Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Page B

failed coup, while the traders who lived downstairs were crying because the coup would have saved Nigeria and market women would have been given cabinet positions, her mother saw another vision. This time, the angel appeared in her bedroom, above the wardrobe, and told her to leave Miracle Spring and join Guiding Assembly. Halfway through the first service Ifemelu attended with her mother, in a marble-floored convention hall, surrounded by perfumed people and the ricochet of rich voices, Ifemelu looked at her mother and saw that she was crying and laughing at the same time. In this church of surging hope, of thumping and clapping, where Ifemelu imagined a swirl of affluent angels above, her mother’s spirit had found a home. It was a church full of the newly wealthy; her mother’s small car, in the parking lot, was the oldest, with its dull paint and many scratches. If she worshipped with the prosperous, she said, then God would bless her as He had blessed them. She began to wear jewelry again, to drink her Guinness stout; she fasted only once a week and often said “
My
God tells me” and “My Bible says,” as though other people’s were not just different but misguided. Her response to a “Good morning” or a “Good afternoon” was a cheerful “God bless you!” Her God became genial and did not mind being commanded. Every morning, she woke the household upfor prayers, and they would kneel on the scratchy carpet of the living room, singing, clapping, covering the day ahead with the blood of Jesus, and her mother’s words would pierce the stillness of dawn: “God, my heavenly father, I command you to fill this day with blessings and prove to me that you are God! Lord, I am waiting on you for my prosperity! Do not let the evil one win, do not let my enemies triumph over me!” Ifemelu’s father once said the prayers were delusional battles with imaginary traducers, yet he insisted that Ifemelu always wake up early to pray. “It keeps your mother happy,” he told her.
    In church, at testimony time, her mother was first to hurry to the altar. “I had catarrh this morning,” she would start. “But as Pastor Gideon started to pray, it cleared. Now it is gone. Praise God!” The congregation would shout “Alleluia!” and other testimonies would follow.
I did not study because I was sick and yet I passed my exams with flying colors! I had malaria and prayed over it and was cured! My cough disappeared as Pastor started praying!
But always her mother went first, gliding and smiling, enclosed in salvation’s glow. Later in the service, when Pastor Gideon would leap out in his sharp-shouldered suit and pointy shoes, and say, “Our God is not a poor God, amen? It is our portion to prosper, amen?” Ifemelu’s mother would raise her arm high, heavenward, as she said, “Amen, Father Lord, amen.”
    Ifemelu did not think that God had given Pastor Gideon the big house and all those cars, he had of course bought them with money from the three collections at each service, and she did not think that God would do for all as He had done for Pastor Gideon, because it was impossible, but she liked that her mother ate regularly now. The warmth in her mother’s eyes was back, and there was a new joy in her bearing, and she once again lingered at the dining table with her father after meals, and sang loudly while taking a bath. Her new church absorbed her but did not destroy her. It made her predictable and easy to lie to. “I am going to Bible study” and “I am going to Fellowship” were the easiest ways for Ifemelu to go out unquestioned during her teenage years. Ifemelu was uninterested in church, indifferent about making any religious effort, perhaps because her mother already made so much. Yet her mother’s faith comforted her; it was, in her mind, a white cloud that moved benignly above her as she moved. Until The General came into their lives.

    EVERY MORNING , Ifemelu’s mother prayed for The General. She