𝑬𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑻𝒐 𝒀𝑯𝑾𝑯

𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆

Every Sunday morning I lean by the window and watch the sunrise from the east, the mixture of orange colors painting the sky and the smell of moist air permeating the atmosphere in the form of due. It feels calm and serene, and I feel lucky that I'm fortunate to witness such wonder.

I marvel at its beauty then I ask myself.

Who is responsible for this?

The mastermind who sat and planned every detail. Is he really real? Or is it purely the work of science?

Oftentimes I find myself either in school, having a class, particularly biology and wondering how each tiny detail of our body and metabolism was planned, how everything, even the tiniest of things has a purpose. Then generally in life when I find myself spacing out just to watch people move about their daily routine, I wonder who put them there and who's responsible for their existence.

I let out a sigh because these are questions I don't have the answers to, and frankly I have no idea how to go about it.

There are two words called ignorance and fear. My life has revolved around these words such that it holds power over me, it controls me to the point that I no longer believe in anything. I no longer want to trust that something is there because it leads down a dusty road of acceptance.

It's the sound of my family downstairs that reminds me of why I started living in ignorance and fear in the first place.

The reason I wake up early every Sunday morning.

I use my hands to cover my mouth in order to hold the sound of choked tears that want to escape. My eyes squint in fear and shake, my whole body shakes as I hear the sound of my father lashing out on my mother.

Every Sunday morning my father stumbles home from whatever hole he hid himself throughout the week to reign hell on my home-at least the only remaining piece of home I have left. He storms through the door demanding for money, taking out his frustrations on my mother as I listen and sometimes watch.

The wind brushes my face as if to wipe my tears away.

I do not blame anyone for my issues, I do not blame anything above or below, all I do is give up hope. I stopped trusting a long time ago that now it's just question marks. What's out there? Who are you? What can you do? Can you help? Are you real? I'd really like to know.

My gaze turns to the sound coming from my neighbor's yard. The youngest son is running to the passenger seat of the car, squealing in delight. When he gets there the little boy of about two years tries to reach for the handle that's above him. Later his sister is lifting him from the ground and blowing kisses on his cheeks. The parents emerge from their home dressed modestly and beautifully in preparation for Church service.

The mother takes the boy from her daughter, straps him into the car seat then fixes her daughter's scarf.

Briefly her eyes flicker to mine, startling me and making me feel scared of being caught staring.

Where I come from it's like an unspoken rule to always mind your business.

But the woman does something I wasn't expecting. She smiles at me before turning back to her family.

I leave the window side to sit in front of my study desk with books scattered and torn papers everywhere. I let my head rest on the hardwood as all sorts of thoughts run through my mind.

Sometimes I wish I had someone really close to me to ask questions, to confide in and find comfort in. Someone who's real and has the power to help me.

That's when the idea blossomed in my mind.

It was crazy. It was unrealistic and foolish but I wanted to do it anyway.

So I picked up a sheet of empty paper from the desk, a pen and started writing.

Dear God (if you are real),

How are you do...

I crumpled the paper and tossed it angrily on the floor.

What am I doing?

There's a silent knock on the door alerting me of my little sister's presence. She opens it, lets herself in then closes it behind her with a click on the lock. She walks over to my bed, gets under the covers before letting out the pain she's been holding.

Are you out there?

My little sister cries because of the life she has to live. A life where instead of having a happy family, we have a broken one that seems like there's no way out. She cries because everyday she has to sit by the staircase to watch her mother get beaten up because of circumstances.

I didn't try to comfort her. I stopped doing that a year ago. Instead I let her cry and accept that this is our life. It's no one's fault, we can only hope for a better future.

I turn my attention back to my writing. I was never an expert in writing in school, I failed to conform to the usual format of letter writing, feeling that it should be written freely as one speaks.

Dear God (If you are real),

Are you out there? Are you watching over us? Sometimes I wonder if I should blame you, but then I think about it. Why blame something you don't believe in the first place? Why should I fault you when I've never tried to get to know you? Are you real? Can you help? The English language demands me to go straight to the point when writing a formal letter but truth be told I always sucked at writing. Should I even ask about your well-being? Are you healthy wherever you are? Happy? Sad? Disappointed? The world is truly turning darker everyday.

I have questions. I'd be glad if you could answer them but first I want to get to know you. I want us to be... friends. Even if you are not a person, I want to have someone who I can pour my inner thoughts to. It feels therapeutic as I write this letter to you, disregarding the fact that it may or may not change anything. Yet I write, at this point for my own well-being.

Once again I ask, are you real? Are you out there? Give me an answer soon.

A lost soul,

Binta Sinobichukwu.

I folded a piece of paper into an envelope, using paper glue to close the sides before placing my letter inside.

It's not anything extravagant, it's a simple writing of the things I would say to the being above. Some may think I'm crazy, writing a letter to a nonexistent being, or more so a disembodied figure.

What am I trying to achieve?

The religious would ask me to pray; prayer after all is the face to face encounter with God. However, I do not feel ready to pray when I don't know the answers. Who will I be talking to?

I almost trip on my way to the window at the sound of my mother screaming louder than usual.

My sister turns sharply, her eyes red and puffy from crying to look at me worriedly.

"Don't go downstairs, Lael." I say to her, noticing her leg peeking out from the covers.

"But...mommy... didn't you hear that scream? I'm getting anxious here, plus the noise has stopped. Do you think...?" she started crying.

"Nothing has happened. Try to get some sleep," I said, covering her shaky body with the duvet. "Everything will be alright."

"Promise?"

"Get some sleep, Lael."

I opened the window to let the fresh air in before placing my letter on the sill. After ten minutes of silence I begin to wonder again.

What happens next?