Today before the mass, seeing the little altar boys today in church instantly took me back to when I was just like them. We were popularly called "Mass Servers," although our old catechist (God rest his soul) had his own version. He always shouted, "Bia umuaka manserver!" mixing up "Mass" with "Man."
In his defense, he probably thought it made sense. After all, only men could serve at mass back then, right? If he were alive today, seeing girls in cassocks, I swear the man would rend his purple cassock into shreds. He’d likely say, "Over my dead body will women serve mass!" Well, he’s dead now, so I guess he got his wish in a way.
I remember those days at St. Anthony’s Catholic Church, Onitsha, so vividly—the scent of incense, the echo of Igbo hymns, and the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows. As an altar boy, I’d wear my cassock and surplice, feeling like a small priest-in-training, gliding around the altar as though the weight of the mass rested on my tiny shoulders. Our instructor always said we had to move with "proper decorum."
Of course, under that solemn exterior, we were just young boys, always curious, mischievous and prone to getting into trouble.
One of our favorite tricks? Pilfering the host and sneaking sips of the mass wine. The real action happened during weekday evening masses, where only a few people showed up.
You see, Onitsha is full of businessmen, and no one leaves their shop at that crucial evening hour. So, the job of serving these low-attendance masses fell to us, the younger altar boys. The seniors, of course, only showed up for the packed Sunday masses, where there were more eyes and fewer opportunities for mischief.
It was during one of those quiet evening masses that I got into my most memorable scrape. Ekene, my best friend and partner-in-crime, was supposed to serve with me, but he hadn’t shown up yet. So, I was in the sacristy alone, preparing everything.
The sign that read "SILENT ZONE" stared down at me from all four corners of the room, but let’s be honest, we never followed that rule.
As I poured the wine into the small glass bottles we used for mass, a drop spilled on my fingers. Instinctively, I licked it off. It was hot, but nice—sweeter than I expected. And that’s when the devilish idea hit me. Before I knew it, I had the bottle tipped toward my mouth, pretending to "clean" the spout. But instead of just a lick, I jerked my hand a bit too much, and a good gulp of the wine slid down my throat. My chest burned, but there was this sudden, warm euphoria. For the first time in my life, I was tipsy—and I loved it.
I panicked, though. I knew the smell would give me away, so I downed some water quickly and wiped the floor where a few drops had splashed.
Still, I could feel the slight buzz as I served the rest of the mass. I couldn’t stop smiling, and the old woman’s singing who serves as a lone choir every evening mass sounded much more heavenly than usual.
After mass, I couldn’t wait to tell Ekene what had happened. We walked home together, and I described the burning feeling in my chest and how light my head felt. He listened calmly, and then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he said, "Have you tried eating the host with the wine together? It’s even better."
I was shocked. Ekene? The same Ekene who was always praised for being such a devoted mass server? That’s when I realized why he never missed an evening mass. It wasn’t the liturgy or the prayers that drew him—it was the host and wine! The boy had been living the high life at the altar, right under the priest’s nose, and I never suspected a thing.
Looking back now, I realize that those moments weren’t just about being naughty. There was something deeper—something innocent in our curiosity.
We were handling things we didn’t fully understand at the time, sacred symbols that meant far more than we knew.
But in our own way, we respected them, even if we didn’t always show it. The mass, the wine, the rituals—they were all part of something bigger, something that anchored us to the community, to our faith, and to each other.
Now, as an adult, I can laugh at the memories. The sweetness of the mass wine, the thrill of getting away with something forbidden, the way we tried to balance reverence with the playfulness of youth.
But more than anything, I remember the feeling of belonging—to the church, to the people, and to that time in my life when everything seemed full of wonder and possibility. Those were days of innocence, and even in our mischief, there was a kind of purity to it all.
