“Holy Ghost” by Adedayo Agarau

This is what I will tell you about a bullet: it does not respect the spirit of God. Before we mounted the podium in our robes this morning, the choir leader asked us to invite God into our midst. We were gathered in a small, intimate circle at the back of the church, holding hands, singing, Father we are here again, holy ghost, come and take control. I had just rededicated my life to Christ, and the spirit touched me anew. Holy ghost come—and he did come, touched my shoulder like the woman with the issue of blood, and ahh, the lyrics drizzled out of my mouth with the intensity of a canoe at sea, riding the winds—and take control—we said amen. We went back into the auditorium because service had begun, and the pastor had already cued us in. We are here again, we are here again, father—we thought the first sound of the gun was a speaker re-attempting to gain clarity, then soon, the white chairs began to fly, and the congregation was scattered like wounded birds attempting to fly, or like rain falling on aluminum roofs, splashing on the ground. As I lunged for the window, leaned into the frame, and escaped, I felt a small thing—like a dart—drill into the back of my neck, escaping with the spirit I had called into myself earlier. It was fast, too fast. But as fast as it was, not fast as the holy ghost escaping the dead body of the pianist holding a note with the frame of his head, bloodied, almost split. It was a minor note. I think C#.  Holy ghost, come and—take this body.