The Nigerian Examination of Conscience

Dear Diary,

January 16, 2025

It was just on Monday when Rita, in her ever-angelic way, gave a talk on Examination of Conscience. Her explanation was both insightful and terrifyingly familiar. She described it not as a logistical checklist of “what I’ve done or left undone,” but as a gentle, reflective process—a coin with two sides. One side was about examining how many wrongs you could set right the next day, and the other was about preparing for the sacrament of reconciliation—confession—to make yourself whole and ready to receive Christ in the Eucharist.

As she spoke, I was nodding like the star student at the front row of life’s lecture. Every word was sinking into me like rain into parched soil. But not just because Rita had a way with words. No, no, no—it was because her words rang with a very familiar bell, one rung many times in my life. They took me straight to the formidable, unshakable Florence—my mother-dearest.

Let me tell you about Florence, aka Thatcher of the House. Growing up, Florence wasn’t just a mother; she was the supreme enforcer, the priest-in-chief of our spiritual and moral well-being. And when it came to the sacred practice of examining one’s conscience, she didn’t come to play. Her words still echo in my ears to this day:

“Before I DESCEND ON YOU (and trust me, she will), I want you to think very clearly again, and begin to tell me step-by-step how you defied my authority, and then tell me how you plan to ensure this nonsense will never happen again!”

Now, let me give you a glimpse into life under Florence’s rule. My older brother and I, aged twelve and eight at the time, were already masters of sneaky mischief. I mean, children are children—what’s childhood without a bit of chaos? But Florence? She had patience for chaos, but not hidden chaos.

One Saturday, we decided to sneak off to the neighbour’s house—you know, the one with the bourgeoisie name that sounded like they belonged in the English court. And once there, we decided to join the bourgeoisie children to play a “game” that involved throwing water-filled balloons at each other in the sitting room. I don’t know who had the bright idea to turn this into an indoor sport, but we were having the best time of our lives.

Boom! Down went the vase on the TV stand, shattering into a thousand irreparable pieces. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the water from the balloon spiralled onto Bourgeoisie Mother’s prized rug. It was at that moment we knew we fucked up. And as Florence’s children? Doubly fucked up.

We froze. You know that moment when your brain screams at you to run, but your feet betray you? That was us. My older brother, ever the strategist, whispered, “No matter what, Olu and Tade (the youngest) must not speak. In fact, let’s beg them to stay quiet; they’ll complicate this for us!”

The lies started immediately. We spun so many tales that even we couldn’t keep track. I don’t know whose fate was worse—ours or the bourgeoisie children—because while their mother looked like a grown Barbie doll in my eyes, ours? Florence was Florence.

We settled on the perfect script – THE TRUTH. God must have heard our collective resolution to speak the truth. So, as we rehearsed our lines and actions—we must be on our knees, hands raised high, teary-eyed, crying as if our lives depended on it—which they did, so as to obtain immediate clemency. We were ready to deliver Oscar-worthy performances to save ourselves.

But as luck would have it, their father arrived first. This man, a kind-hearted, big-picture thinker, didn’t even like the vase and wasn’t fussed about the rug. He consoled us, patted our heads as we sniffled dramatically, and sent us home with a gentle “Its okay children.” Problem solved, right? Wrong.

The real issue wasn’t just the mess we joined in to create. It was the fact that we’d left our own house without permission. Florence’s wrath was brewing, waiting for us to arrive. We thought!

By another stroke of luck, we made it home before Florence and kept silent. The coast was clear—until Sunday. At children’s Mass, Barbie Doll spotted Florence. With the self-righteousness of someone who had no vase left to break, she marched up to Florence and pinned the entire ruination on us, conveniently leaving her children out of the story.

Now, Florence wasn’t born yesterday. As Barbie Doll recounted the events, Florence stood there, smiling politely, apologising profusely for her children’s “unruly behaviour.” But my brother and I knew better. We could see her mental ledger flipping through pages as our offences unrolled like a litany on an invisible scroll.

We prayed. Not for forgiveness, but for someone in church to adopt us before Florence could get us alone. We were officially in the valley of the shadow of death.

On the way home, Florence was unusually pleasant. She even stopped at Mr Biggs and bought us our favourite snacks. This was Florence—buying us meat pie and charcoal grilled chicken. We knew it was a trap.

As soon as we got home and my brother and I were about to dash for the television, she stepped in front of it, arms crossed. With the calmness of a seasoned interrogator, she said:

“Before I descend on you, examine your conscience one last time and confess everything you did. Now.”

My brother, knowing this was it—we could meet with our creator today—turned on me immediately. “It was her who adamantly left the house, I went to retrieve her!” he blurted.

I gasped, pointing at him. “Me?! You were the one I followed and then I joined all of you to play water balloons inside. But it was Tade who threw the balloon at the TV!” At that moment, even the bourgeoisie children weren’t safe either. I tried to deflect, realising I had joined the “no permission” issue with the “ruination” issue together, but it was too late—the cat was already out of the bag.

Florence’s eyes narrowed. She held up her hand. “Stop. Are you now trying to bring in other people? I don’t care about Tade. I am talking about you two. This is your last chance. If you dare me and lie one more time, even your father won’t recognise you by the time I am done with you. So, think very clearly again, and begin to tell me step-by-step how you both defied my authority, and then tell me how you plan to ensure this nonsense will never happen again.”

Those words were unmistakable—like a royal decree from an angered queen. Immediately, my brother started crying. As soon as I was sure they were real tears, I knew the promise to stay silent had expired. We retraced our steps, starting from breakfast, and the confessions poured out of us like water from a broken dam.

We admitted everything—sneaking out, the balloons, the vase, the rug, the lies, and even our plans to cover for the bourgeoisie children. Florence listened, nodding slowly, her face unreadable. Then, with all the grace of a Nigerian mother who negotiates with no one, she delivered her verdict in triple-loaded punishments.

The punishment, I tell you, remains classified. But let’s just say even the bourgeoisie children—in their own house—felt Florence’s wrath as if it had traveled through the airwaves. As for us? We never even thought of sneaking out again. Did I mention that, growing up, none of our friends ever escaped their share of punishment? Florence made sure every friend involved received something similar, if not worse. You see why I don’t keep friends? You’d get collateral punishment from Florence the Thatcher.

Peopleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! As the first graduates of the Florence School of Confession, she made the sacrament super easy. All we knew was, you either told the truth or faced another level of reckoning that would make even the devil think twice about claiming you. Florence wasn’t just teaching us to examine our conscience—she was baptising us in the art of radical accountability.

So, as I reflect on what Rita said on Monday, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. The tradition in my house of “think very clearly again, and begin to tell me step-by-step how you defied my authority, and then tell me how you plan to ensure this nonsense will never happen again” is still, to me, the best art of reflection and truth-telling for every single day.

And the best part? More than Florence, we have the best Father with the most Extravagant Heart, who lets go of all our wrongs and does everything to seek out our clear conscience that is of service to him.

Today, as I write this, I’m grateful. Grateful for Rita, whose words brought back these hilarious, poignant memories. Grateful for Florence, the original Thatcher-priest of our house. And grateful for the lessons that still guide me to this day.

Here’s to Florence, to Nigerian mothers everywhere (who I am certain have similar examination-of-conscience rules), and to the painful, hilarious, heartfelt ways they teach us life’s greatest truths.

I am itching to hear: what was your mother’s favourite line to get you to speak the truth? If you’re Nigerian, the word “descend” is definitely part of it somewhere!

Yours Truly,
The Penitent Nigerian