{"id":1143,"date":"2025-01-16T14:46:39","date_gmt":"2025-01-16T14:46:39","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/oluabikoye.com\/blog\/?p=1143"},"modified":"2025-02-01T13:44:16","modified_gmt":"2025-02-01T13:44:16","slug":"nigerian-examination-of-conscience","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/oluabikoye.com\/blog\/nigerian-examination-of-conscience\/","title":{"rendered":"The Nigerian Examination of Conscience"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Dear Diary, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

January 16, 2025<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was just on Monday when Rita, in her ever-angelic way, gave a talk on Examination of Conscience<\/strong><\/em>. Her explanation was both insightful and terrifyingly familiar. She described it not as a logistical checklist of \u201cwhat I\u2019ve done or left undone,\u201d but as a gentle, reflective process\u2014a 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\u2014confession\u2014to make yourself whole and ready to receive Christ in the Eucharist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As she spoke, I was nodding like the star student at the front row of life\u2019s 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\u2014it 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\u2014my mother-dearest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Let me tell you about Florence, aka Thatcher of the House<\/strong><\/em>. Growing up, Florence wasn\u2019t 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\u2019s conscience, she didn\u2019t come to play. Her words still echo in my ears to this day:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“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!”<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now, let me give you a glimpse into life under Florence\u2019s rule. My older brother and I, aged twelve and eight at the time, were already masters of sneaky mischief. I mean, children are children\u2014what\u2019s childhood without a bit of chaos? But Florence? She had patience for chaos, but not hidden<\/em> chaos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One Saturday, we decided to sneak off to the neighbour\u2019s house\u2014you know, the one with the bourgeoisie<\/em> name that sounded like they belonged in the English court. And once there, we decided to join the bourgeoisie<\/em> children to play a \u201cgame\u201d that involved throwing water-filled balloons at each other in the sitting room. I don\u2019t know who had the bright idea to turn this into an indoor sport, but we were having the best time of our lives.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Boom! Down went the vase on the TV stand, shattering into a thousand irreparable pieces. As if that wasn\u2019t bad enough, the water from the balloon spiralled onto Bourgeoisie Mother\u2019s<\/em> prized rug. It was at that moment we knew we fucked up. And as Florence\u2019s children? Doubly fucked up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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, \u201cNo matter what, Olu and Tade (the youngest) must not speak. In fact, let\u2019s beg them to stay quiet; they\u2019ll complicate this for us!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The lies started immediately. We spun so many tales that even we couldn\u2019t keep track. I don\u2019t know whose fate was worse\u2014ours or the bourgeoisie<\/em> children\u2014because while their mother looked like a grown Barbie doll in my eyes, ours? Florence was Florence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2014we must be on our knees, hands raised high, teary-eyed, crying as if our lives depended on it\u2014which they did, so as to obtain immediate clemency. We were ready to deliver Oscar-worthy performances to save ourselves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But as luck would have it, their father arrived first. This man, a kind-hearted, big-picture thinker, didn\u2019t even like the vase and wasn\u2019t fussed about the rug. He consoled us, patted our heads as we sniffled dramatically, and sent us home with a gentle \u201cIts okay children.\u201d<\/em> Problem solved, right? Wrong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The real issue wasn\u2019t just the mess we joined in to create. It was the fact that we\u2019d left our own house without permission. Florence\u2019s wrath was brewing, waiting for us to arrive. We thought!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By another stroke of luck, we made it home before Florence and kept silent. The coast was clear\u2014until Sunday. At children\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now, Florence wasn\u2019t born yesterday. As Barbie Doll recounted the events, Florence stood there, smiling politely, apologising profusely for her children\u2019s \u201cunruly behaviour.\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the way home, Florence was unusually pleasant. She even stopped at Mr Biggs and bought us our favourite snacks. This was Florence\u2014buying us meat pie<\/em> and charcoal grilled chicken.<\/em> We knew it was a trap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Before I descend on you, examine your conscience one last time and confess everything you did. Now.”<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

My brother, knowing this was it\u2014we could meet with our creator today\u2014turned on me immediately. \u201cIt was her who adamantly left the house, I went to retrieve her!\u201d<\/em> he blurted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I gasped, pointing at him. \u201cMe?! 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!\u201d<\/em> At that moment, even the bourgeoisie<\/em> children weren\u2019t safe either. I tried to deflect, realising I had joined the \u201cno permission\u201d issue with the \u201cruination\u201d issue together, but it was too late\u2014the cat was already out of the bag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Florence\u2019s eyes narrowed. She held up her hand. \u201cStop. Are you now trying to bring in other people? I don\u2019t 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\u2019t 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.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Those words were unmistakable\u2014like 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We admitted everything\u2014sneaking out, the balloons, the vase, the rug, the lies, and even our plans to cover for the bourgeoisie<\/em> 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The punishment, I tell you, remains classified. But let\u2019s just say even the bourgeoisie<\/em> children\u2014in their own house\u2014felt Florence\u2019s 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\u2019t keep friends? You\u2019d get collateral punishment from Florence the Thatcher.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019t just teaching us to examine our conscience\u2014she was baptising us in the art of radical accountability.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So, as I reflect on what Rita said on Monday, I couldn\u2019t help but laugh to myself. The tradition in my house of \u201cthink 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\u201d<\/em> is still, to me, the best art of reflection and truth-telling for every single day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Today, as I write this, I\u2019m 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Here\u2019s 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\u2019s greatest truths.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I am itching to hear: what was your mother\u2019s favourite line to get you to speak the truth<\/strong>? If you\u2019re Nigerian, the word \u201cdescend<\/strong>\u201d is definitely part of it somewhere!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yours Truly,
The Penitent Nigerian<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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By the time Florence got the full story at church\u2014thanks to Barbie Doll\u2014her mental ledger of our offences was flipping through pages like a litany on an invisible scroll.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[12],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1143","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-dear-diary"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/oluabikoye.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1143","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/oluabikoye.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/oluabikoye.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/oluabikoye.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/oluabikoye.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1143"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/oluabikoye.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1143\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1150,"href":"https:\/\/oluabikoye.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1143\/revisions\/1150"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/oluabikoye.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1143"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/oluabikoye.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1143"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/oluabikoye.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1143"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}