When the Prayers Hurt

When the Prayers Hurt

 

On Sundays, the church bells in Owerri rang like they always did —

loud, holy, and heavy.

 

Ifechi walked through the doors with his head low.

He came not to pray, but to question.

Every step echoed the pain of being judged for simply existing.

 

Inside, voices rose in hymns about forgiveness,

but no one offered it to him.

Their eyes were sharp, their words gentle but cold.

 

He knelt, not because he felt worthy,

but because his heart was too tired to stand.

 

“God,” he whispered,

“if You see me… please, don’t let me hate myself.”

 

The candles flickered — maybe from the wind,

maybe from the weight of his tears.

 

He thought of the laws, the punishments,

the way people used faith to cage others instead of freeing them.

He wondered if heaven had room for people like him.

 

But then, deep inside, a voice — quiet but real — answered:

 

“You are not a curse.

You are a survivor.”

 

And for the first time in a long while,

Ifechi lifted his head and looked toward the light —

not for forgiveness,

but for peace.

Done