Letters- Sunday Palava.

The strike. What is it doing to you? This is a sequel to Letters to Subola.

Ola, I want to run away. My return home was, at first, like the return of a warrior who had come back home briefly to see his family. Now, I'm like a soldier who is short on a supply of ammunition. I'm tired.

Today, I woke up late - service starts at 8 am. It was chilly, and it felt like winter in my room. I didn't want to go to church, I tell you, but my mom would never let that happen. I miss the short fellowship of the brethren in school. It was indeed always a great time.

Today's lady who took the Praise and Worship session had too much makeup on, and I could not almost recognize her. My mom likes to sit in the second row on the first sit during church service, but today someone had beaten her to it, and it caused a scruffle; Ola, it wasn't funny. My Mom refused to sit in another place, and the person who sat there refused to stand up for her. My Mom said the woman was wicked and had prayed that she would come late. Every effort of the ushers to curtail the problem was futile, and eventually, my Mom said she wouldn't allow the devil to take control of her life, so she sat with the pastor today. I was embarrassed. Ola, isn't the devil now dressed in a wrapper?

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