The year was 1996.
While the trade winds of Onitsha swirled outside, a different kind of atmosphere was brewing within the hallowed walls of St. Mary’s Catholic Church, Inland Town. It was Mandy Thursday, and I was just a primary school student about to touch the hem of the Divine.
We stood in a shimmering line—a sea of starch-stiffened white. There is a specific kind of purity found only in a child’s First Holy Communion. We weren’t just students anymore; we were a battalion of little saints. I remember the quiet rustle of our clothes, the smell of lavender and pressed cotton, and the feeling that for the first time in my life, I was part of something eternal.
As we began the procession toward the Altar, the world outside St. Mary’s ceased to exist. Every step on those cool tiles felt like a climb toward Heaven. Our small hands were folded in prayer, our eyes wide with a mix of awe and holy terror. We were walking toward the "Real Presence," and the gravity of it made the air feel thick with grace.
Then, the choir began. They didn’t just sing; they poured out soulful, Igbo liturgical hymns that pierced the soul. The harmonies rose to the vaulted ceilings of Inland Town, mingling with the heavy scent of frankincense. It was a sound that could melt the hardest heart—angelic, haunting, and deeply grounded in our roots.
When the Host finally touched my tongue, a profound stillness settled over me. The chaos of the city, the noise of the schoolyard—it all faded.
As the shadows lengthened over the Niger that evening, I carried home a memory that would never dim. 1996 at St. Mary’s wasn’t just a ceremony; it was the moment my heart found its rhythm.
Some nights are written in ink, but this one was written in light. 🕯️✨
#FirstHolyCommunion