Stolen Sins In the heart of Oduduwa Kingdom stood the parish of St. Augustine’s, a grand Catholic church built with red bricks and a bell so loud that even goats bleated and chickens scattered whenever it rang. Its towers leaned a little from age, its wooden pews creaked under the weight of generations, and its compound was forever buzzing with life. The people of Oduduwa Kingdom loved their parish. For them, it was not only a place of prayer but a stage for their lives: baptisms, weddings, burials, and every small drama in between. Every Sunday morning, the parish transformed into a festival ground. Women tied gele that stood taller than termite mounds, their wrappers shimmering in the sun like rainbow fish. Men appeared in flowing agbadas, slippers shining as though they had been polished with palm oil. The children wore white and blue uniforms, so heavily starched that if you placed them on the ground, the clothes might just stand up without help. It was a sight that made even passersby pause to marvel. At the center of it all was Reverend Father Timo, the parish priest. A round-faced man with laughter lines etched deeply into his cheeks, Father Timo was as much loved for his kindness as he was for his humor. He believed that God was not only to be feared but also to be enjoyed, and his sermons often carried the double gift of truth and chuckles. But there was one group in his parish that gave him perpetual headaches: the children. Father Timo adored the children, truly. He called them “the hope of the Church.” But he also knew that when it came to confession, these little ones were hopeless. Time after time, he had knelt in the dark confessional, waiting for serious sins, only to hear a tiny voice declare, “Father, I think I ate too much garri.” Or, “Father, my sin is that I killed a mosquito in class.” Some even said, “Father, I don’t know o. I will come back next week.” After months of enduring these comical confessions, Father Timo decided enough was enough. One Sunday, after Mass, he stood before the children and raised his hands dramatically. The congregation grew quiet, curious about what new wisdom would drop from his lips. “Children of God!” he boomed. “From today, no more forgetting sins. No more telling me mosquito stories every week. You must write down your sins. Yes! Write them down on paper, like shopping list. Then, when it is your turn in the confessional, you will read them out. No more excuses!” The announcement spread through the parish like wildfire. Parents chuckled, secretly relieved that maybe their children would now be more truthful. The children buzzed with excitement, whispering about how they would make their sin lists. Some vowed to exaggerate their wrongdoings so Father would think they were very serious Christians. Others planned to decorate their lists with drawings. The parish had never seen such excitement about confession. Among the children was a boy named Obinna. Obinna was seven years old, and if trouble had a human form, it would look exactly like him. He was small in size but restless like a goat that had escaped a tether. He was forever running, climbing trees, chasing chickens, or inventing mischief that nobody had thought of before. His mother, Mama Obinna, often sighed and declared, “This boy will be the end of me.” His elder sister, Ada, called him “the kingdom’s headache.” Yet, despite all his antics, Obinna had a bright smile that melted anger quickly. It was almost impossible to stay mad at him for long. When Father Timo announced the new rule, Obinna’s eyes lit up. He took it as a personal mission. The next Saturday evening, after everyone had eaten, Obinna sat at his father’s wooden table with a sheet of paper. He chewed the end of a pencil and began to write. “I stole sugar from Mama’s kitchen.
I lied that I did not eat the sugar.
I pushed Chukwudi during football.
I refused to wash plates when Mama asked me.
I quarreled with my sister, Ada.
I whistled during night prayer.” He read the list aloud to himself, nodding in satisfaction. “Yes, these are strong sins,” he thought. “Father will be impressed.” He folded the paper neatly and slipped it inside the Sunday bulletin for safekeeping. But his sister Ada, who had been watching him, giggled. “Obinna, you even confessed that you whistled during prayer? That one is not sin. It is talent.” “Keep quiet!” Obinna snapped. “You don’t know anything. Father will clap for me.” He tucked the bulletin under his pillow and slept with a smile, proud of his holy preparation. The following morning, St. Augustine’s was more crowded than usual. It was confession Sunday, and the children lined up like little soldiers, each clutching a folded piece of paper. The air was filled with nervous whispers and occasional laughter as they peeked at one another’s lists. Some children had written only two sins, others had filled entire pages, and a few were still scribbling furiously on the spot. Obinna stood proudly in line, his folded bulletin pressed under his armpit. He felt ready to make history. But halfway through the line, calamity struck. The beans and pap Mama had fed him that morning began to protest inside his stomach, rumbling like a thunderstorm. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to resist, but nature was not a patient visitor. It was calling, and not in a whisper. “Chai,” Obinna muttered under his breath. “I must go to the toilet.” Glancing around, he saw nobody paying attention. Quickly, he placed his bulletin on the pew beside him and dashed toward the restroom at the back of the church. His plan was simple: finish his business, return swiftly, and continue his holy duty. But destiny had other plans. At that very moment, Sylvia, a girl of twelve, had just finished her own confession. Sylvia was known in the parish as a devout child, always serious, always eager to please. Father Timo had asked her to kneel and pray with a bulletin as penance. Looking around, Sylvia spotted a folded bulletin lying neatly on a pew, as though waiting for her. Without hesitation, she picked it up, clutched it to her chest, and knelt down to pray. Meanwhile, Obinna emerged from the restroom, feeling much lighter and ready to resume his sacred mission. He hurried back to his place in line—only to freeze in horror. The bulletin was gone. His eyes widened. He checked the pew. Nothing. He bent down and looked under it. Only dust and a dead cockroach. He turned left, then right. Nothing! His heart pounded. His sins—his precious, carefully written sins—had vanished. Panic surged through his little body. He imagined someone reading them aloud. What if the whole church found out he stole sugar? What if Mama saw it? He pictured her chasing him with a pestle. No, this was disaster. His life was finished. Unable to contain himself, Obinna dashed forward and burst into the confessional where Father Timo was still listening to another child. “Father! Father!” he cried, his voice shaking. Father Timo jumped, startled. “Obinna! What is the meaning of this nonsense? Can you not wait for your turn?” But Obinna was already trembling, tears brimming in his eyes. “Father, somebody has stolen my sins!” The entire church fell into stunned silence. Even the organist paused mid-note, his fingers frozen on the keys. Heads turned, mouths dropped open. Had they heard correctly? Father Timo blinked. “Stolen your what?” “My sins, Father! My sins are gone!” Obinna wailed. “I wrote them down like you said. I put them inside bulletin. I went to toilet small. When I came back—gbam!—they disappeared!” The congregation erupted into muffled laughter. Catechists pressed their handkerchiefs to their mouths. Some of the women hid behind their gele to stifle giggles. Even the altar boys shook with suppressed laughter. Sylvia, still kneeling, looked down at the bulletin she held. She hesitated, then opened it slowly. Her eyes scanned the folded paper tucked inside. Her jaw dropped. “I stole sugar… lied I did not eat it… pushed Chukwudi… whistled during prayer…” Her cheeks burned. She looked up, horrified, realizing the truth. “Father,” she called softly, “I think… I think I am holding Obinna’s sins.” The church exploded with laughter. Some people clapped their hands. One old man laughed so hard he had to sit down on the steps. Father Timo pressed a hand to his forehead, caught between discipline and laughter. “Obinna, my child,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady, “you are the first person in this parish to report a case of stolen sins. Do you think sins are yam or plantain that someone can steal?” “But Father, it is true!” Obinna insisted. “If somebody carries my sins, what will I now confess? Does it mean I am holy?” The laughter doubled. Even the usually stern church wardens bent over, gasping for breath. Sylvia, mortified, rushed forward and returned the paper. Father Timo glanced at Obinna’s childish handwriting and shook his head, chuckling. “My boy, you will be remembered for generations. From today, you are Chief Sin-Loser of Oduduwa Kingdom.” The nickname stuck immediately. Outside the church, children began chanting: “Chief Sin-Loser! Chief Sin-Loser!” Obinna pouted, clutching his bulletin as though it were treasure. Mama Obinna, who had overheard everything, scolded him later at home. “So it is sugar theft that will carry your name into parish history? Foolish boy!” But the story refused to die. Every catechism class, every parish gathering, someone would bring it up. Obinna became famous in the most unusual way. Even elders laughed whenever they saw him. And soon, the joke spread: whenever anyone misplaced anything—be it slippers, food, or homework—the standard response was: “Careful! Before you shout like Obinna—Father, someone has stolen my sins!” The parish harvest that year sealed Obinna’s fate. During the bazaar, the youth staged a drama titled “The Boy Whose Sins Were Stolen.” The crowd laughed till their sides ached. Obinna, sitting in the audience, buried his face in his hands while his friends elbowed him. But secretly, he was proud. After all, not every boy could say his sins had been prayed over twice, once by himself and once by Sylvia. Father Timo, watching the play, reflected deeply. He realized that sometimes, God’s greatest gift was not solemnity but joy. The laughter that day taught the parish a lesson they would never forget: confession was not about papers, nor about who carried the sins, but about the heart. And Obinna, the restless, mischievous boy, had reminded them in the most unusual way. From then on, every child in Oduduwa Kingdom clutched their sin lists like treasure during confession. None dared to let go. And Obinna? He became a legend, a tale told with laughter for years to come. For in Oduduwa Kingdom, whenever a thing went missing, the people would shake their heads, chuckle, and say, “Ah, this one is another case of stolen sins.” By Ignatius Ariwodo