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Thy rod, thy staff, thy comfort
Omikemi Bryan conjures the spirit and ritual of Black Atlantic spirituality
IT STARTED SOMETIME IN THE MID-1980s. My grandmother and I were on our knees, forehead grease pressed like a seal into the bedsheet. Nothing passed her lips but prayer: thy rod, thy staff, they comfort me.
This was the woman who gifted me with a tenacious spirituality and belief in the unseen. She was the daughter of Agatha, a Windrush auxiliary nurse who lived on the night shift, who never had it but always found it to give, prescribing psalms like balm for whatever ailed you.
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