Boys must be Boys!

Dear God,

You know how sometimes a story starts with laughter, and halfway through, you realize the joke is on you? Ehen. That was me the day my Adam and I decided to compare our village childhood rascality.

We were lounging by the pool, peeling oranges and peeling back memories, he from Warri, me from a quieter village where the biggest excitement was when my grandma’s goat gave birth to triplets. But Father Lord, by the time my Adam finished sharing his tales, I quietly folded my arms, tucked in my pride, and handed him the golden trophy of childhood craziness.

I said, “What?!” “That’s not ‘boys will be boys’, that’s ‘boys must be sea spirits.’”

He smiled with that full-chest confidence Warri boys carry like ID cards.
You see, my Adam grew up by the waterside. And you know Warri already comes with cruise, but add ocean breeze, and you get premium grade Kasala. Swimming, he said, was not recreation, it was survival. And him? He was more fish than child. If dolphins had an Olympic team, my Adam would’ve been their team captain.

But it was when he brought up the Igbe worshippers that I nearly choked on my orange.
“Those people,” he said, “were… committed. Maybe clueless. But committed? 100 over 10.”

According to him, these sea god worshippers did not joke. Their rituals ran like light bills—constant and confusing. Morning, afternoon, midnight (you’d think the gods ran a 24-hour Uber Eats for sacrifices).

They’d march to the riverbank with seriousness that could wake a sleeping lion. Dressed in full white, like laundry day in heaven. Some would add a little red head tie—spiritual color-blocking. They called it “blessed attire,” creating “divine confusion.”

But the real drama was in the sacrifices. Cockerels? Present.
Loaves of bread? Present. Sardines and biscuits? Present.
And soaps? My Lord, soaps! As if the spirits were tired of people’s lies and needed a hot spiritual bath.

My Lord, let me pause here and ask: what in the name of holy absurdity is a marine spirit doing with Dettol?

Dad, stop laughing.

And they bring these things with serious solemn faces. No blinking. Because in their minds, every offering vanished meant their prayers were answered.

But guess who really collected it? My Adam and his gang of spiritual Navy SEALs.

As soon as the worshippers turned their backs and said their final “Amen,” these boys’ dove into the river like hungry prophets on a mission. They retrieved the bread, crackers, cock, sardines—even the plastic bags if they were reusable. No offering left behind. They surfaced like triumphant warriors and shared the loot like communion.

Sometimes, they had to fight the fish for it. Yes, fish! One time, a fat fish chased my Adam’s friend underwater to steal the bread he had retrieved. The boys had to organize a rescue mission like marine Avengers. One held the fish, another retrieved the bread, and a third was probably humming the Mission Impossible theme underwater.

(Dad, you are laughing?)

When I asked my Adam, “Weren’t you afraid of the gods?”
He said, “Which gods? We ate the sacrifices, jari. The fish ate the crumbs. The gods ate nothing. Everything else was just deception.”

God I couldn’t stop laughing too. And it hit me.

There, in all the laughter, was a sobering truth. The people went home convinced the gods had accepted their offering. But the only spirits involved were boys with fast legs tommies and fish with big appetites.

That experience cured my Adam of idolatry. Permanently.

Even years later, when we waited six years for a child, and desperate voices offered strange solutions, my Adam stood his ground. “If the child is not from God, I don’t want it,” he said. And I believed him because the man had once dined where “gods” were meant to feast.

You see, my Lord, people can be so quick to believe what looks divine. They wrap foolishness in ritual, sprinkle chants over it, and call it sacred. But if you look closely, behind many idols stands a man holding the strings like a puppeteer. Why? Because it’s easier to control people with fear than to lead them with truth.

What amazes me, Lord, is how and why people let themselves be lead with such blatant deception? The signs are there, aways there. If someone is constantly asking for rams, rice, and your life savings in the name of pleasing a “god,” ask yourself: who benefits? According to my uncle Peter, “They sell lies as rituals, and dine while you fast.”

If the whole purpose of the ritual is to keep you trembling instead of peacefully trusting, then run! God is not in the business of emotional blackmail.
Anything that needs dark rooms, red cloth, and strange rules, you had better shine your eyes. God is light. Anything done in darkness smells like deception.

If a ritual promises to make you rich while your heart is still poor in integrity and lack honest hard work, beware and be careful. You need to first of all find out how many rich men and women exist in the ritualist’s family. If he can “make you rich,” why is he still living in a house with leaking roof? I don’t get it; he doesn’t like money?
If the “gods” always seem to demand more, punish more, and forgive less—hmm, check who’s pulling the strings. Believe me, idols are handcrafted agents of manipulation; they serve whoever built them. Simple. Please quote me and my Adam!

But Dad, sometimes I look at you and shake my head. Whatever happened to all the fire and brimstone you used to inflict on those nations that oppress Israel? What happened to the plagues that tormented the Egyptians? How is it that in this day and time when atrocities are riding over themselves in shameless disregard, you are silent? Have you lost your fire, fire touch?

How is it that these chief priests or the spiritual reps ask people to submit their salary, their goats, their toothpaste, and everything possible?  “Who dey chop the sacrifice, really?”

No, Lord, I’m not trying to be cheeky, I just have questions.

Do you eat sardine? Do you need to brush your teeth? What part of the goat meat do you prefer? Which part of that salary do you need to pay rent with? Do you need us to buy you Lux or Premier soap? Because if not, who exactly is benefiting from these rituals?

My Adam and his boys, abi? Oh, I forgot the fishes!

(Stop laughing now, I am serious!)

Okay. Okay. I’ll stop now.
But next time someone brings red cloth and biscuits to a riverbank, just smile and remember my Adam and his underwater adventures. And trust me, next time, I won’t dare ask a Warri boy what he did as a child, for national peace.

This is your daughter, (It’s okay, keep laughing), I am checking in.