My first act of righteousness happened amongst the innocent filth of a playground. I can hardly remember much except from the moment I handed the child his broken pencil, taped together. His weeping came to an end with the kindness I had shown him, humanity stitching up the wounds of a much more vicious characteristic. He smiled at me and that was enough.

My second took place amongst witnesses. With age I had became aggressive, necessary to survive in this savage garden. The ball was taken from me and in the heat of the moment, I shoved the criminal to the floor. He was only a boy, he cried and I helped him up with a lingering sense of guilt. The crowd didn’t see my part in the situation, only the kind smile I gave when I offered him my hand. Dad watched from the crowd and when I got home he congratulated me for being so good. He told me ‘I should feel proud of myself’. I did.

Over the years my acts of righteousness took shape of the words that left my mouth. As my love for God grew, I strived to preach his word from my serpent tongue. I judged those who did wrong, condemned the ones who criticised others. I was proud of my work, all the good I had done in the name of the Lord. I was unhappy.

One night I prayed and asked why I still felt so

unhappy. With no answer, I took my troubled mind to bed and found myself in a dream state. In this dream I saw me, through my very own eyes. I saw as I judged others with such intensity, I helped others only to benefit myself. The road to Heaven was thin and every act of mine was an attempt to slim myself, carve off all the bad parts of me I refused to recognise. It was revealed to me then that with the pride I felt, all righteousness was deemed void. It couldn’t exist in a world where I loved myself more than others. This was the revelation. I was not.