Smiles might just mean nothing. That’s what I concluded when I last spoke to her. You see we spoke often, weekly I suppose. We would often catch up and just share what was going on. So I suppose I knew her well enough to know when she was lying. The smile on her face was a mirage of what was really going on. Those who never knew her assumed she was perfectly fine. I mean she was smiling, that’s a good enough reason to believe she was okay right?
I watched her every Sunday. She walked into church serious-faced; fast-paced, tiny quick steps. As always she was dressed elegantly clutching her bag to her side; her eyebrows well-brushed to the wanted shape, lip gloss perfectly done, her hair crown-perfect, no strand out of place. Simple elegance, that is what she oozed with every step she took, every word she spoke. She usually sat at the back, probably for the want of oxygen or just personal space, no one knew for sure. She exchanged the usual pleasantries with the congregants who tagged themselves as ‘her friends’. Today was not one of those days she sat there though. Today was the day she led the children of God in worship. She made her way to the front of the church and joined the rest of the team she was ministering with. Quickly they made a circle and linked arms, heads bowed they prayed for the service ahead. They committed themselves to Christ and asked Him to take charge and do with them as He pleased. After they quickly said amen they got on the pulpit and took their places ready to sing their lungs out. I kept my eyes transfixed on her. Her face was stern yet smiley. There was something about her that no one else seemed to notice but I saw through the wall she built up. She made it high and thick but I never missed to see through it. We sailed through the fast songs. She did the usual, danced, sang, and smiled; she stuck to the happy script. It was the slow songs I was waiting for. These are the moments I used to see if I was right or right about what she was going through. As always she kept a blank stare towards the back. After a while her eyes shut tight, a grimace on her face, the hands that were initially clutched to her side slowly came up and stretched out in worship. It was beautiful to watch her turn to her Lord. It was humbling to see a lady of her class lain herself at the feet of her Jesus. But what people never saw behind that passion for Jesus were the flames of pain she endured. See she was human, like we all are. She faced the same things every Mary, Jane and Harry did. Maybe she even had it tougher, who knew. She bowed her head to pray; eyes shut fast, hands tightly clenched next to her chest. As the music faded she regained composure (not that she had lost it per se), her eyes fluttered open as her hands fell to her side. Behind the mask of a composed expression were her eyes that showed the battle brewing. Despite the smile on her face, I could tell that her heart dripped tears no eyes knew of, her mind ran races no Olympian could keep up with. She was at her tethers end and as always no one saw it. Besides everyone was too busy applauding the great job done to notice that she, purportedly the strongest of them all, was internally drowning in her own tears.
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