Fiction: Heaven’s Call

By Ikenga Chronicles January 31, 2018

Fiction: Heaven’s Call

–Chioma Ngaikedi

I hardly go to church, least of all, Catholic Church. I hate their boring hail Mary prayers. But today was different. My new chic had invited me; what’s her name again, Chidimma abi Chinelo, I don’t remember exactly, but it starts with Chi something. Mehn, she’s the prettiest thing I have ever seen. If she were a phone, she would be a sexy gold plated iPhone.

Sunday morning. I woke up around 6am. My black trousers was already hanging beside the starched white TM Lewis shirt I had borrowed from my cousin. No time for dulling. This babe must submit. If my groomed beards didn’t work the magic, then, my new found love for her church will definitely pull her in. Girls love winning souls. See, girls are all the same. They’re like a Maths equation with a universal formula. Love is their weakness. But who gives a damn about love? All I want is mind blowing sex. Have her on top me, riding me to bliss. Chai! God buried the sweetest thing between a woman’s legs. No wonder, Samson and Abacha fell.

Today na today, I straightened my shirt for the umpteenth time as I headed to the church. The huge black gate of the church was ajar. It had caricature painting of a man with hollow eyes who is supposedly Jesus Christ judging from the crown of thorns on his head.

The loud speakers hanging on the church fence echoed “Oh Sacrament most holy! Oh sacrament divine! All praise and honor thanksgiving, be every moment time.”

Sick people! So much noise that makes one wonder if their God is deaf.

The church auditorium has a circular design with six fat pillars with pictures of Saints hanging on them. I walked in. An elderly woman wearing a purple warden tag frowned at me and signaled me to remove my earphones. I winked at her and removed them. All these pious demons roaming around the church! She reminded me a lot of Mama Carol, my sugar mummy. Women are like food, some days, you desire jollof and others, you desire egusi soup or salad. Well, today is for salad! Whoever suggested that men should be monogamous, thunder fire that motherfucker!

I walked to an empty seat beside one fair tomato Jos, her boobs spilled out her tight green top as if inviting my hands to take a squeeze. God help me, I don’t want to be distracted.

Looking up, there she was, my new chic, in a long shapeless white choir uniform. She was singing when our eyes met. She smiled. I gave her the most angelic look I can muster. Yes! She was happy to see me. That’s a green light. Let’s give her two weeks to do her shakara; perhaps, one or two nkwobi joint outings, a cinema date and she will fall on my bed like a sack of potatoes. Hahahhahahaha! Call me the ladies man! I agree. One thing I took from heaven was the map to a woman’s groin! Damn! I’m already having a hard on right here in the middle of a communion session.

I already see us in bed. How would she moan? Loud or soft or those throaty groans that takes…

A loud blast tore through the glass window, disrupting the rhythm of the soft hymn echoing in the church. Glass particles flew in the air.


Heads darted from one side to another. The choir stopped singing. Confusion brewed.

“Ogini? Is it knockout or what? Church wardens, please control the noise outside,” the priest said.

Another blast stole words from the priest’s mouth. It’s a gunshot. The microphone fell from his hand. Four gunmen ran into the church and began to shoot at the congregation. People dove for cover. Gunshots rained like thunder. Blood and screams mingled.

“Chukwu nna! Obara Jesos!” echoed the voices around me. I crawled to a pillar to take cover, my heart drummed in my ears. Sweat rolled down my face.

“Help me, biko!” Someone murmured beside me, I turned, it was the fair lady in green top. The bullet had torn through her rib.

A boy dashed for the door, a bullet knocked him down. What madness is this for godsake? Shooting in God’s sanctuary! I’ve only read of this kind of shooting in white countries but not here in Ozubulu for godsake!

The screams were dying down now. The gunshots had stopped too. Blood marred the white tiled floor like an artist’s canvas. Corpses littered the floor like meats on the butcher’s table. I looked up. The choir stand was empty. The priest was lying in a pool of blood. I looked around. A mother was crying beside her dead child. I walked past, jumping over the corpse of an old man with a large rosary in his hand. I heard a cry behind me. The voice was familiar. I turned. There she was! My new chic. Thank heavens she is alright. Her face was stained with tears. She was cradling someone on her laps. I looked deeper. That was me with a bullet hole in my head.


  • Chioma Ngaikedi is a writer, filmmaker, blogger and CARPENTER. Check out her personal blog;