Ahu na Obara nke Kristi

Growing up cradle Catholic in Enugu, Nigeria, I received my first Communion as a child. The preparatory process was rigorous, spanning over a year or two with catechism lessons divided into stages akin to school terms. Passing each stage was compulsory  before progressing to the next, culminating in the final exam that marked the readiness for first oCmmunion. These exams were long and arduous, and we prepared for them much like we would for our school tests. Our grades were even recorded on report cards signed by the catechist, which, if we did well,  we proudly brought home to our parents. I excelled in cramming and passed with ease.

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Though I remember little of the actual day of my first Communion, I recall feeling excitement, though perhaps more for completing a milestone than fully grasping the sacrament's significance. It was important only because I had been told that it was. I wanted it only because it was expected of me to want it. Intellectually, I understood that the Eucharist was the Body and Blood of Christ (ahu na obara nke Kristi), but it remained abstract for many years. The consecration during Mass was merely a ritual, welcomed mainly because it signaled the nearing end of often long, tedious masses, and we could go home for a lunch of rice and stew or jollof. You received communion because now that you could, you ought to. If there were people in your catechism class who had failed, there was a particular joy in getting up smugly to stand in line for the Eucharist while they sat and watched (or fumed). Besides, at a time when we went to church with our parents, it was unthinkable not to join them once they queued for communion.  At the age when young people found ways to rebel and assert their independence, a schoolmate of mine told of  how she sat through communion one Sunday at mass “just because,” and her mother pestered her to confess  the “grave sin” she’d committed that had kept her away, and might even have threatened her with punishment. It was the last time she ever considered skipping communion. It was easier, she said, to receive communion, than to deal with her mother’s embarrassing suspicions and questions.  

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Intellectually, I understood that the Eucharist was the Body and Blood of Christ (ahu na obara nke Kristi), but it remained abstract for many years.

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However, my perception of the Eucharist began to shift in my college years when my mother shared a story she had heard from someone else: during Mass, a Host fell from someone's tongue onto the floor, miraculously transforming into visible flesh that bled. For the first time, I realized that what happened during consecration was turning real bread into real flesh, and real wine into real blood. It wasn’t a matter of belief because I had always believed it. If anyone had asked me before then if I believed that in communion, we received the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity of Christ, I’d have answered as affirmatively as if I’d been asked whether or not I believed in God. However, belief and comprehension are two distinct creatures. The latter often requires something tangible (for want of a better word) to anchor abstract concepts and facilitate understanding. I don’t know if the Eucharistic miracle my mother told us of was ever substantiated. It doesn’t sound like any of the Eucharistic miracles I have read about but her story was deeply impactful. It was the tangible “object” I needed to understand what I had learned in catechism, had heard at every Mass but had never really, truly comprehended—that "This is my Body (and) This is my Blood."  

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Today, during the consecration, I envision Christ crucified, His blood flowing, His flesh sacrificed for my sins and those of the world.

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Today, during the consecration, I envision Christ crucified, His blood flowing, His flesh sacrificed for my sins and those of the world. When I receive communion now, I truly believe I am partaking in His flesh and blood. This profound realization has transformed my understanding and relationship with the Eucharist. I see the consecration for what it is. I try to be wholly present in His presence. The Host on my tongue, no matter how tiny the sliver, has a palpable weight. It feels like sustenance. I look forward to receiving Him, and on days when I manage to make Him my first meal of the day, I consider myself exceptionally blessed.​