Sunday, twice
The performance I give every week, described once so I never have to describe it again.
Six o'clock: up, bath from the bucket, the white shirt Mama ironed on Saturday. Seven thirty: the whole family on the road, Papa in front. Eight: first service. I sing. I am good at this and I mean it, the singing, I have never faked the singing. Ten thirty: second service, the one with the long sermon. I sit third row from the back, aisle side, so I can see the door.
Here is the work. When the pastor says the word I keep my face exactly as it was. When the man next to me laughs at the joke I laugh a half-second after him, the same length. When Brother E. from the choir touches my shoulder I do not lean into it and I do not pull away. Afterwards, at fellowship, when the aunties ask about girls, I have a girl: she is at school in Port Harcourt, she is serious, we are praying about it. She has a name. She is very patient with me. She does not exist.
Home by three. Rice. Sleep. Then this, under the mattress, at four, while the house is quiet.
I write it down so that I do not have to think about it again until next week. It is not a lie, exactly. It is a job I did not apply for.