Later, Fofo Kpee rode us to church, wearing a new agbada and huge sunglasses, which gave him a bug-eyed look. The wind pumped up the flanks of his agbada like malformed wings. It was our first ride: Yewa was on the gas tank, clutching our family Bible, sporting her flowery dress and new baseball cap. In a pair a of corduroys and a green T-shirt, I was crushed in between Fofo and two acquaintances of his. The woman behind me was dangling a big squawking red rooster by its tied legs on one side of the machine. She was a large woman and her big headgear hovered over me like a multicolored umbrella. The man at the end of the bike carried on his head a basket with three yams, pineapples, oranges, a bag of amala flour, and five rolls of toilet paper.
A triumphant midmorning sun filled the day, and a clear blue sky beckoned us. The road was crowded with churchgoers. Fofo Kpee sped off, tooting his horn nonstop, flashing the lights to clear the road ahead of us. The crowd parted before us like the Red Sea before Moses’s rod. Some people waved and cheered us on. My chest swelled with pride, and my eyes welled up with tears, which the wind swept onto my earlobes.
When we got to Our Redeemer Pentecostal Church, Big Guy was waiting by the entrance, smiling at us like an usher. He had shaved his beard, and in his gray suit and loafers, he looked even taller and more intimidating. He stood as straight as one of the thin pillars that adorned the church’s entrance. The church was a big, uncompleted rectangular structure. The new roof shone in the bright sun, but the church had no doors or windows yet, and the walls hadn’t been plastered. You could hear hundreds of shoes shuffling on what we called the “German floor” as worshippers walked in and found their places among the pews, which, for now, were planks set on blocks.
Fofo parked the bike under a guava tree, although not before he had felt the ground around the stand with his right foot to see whether it was safe to do so. He unfolded a big tarp and covered the Nanfang, in case it rained, however unlikely that was.
“Ah, mon ami, good morning o!” Fofo greeted Big Guy, grabbing his hand when we got to the door.
“I tell you say I no go miss dis one,” Big Guy said, and pulled us aside, away from the doorway. “Somehow, I been tink say you go bring de oder children to church.”
Fofo Kpee froze. “Wetin? Which children, Big Guy?” he said.
Big Guy looked away. “You know wetin I dey talk, Smiley Kpee, you know.”
Big Guy wasn’t as agitated or angry as he had been when he brought the Nanfang and said he expected to see five children. Now, there was an uneasy silence between the two men. The four of us looked like an island in the river of people entering the church.
“OK, God bless you,” Fofo Kpee said, and nudged him on the side. “Make we talk about dis matter oso˙.”
“Tomorrow never come,” Big Guy said, his voice rising in seriousness.
“You loser! Who send you come spoil my Family Tanksgiving?”
Because of the way Fofo sounded, some people turned and stared at Big Guy. Two ushers started wading through the crowd toward us, as if they anticipated a quarrel.
“Just joking,” Big Guy said, and let out a nervous laugh.
“I hope you dey joke,” Fofo said, chuckling, and people went back to minding their business.
Big Guy turned to us immediately and squatted before Yewa, touching her cap and holding our hands. In spite of his bad nails, his palms were soft and gentle. “Oh, our children are so beautiful!” he said.
“Thank you, monsieur,” we said.
“Wow, Fofo dey treat you well o.”
“Yes, he does, monsieur.”
“Abeg o. Appellez-moi Big Guy. Just Big Guy, deal?”
“Yes, Big Guy,” my sister said, nodding.
“And you?” Big Guy said, turning to me.
“Yes, Big Guy . . . monsieur,” I said.
“Oh, no, no,” he said, clucking his tongue disapprovingly. “N’est pas difficult. Big Guy, just Big Guy. Your kid sister done master de ting.” He turned again to Yewa: “You must be smart for school, abi?”
“Yes, Big Guy,” Yewa said, licking her lips excitedly.
“No worry, Kotchikpa go master de name too,” Fofo said, coming to my defense as Big Guy rose to his feet. “Give de boy time, man . . . right Kotchikpa?”
“Yes, Fofo,” I said.
“Dere you are,” Fofo Kpee said to Big Guy, and shook his hand again, while folding the wings of his agbada onto his shoulders. His smile was so wide that the tension between his lip and left eyelid eased, and his eyes looked the same size. “Ete˙ n’gan do˙? Na our family turn for Tanksgiving. Abeg, join us in peace.”
“Pourquoi pas?” Big Guy said, shrugging. “You know say our God no be poor God. . . . He bring me and you togeder for better ting.”
“Yeah, you know, as our people say, man be God to man,” Fofo said. “Hunger o, disease o, bad luck o, empty pockets o—our heavenly baba go banish all of dem from us today. God done already shame Satan.”
“If you dey poor, know dat because you be sinner. Someting dey wrong wid you. And God dey punish you,” Big Guy said.
IN CHURCH, THE FOUR of us sat in the front pew. When it was time for Thanksgiving proper, we went to the back. Fofo went outside and rolled the Nanfang up to the church. Two ushers helped him lift it over the three stairs at the front.
Like two acolytes, Yewa and I stood at the head of the procession, our dance steps at once shy and excited, not completely in sync with the heavy drums and singing. Then came Fofo and Nanfang. He held the bike majestically, like a bride. Still, from time to time Fofo Kpee managed to stoop low and gyrate and flap and gather his agbada. The trumpets were so loud that even if the rooster we brought, which was held by someone deep in the procession, was still squawking, nobody heard.
When there was a lull in the trumpeting, someone behind us filled the church with a loud yodeling. When I turned around, I saw it was Big Guy. He loomed behind us like a pillar of cloud. His dance was elegant and unique: he didn’t bend down like Fofo but was very erect, as if his suit refused him permission to stoop or spread out his long legs. Instead, he simply shook and threw his legs and arms gingerly, like a daddy longlegs.
Behind him, the crowd of well-wishers swelled the aisle with dancing, bringing up the gifts of yam, fruit, amala flour, and toilet paper we had brought from home. In this flux, the ushers stood like statues, holding out baskets into which we tossed naira and cefa bills. When we had gathered in front of the sanctuary, Pastor Concord Adeyemi, short, thin, and bearded, came before us. His suit was charcoal black, and a sizable cross dangled from a chain around his neck over his tie. He wore jheri curls.
“Now, bring out your offering and raise it to the Lord to be blessed . . . Amen!” he thundered into the microphone.
“Amen!” the church responded.
People began digging in their pockets for money. Yewa and I brought out our twenty-naira bills, which Fofo Kpee had given to us solely for this purpose. Fofo had said it was important today we held up N20 bills instead of the N1 coins we had held during other people’s Thanksgivings. Today wasn’t the day for us to be ashamed, he had said. Now, when I looked behind, Fofo was holding up a N100 bill. The roof of the church looked littered with naira and cefa bills, suspended in the air by hundreds of hands.