– K, abeg leave me alone, I don listen to preaching since morning. And we are now on break. So let’s be on break please. Na just baptise you baptise o. No be say you don become Circuit Overseer.

You laugh. He hands you a Fan Yoghurt, strawberry flavour. You have been dying for one of them. It is halfway frozen, just the way you like it.

You look around to make sure Sister Mary is not looking at you.

– We want to organise a match between our congregation and the other congregation that uses our Kingdom Hall. Next Saturday around one.

You think about it. You would have gone out door-to-door preaching from 9 AM until 11 AM, and then one or two more hours on Return Visits to those who have shown prior interest in Bible Study. Four hours. Even though you have now agreed to do 60 hours a month, 15 hours a week, you think you can make up for it.

– Yes, of course. Where will we play?

– The primary school behind our house.

Your younger brother, Zechariah, runs toward you.

– Mummy say you should come and eat, she has served your food.

As you walk toward your parents’ car, you think about how you will need to take your football boots to the cobbler on your street.

Upon reaching the car, you see Joy ensconced in the back seat. Joy, about whom you’ve overheard Sister Mary speaking derisively. Sister Mary says she will not be surprised if the young woman is disfellowshipped very soon.

Joy, who has once been publicly reproved in her prior congregation. Rumours have swirled, suggesting it was an entanglement with a worldly person – fornication with a married worldly person. They say she fell to her knees and cried when an Elder had seen her leaving a hotel with the worldly man. She cried and stopped eating and all the Elders were convinced she was repentant, so instead of being disfellowshipped and shunned she was only publicly reproved, after which a public talk followed about the dangers of close association with worldly people, especially of the opposite sex. Sister Mary still thinks it was all an act, but says, as always, Anyway, Jehovah will judge. Ninety-nine days for the thief, one day for the owner.

Joy, who has had no new scandal since she moved to your congregation, is now seated next to your mother, enthusiastically discussing plans for her older sister’s impending wedding. The gold-trimmed invitation card lies on the car seat between them. Joy mentions that her sister will soon ask your mum to be the mother of the day.

Your mother offers a cordial smile, but you sense her restraint. Past conversations have revealed her reservations about Joy’s older sister: her piercing voice, her overt demeanour, her lack of reverence. You have heard your mother express irritation at her sister’s high-pitched voice, her loudness, her disrespect.

– K! Joy screams and hugs you, almost spilling her food.

You want the Earth beneath you to open. Her scream is too loud, her hug too full, smothering you between her breasts. Her hug lingers too long in this space full of servants of Jehovah. Joy has no shame. She does not think what your mother will say. What any of the other Sisters who have now turned around and are staring at her will say. What your father who is eating in the front seat will say.

Throughout the final session of the convention, all you can think of is that hug. And now Joy has moved to the seat beside you, in the same row as your family. Joy did not ask. She just said the sun was shining too brightly where she was and she was happy to find shade beside you.

Too often her hand rests on your lap. It makes you squirm. Near the end of the penultimate lecture, when the itis has kicked in and half the crowd is chewing gum or kola nuts to stay awake, Joy leans against your shoulder and dozes off. Your mother’s eyes burn with reproach, shifting from Joy to you. You meet her gaze, eyes wide in quiet plea – this isn’t your fault.

An attendant wearing trousers two sizes too big and hitched too high meanders through the aisles, tapping dozing Brothers and Sisters back into consciousness, brandishing a sign that reads: Stay Awake. When he taps her gently, she wakes up. You are relieved, and lean forward to stave off a repeat.

The voice from the platform becomes a blur. You only snap back when the Circuit Overseer giving the final talk asks the crowd to rise and sing the closing song. It is one of the songs you like the least, one of those sung at every single convention. “Let’s Watch How We Walk” is made worse by loud speakers of very poor quality.

As you sing along, Joy leans in to share your songbook. She has already tucked her Bible, songbook and convention programme into her bag. You try to hold the edge of the songbook so you do not touch her hand and glance up to see if your mother is still glowering at you.

You are petrified of the impending rebuke awaiting you at home – on this very day of your baptism.

The journey home is long, a 45-minute prelude to chastisement. You plan to feign sleep. But you know that this will only prolong the scolding.

Secretly, you wish for your mother’s wrath – it is tempestuous and swift. Your father’s, however, is a drawn-out affair. It involves a chair, a summoned Bible, perhaps another spiritual text. It involves dissecting passages, answering probing questions, and an admission of guilt. It involves a slow descent into bottomless shame, step by painful step. Until hot tears roll down your cheeks as you beg Jehovah to forgive you for allowing yourself to be used by the Devil, for potentially bringing reproach unto his name, for dishonouring your parents contrary to His specific commands, which are repeated several times in the Bible.

You lock eyes with your father in the rear-view mirror. He does not say anything. Your mother does not say anything. Your brother and sister have fallen fast asleep. The banging in your head is keeping you awake. Anticipating your mother’s scolding is keeping you awake. The silence is keeping you awake.

At home, you carry more than your fair share of items from the trunk of the car into the house. You wash dishes, even though it is not your turn. You iron your clothes for tomorrow, the last day of the convention, early, so that when you wake up you will not be queuing to use the iron. You polish your shoes. You ask your dad if he has shoes to polish. He says yes. He gives you his brown shoes. Your mother gives you her black ones.

You clean them all first with a dry rag, then a damp rag, to wipe off the dust. You apply the wax and then brush until they shine. Until your arms begin to hurt. You do not come to the living room when your mother puts on the television at 9 PM. You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for your mother to come into your room to speak about your disgraceful behaviour. Waiting for your father.

You know that whatever happens, you must avoid Joy tomorrow. You will volunteer to join the group cleaning the convention premises. Because cleaning means distance, and distance means safety.

When you hear the knock, it is already morning and your father says: Get ready. We need to go early today, so that we can get good seats.