My earliest memories are filled with the rhythm of prayers. Morning prayers before sunrise, evening devotions after dinner, and sometimes midnight prayers when my mother felt the devil was particularly restless. I can still hear her voice trembling with passion as she cried out to God, "Father, don't let my children miss heaven. Father, save them from the fire of hell."
Hellfire: that word burned deeper in my childhood than hunger ever did. We were told it was a lake of fire where sinners roasted like meat, and sometimes, in Sunday school, teachers painted it so graphically that I could almost smell the smoke. The irony was that even though we were children, innocent and clueless, we were already treated like potential candidates for hell.
"Don't lie, or you will go to hell."
"Don't look at a girl too much, or you will go to hell."
"Don't miss church, or you will go to hell."
I grew up thinking life was simply a rehearsal for escaping fire. Heaven was the prize dangled before us like a carrot, and hell was the whip that chased us. Nobody told us that life itself required a different kind of strength the courage to face hunger, the boldness to chase dreams, the bravery to take risks.
My parents, like most African parents, believed discipline and fear were the best tools for raising children. They didn't see that the world outside our small home was already a battlefield where bravery, not righteousness, wins. They believed that if they could plant holiness in us, we would prosper automatically, because "seek ye first the kingdom of God and all other things shall be added unto you."
But as I grew, I began to notice that "all other things" were not being added. In fact, it seemed the more righteous we tried to be, the poorer and hungrier we remained.
Our home was not rich. We were the average struggling family, surviving one day at a time. Yet, my parents gave more time to church activities than to financial planning. My father was a good man, faithful and obedient, but he was timid. He believed his reward was in heaven. My mother was prayerful, self-sacrificing, and endlessly hopeful. She too lived for heaven. And so, they raised me with the same mindset: don't fight too hard for this world, because the real reward is in the next.
Looking back now, I see how damaging that mindset was. Because life, as I later discovered, doesn't wait for heaven to reward you. Life gives to those who demand, those who hustle, those who take it by force.
At school, I noticed the difference between us and other children. The kids who had confident, daring parents lived better lives. They weren't necessarily more righteous, but they had more opportunities. Their parents pushed them to be bold, to explore, to challenge life. My parents pushed me to be holy, to pray, to avoid sin.
As a boy, I learned to shrink my desires. When I wanted to play football, I was told it was worldly. When I wanted to join debates, I was told to avoid pride. When I admired bold classmates, I was told to focus on Christ.
Inside me, curiosity battled with fear. A part of me wanted to question, to test, to taste life. But a louder part, trained by sermons and Sunday school, warned me that hellfire was waiting for anyone who strayed too far.
So, I became the righteous child the one who kept quiet, obeyed rules, went to church, avoided trouble. People praised me. Teachers loved me. Pastors smiled at me. My parents proudly said, "He will make heaven."
But deep inside, I was not happy. I was not brave. And life, I would later discover, doesn't reward those who only aim for heaven while ignoring the battles of earth.