Occupational Hazard
The setting sun paints the evening sky in shades of red and gold, stretching the cathedral’s shadows longer and longer. Its stained glass windows catch the last light, shimmering with twilight’s glow. Delicate carvings and sculptures give life to its face, and inside, an ornate altar stands proud and holy.
St. Michael’s stands proud and unwavering amidst the heartbeat of Awka’s busy streets. Outside, cars beep and market chatter drifts through, merging with the sing-song tones of street sellers and children’s laughter. Yet, inside the cathedral, there’s a peace that stands untouched.
Chidiogo’s memories often find you here. Your fingers touch the cool, moist stone, feeling its age and stories in every tiny bump and groove. A quick shiver runs through you, hinting at the pain buried deep within.
Each step you take through the nave resonates with your years of service in this sacred place. When you slide into the confessional, a deep breath calms your racing heart. The air smells of incense, bringing back memories of past ceremonies and moments of reflection—taking you back to when your journey to priesthood began.
Kneeling, your silent prayer seeks wisdom and grace. With each breath, your focus sharpens, readying you for the task ahead. Despite the distant sounds of moving pews and hushed voices, in this moment, you stand in communion with the Divine.
Outside, Awka’s noisy streets become a mere background hum, worlds apart from the cathedral’s sacred calm.
The confessional stands as a refuge where hearts heavy with guilt find peace. In this space, you bridge the gap between them and forgiveness, guarding their whispered regrets. As daylight dwindles, shadowy figures approach, moving past your curtained view.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” the first voice quivers. Her ragged breaths fill the silence, laden with regret.
Between her words, hesitation lingers, like she’s summoning courage from deep within. With gentleness, you guide her, letting her spill her heart’s burdens. For small missteps, forgiveness comes swiftly.
Others step forward, seeking guidance and a way back. Your words, full of age-old wisdom, soothe their restless spirits. Healing wounded hearts—this is your calling.
The evening deepens, darkening the edges of the world. You stretch, feeling the day’s fatigue. A shadowy figure emerges, sliding into the adjacent chamber. The wooden bench groans beneath him. Silence reigns as you anticipate his words. A prolonged stillness, then he exhales shakily. You can almost feel the storm raging inside him.
“Forgive me, Father; my sins run deep,” he murmurs, taking a moment to steady himself. “Five years ago, I did something … something terrible.” His voice cracks. “Every day, it’s there, haunting me. I’ve tried to forget, to move forward, but I can’t bear it any longer.”
You hold your breath, your mind spiralling into a whirlpool of dark thoughts, your heart pounding fast and hard. He begins to relive that cursed night—the deliberate attack on the innocent girl. A young life snuffed out too soon. As his tale unfolds, icy dread grips you.
Your hands clutch the seat, knuckles strained. His words send jolts of recognition through you, bringing painful memories to the forefront. The name “Chidiogo” makes the world tilt, and bitterness fills your mouth. That laughter, those familiar eyes … your Chidiogo, your cherished Nwa Ụwa Ọma.
Your surroundings fade as a five-year-old memory engulfs you. The confessional vanishes, replaced by your family home. Chidiogo dances around the living room, flaunting a dress stitched by your sister, Ugochi, for her 19th birthday. Her joyous laughter fills the space, a vivid recollection of the lively spirit stolen too soon.
“How do I look, Uncle Onyema?” She beams, calling you by your Igbo name. Before you answer, her laughter bubbles up. “Priests have no style! Did they skip that lesson in seminary?”
In mock offence, you puff out your chest, only to receive a peck on your cheek. “Just kidding. Black never goes out of style.” Her happiness radiates, melting your heart. She has a special place in your heart.
The man’s voice, filled with regret, pulls you back. Tears cloud your eyes as his terrible tale reopens old wounds. You flinch at the description of her last moments, her pleas for mercy. Each word stabs at your heart, unearthing pain you believed had healed.
“My sins burden me so, Father,” he murmurs, desperation evident in his voice. “I long for redemption.”
Each word threatens to break the thin thread of your calm. “God’s mercy knows no bounds, my child,” you reply, the words practised and familiar. Your voice trembles with betrayal as you ask, “Why? Why did you do this?”
His words don’t bring solace. “In our youth, we acted without thought. I never meant to harm her. All went horribly wrong.”
His words land like a blow to your stomach. You offer him absolution, your voice fragile and distant. As he disappears into the shadows, brokenness envelops you.
Tears burn your cheeks, blurring the world around you. You slam your fist against the wooden barrier, pain shooting up your arm, mirroring the ache in your head. His measured words rub raw against your cherished memories of her. Every breath feels stolen, as if a boulder presses against your chest.
Your duty as a priest and your anguish collide like waves in a storm. “Lord, how do I forgive when my heart cries out for justice?” you choke out. The fading scent of incense is the sole witness to your heartbreak.
Dawn breaks, but the sun brings no comfort. You meander through the grounds, turmoil clouding your thoughts. The garden brings visions of Chidiogo as a child, her laughter once filling the air. Now, the bright flowers and green leaves, once peaceful sights, taunt you with their calm, so opposite to the storm in your heart.
Father Cyril’s voice, laden with worry, breaks through your thoughts. “Your spirit seems heavy, my friend. What darkens your heart?”
You sidestep his question, and then, over breakfast, you pose a dilemma. “If one hears of a deep personal hurt during confession, should he reveal the wrongdoer?”
Cyril releases a deep sigh. “Our Lord asks us to forgive those who hurt us. But deep wounds are hard to mend.”
You nod, pain evident in your voice. “At what point does forgiveness turn to indifference?” The question lingers, mirroring the storm inside you.
The hours blur together. Reciting the Mass feels automatic, the words lacking their usual warmth. As you speak of forgiveness, a battle rages within.
One voice urges—honour the sacredness of confession, lead this lost soul. Another voice seethes—he tore apart your family! The fire of your anger isn’t easily doused.
Kneeling in the pew that evening, your heart yearns for guidance, lost in a storm and searching for a glimmer of hope. The decision ahead feels like a boulder on your chest. “Lord, grant me wisdom,” you murmur, fingers dancing over your rosary beads, finding comfort in their touch.
But the inner battle rages on, with verses of scripture thrown like arrows. “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.” In response, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”
The internal struggle stretches into the night, your thoughts swirling in a storm of scripture and raw feelings. When you eventually drift to sleep, it’s uneasy and filled with unrest. Jolting awake, the haunting image of her bruised form and pleading eyes pulls you from slumber.
Dawn breaks but brings no comfort. As morning unfolds, the internal turmoil refuses to subside. Seated in solitude, the pending decision feels like a millstone around your neck. Your sacred duty battles with the burning pain demanding justice.
Can you forsake your sacred oath and shatter a penitent’s trust? That age-old vow feels etched into your being. But you can’t turn a blind eye, leaving her killer walking free. Justice calls.
Determined, you steel yourself for what’s to come, seeing the Judas in white reflected back at you. You summon the man, offering spiritual counsel. His trusting voice, placing faith in your role as his spiritual guide, pierces your heart.
As words leave your lips, two officers glide into the room. They seize him before he can even flinch. He turns to you, eyes round with disbelief and blame.
Tears fill his eyes as they lock onto yours, forcing you to look away, hands balled in tension. “Father, you were my trust. I sought redemption.”
Your voice cracks, oblivious to the officers around, charged with emotion. “Justice was needed for my Nwa Ụwa Ọma.”
His pleas for mercy linger in the air as they pull him down the corridor. The officers assure you of a thorough inquiry into his story and allies. Yet the win feels hollow in your heart.
Night after night, breathing becomes a battle, every breath feeling as if an anchor drags you deeper. The mingled visions of Chidiogo and the man haunt your sleep. The cathedral’s walls, which once felt like sheltering arms, now close in on you, reminding you of the line you blurred. The eyes of fellow priests become unbearable, your shame dragging your glance downward.
Your deeds and choices bear down on you relentlessly. Alone, you kneel on the cold, unforgiving floor, pleading, “Lord, I have stumbled. My anger kept me from your grace. Lead me from this shadow.”
In the silent heart of the night, you grapple with the enormity of what you’ve done. You shattered the sacred seal of confession, a foundation of your faith. This treachery, not just to the man but to your very core, eats away at you.
You mechanically perform your duties—leading the Mass, hearing confessions, urging forgiveness. Yet, the cathedral that was once your sanctuary feels foreign. Its towering walls cage you, mirroring the prison you’ve built in your heart.
Father Cyril’s eyes, filled with worry, often linger on you during meals. He sees your pain but stays silent, never prying. In your darkest hours, a thought emerges: maybe you should abandon this stone sanctuary, free yourself from the cassock and collar that have bound you for years.
This evening, as you hear another confession, each admitted sin feels like an added pebble, collectively ready to engulf your tormented spirit. The once-calming aroma of incense chokes you now. Penitents arrive, carrying life’s small burdens. Their hushed voices drift, and their troubles seem minor next to the mountain you bear.
Each confession tugs at the strings of your heart, revealing the trust once given so freely—a trust you shattered. With every whispered sin from the penitents, the burden of your own betrayal grows heavier.
Each confession tugs at your memory, pulling you back to the moment that shifted your world. You offer them a soft guiding hand, yet inside, you feel like a fraud.
In your chamber, a framed photo of you and Chidiogo beckons, her bright smile a light from a past untouched by present darkness, a moment from days filled with joy. A sharp ache grips your heart as your fingers follow the curve of her forever-young grin.
“I strayed, Nwa Ụwa Ọma,” you whisper, tears thickening your voice. “Seeking revenge, I only sank deeper into grief. But I’ll mend my ways, I swear to you. For you and for the values I cherish.” The road to forgiveness seems clouded, but you’re determined to tread it, honouring Chidiogo’s memory.
Your eyes lift to the crucifix, pleading for answers, yearning for a sign from above. The inner turmoil remains: Can you wear the hats of both cop and confessor? Can your broken spirit heal? The cathedral’s cold stone walls close in on you, making you acutely aware of the robes you wear and the promise you shattered.
This is your penance, your path to atonement.
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