SIN AND DEATH IN SAINT'S CITY

When I turned sixteen, my father decided I was a grown man.

Likely due to the refinement of my muscles and my self-sufficiency during that solo weekend when my exams coincided with a family trip. Or perhaps because I started growing facial hair, had a massive hard-on while at a family diner in a restaurant after seeing the exposed boobs of a waitress (I was sitting beside my father), and devoted quite a lot of my scant free time to asking questions about the opposite gender.

Whenever you go to a sex education class or website or whatever, genes frequently feature in explanations for accelerated growth spurts. However, it’s vital to understand that genes don’t cause accelerated growth. Accelerated growth is caused by seeing way too much, way too early in life. (Bad genes are also caused by the same thing. Almost every form of accelerated growth is, really). But my dad believed I needed to be taught how to be a man, so he took me to see Pastor Rod, who agreed that I was brought at the right time because the devil and his cohorts were planning to drag me away from the straight and narrow. Therefore, I should be consistently prayed for, and also, I should attend a weekly class for grooming teenage boys into Christian men.

This class featured a peculiar cast of characters, each with a superior knack for hiding their issues. What was the cause of these issues? Seeing way too much, way too early in life.

Each Friday, the class gathered in Pastor Rod’s dining room to discuss grown-up topics.

Saint, the class instructor and only (well, second if we count one other) white person in the room, always discussed God’s omnipresence, how He was watching us every frigging time, blah, blah, blah.

The slender chap, known for wrangling his shoulder-length blonde hair into place with a see-through band, had always been amusing—in small doses.

On a normal Friday, here’s how our meetings go: The ten or fifteen of us would walk/swagger in, sample sips from glasses filled with the most watered-down jolly juice, sit in front of a large podium, and listen to Saint recount for the millionth time his repetitively long lecture about the typical adult life—how we were going to have so many responsibilities, we’ll think we’d die from the pressure but we wouldn’t die and how we’ll have to work hard to cater for our dependents, marry because society expects it, rarely have time to do the things we liked because if we weren’t working, we’ll be resting, not be able to spend much time with friends, how most of us weren’t going to be able to achieve many of our childhood dreams, patiently have to tolerate and be friendly to co-workers and bosses we didn’t even like, watching, like we all do, as time eats at our youth while we looked back at what only a saint would call a life.

What the hell!

Then we’d share our names, schools, goals, and outline our strategies for accomplishing those goals.

I’m Kyle White, I’d say when they get to me. St Kek High. Wanted to become a lawyer originally but decided I’d rather be a businessman. Why? Because I like money. My action plan for success? Risk-taking.

Once every seat in the small room was taken and the introductions were done, Saint would ask someone to suggest a topic the group would discuss. That’s how we’d kick-start the day’s session: everyone talking about the challenges they faced that week and how the path to their goals was difficult and how they were keen to finish hard in spite of these challenges. (Note: The replies don’t even align with his question).

In the spirit of openness, Saint let us confess our sins. As a result, ugly truths laid bare—admissions of theft, smoking pot, and occasionally, sex. Then we’d talk about jail. A random person would reel out statistics on the likelihood of a black kid ending up in jail.

This meant there was quite a lot of aggressiveness in the room, with everybody wanting to beat not only the handcuffs and the bars but also the other people present. Like, I realize that this is a tad unkind, but when they tell you there’s, say, a 10% chance of living a full life without incarceration as a black dude, you realize the odds are not in your favor… so you look around and think, as many rational people would: I hope I’m luckier than these other niggas.

Perhaps the most depressing facet of the class was Kelly, a doe-eyed, 6’3 white boy who was all brawn with thick black locks that almost always fell in his face.

But his mouth was the problem. He grappled with a severe bout of loose tongue syndrome. Dude never shut up! He said he wanted to become a lawyer, so he expressed his opinions on every conceivable topic when he wasn’t talking about how perfect his life was. This had, unfortunately, thrust those of us around him into a hell hole where we became the perpetual audience of a bad TV show (watching him talk) which we wished could stop but knew would never end. It was like he was this huge beak that was always open. On those rare moments when I bothered to listen, I learned he was gearing up to launch this new thing on radio where everyone could engage in discussions about pressing societal issues.

I mean, I come to these meetings for the same reason I don’t walk out of Sunday Mass when Pastor Rod repeats the same sermon in a hundred different ways: I wanted to do my old man proud. And, now, here I was, stuck hearing some white kid talk about his perfect life. There’s only one thing shittier than not having a perfect life, and that’s hearing other people talk about their perfect lives.

Anyway, on that Friday when I met Lorraine Thompson, I rolled into Pastor Rod’s driveway at 4:18 pm, Dad in the seat next to mine. He let me drive because I was now a man. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and pretended to be invested in something on my phone.

“Do you want me to wait for you?”

“No, it’s fine,” I said. Fridays are his days. He usually goes out with friends for some drinks at the bar three blocks from our house. Two hours alone in the car would suck. I couldn’t live with myself knowing I let that happen to him.

“I’m proud of you, boy,” he said as I got out.

“You too, old man. See you at home.”

“Bring a girl!” he said through the rolled-down window.

I didn’t want to see Pastor Rod, so I used the backdoor.

Adorning the pristine white walls were assorted antiques. The polished white-tiled floor reflected everyone’s image with mirror-like precision. My attention was drawn to a gracefully curved banister that seemed to soar into heaven. Letting out a sigh, I ascended the stairs.

I usually don’t take the jolly juice but today I poured myself a cup because I needed something cold to wet my parched throat.

A girl winked at me. A white girl. My heart stopped.

I was certain I’d never seen her before. Her shorts were almost invisible under her oversized t-shirt, which hid her slender figure. Thick auburn locks were tied with a loose strap. It was slightly lopsided with the weight of her hair, the strap barely holding back the shorter strands from her face. She looked my age, maybe a few years younger, and her back was straight against the chair, her shoulders relaxed yet squared.

I’m not gonna lie: she was the kind of girl most boys would like to take home to see their parents. A girl you’re only seeing for the first time winks at you and it is, at best, playful and, at worst, open flirtation. But the one who makes your heart stop… ooh la la.

I was still having a moment with the new girl when Kelly shot through the door, breaking our spell. Out of breath, eyes sparkling, he said through a barely concealed smile, “I know what we’re going to discuss today.”