My legs moved in a pace faster that was faster than my mind. Before one dropped to the ground the other moved.

Two guys had already stopped me on the road to ask why I was walking like a soldier going to war and I ignored them as fast as I walked.

It was 6;45pm and I was late for choir practice on a Friday. This was one of the sins the Choir master found unforgivable. I was a lead soprano and taking the psalm on Sunday.

Completely unforgivable!

I stepped into the church panting as an aftermath of half walking and half running to meet with time. I met with time and a nightmarish scene.

Lying on the floor close to the rail was a baby with the mother kneeling beside him or her. She was praying and crying and I stood still, confused and shocked.

Choristers were disorganized whispering to each other and my choir master was on the piano playing an off key note. The steps I took to the choir stand were unsure, weak, confused, dark steps I didn't know I had.

"Angela what happened?" I asked sitting and dropping my file. Today I couldn't be bothered about Angela's horrible mouth odour even though sometimes I thought it would take the life out of me.

She was putting on a red skirt and blue shirt. Her scarf so small I wondered why she bothered wearing one. "Why is the baby on the floor?" I added.

"He's dead." She spoke silently like she was uttering a blasphemous word, a forbidden word, death.

"If he's dead then why is he here. Let him be buried that's what they do to the dead. They. Bury. Them." I said blankly.

I knew I sounded insensitive even by my own judgment, even to my own ears but I was angry. Angry that a little child should die. A child that has committed no wrong, no sin.

I felt guilty, guilty for being alive despite my sins.

"Of course." I smiled.

I wanted to ask her if she believed in all she had said. If she honestly believed the child would open his eyes once more but I dared not or I be be labelled a sinner, doubting Thomas, atheist, possessed and any other name they label those who actually thought, those who sort answers.

When my eyes met the mother's, hers was filled with so much sadness and faith it hid her doubt. But I knew it was there, it always is.

It took the Choirmaster about 20 minutes to organize the choir and to think of an alternative place for us to rehearse. As we trooped out of the church, the wailing of the mother pierced through my heart like a fiery finger clutching my heart.

Still yet, a sinister part of me was happy that I wasn't late for rehearsals after all.