‘The Need Itself is not the call’
-
Charles
E. Hummel.
Emeka had not
been gone for more than ten minutes when he called him back and introduced a
friend of his who he said has been under the yoke of evil. His name was ododo
and he started with a request.
“I want my
unculu dead.” The word ‘Uncle’ was unduly stressed by the man.
He was jarred
by the specificity of the request and it was not a part of the rule book he had
adapted from the numerous videos he watched of Men of God sharing testimonies.
But he was desperate still. The joy of having increases by having and the
recent N6000 has inspired his desire to have at least one more zero added
behind the figure.
“Emmy been
dey tell me say you be Prophet Sharp Sharp.”
“To The Glory of God.” He answered sincerely. He had not known what happened. How had a snake bitten the man on the first day of his visit to Emeka. He had read somewhere that once a man’s mind is made up to succeed, the entire universe conspires to bring his ventures to fruition.
“Prophet…” The man, Ododo was still speaking on the phone but only half his mind was listening.
“Ododo.” He responded.
“I need deliverance from my oppressors, Pastor. Dem dey suck my blood.”
“Holy Ghost fire!” He shouted and the caller shouted ‘Amen’.
“My Bible tells me not to suffer the wicked to live and that is to say that the soul that sins shall die.”
“Yes Prophet.”
“See, I n eed to see you in this city on Tuesday and while coming buy candles and olive oil. Fast from now till that Tuesday, 6-12 and trust My God that answers by fire.”
“Ok My Prophet.”
“To The Glory of God.” He answered sincerely. He had not known what happened. How had a snake bitten the man on the first day of his visit to Emeka. He had read somewhere that once a man’s mind is made up to succeed, the entire universe conspires to bring his ventures to fruition.
“Prophet…” The man, Ododo was still speaking on the phone but only half his mind was listening.
“Ododo.” He responded.
“I need deliverance from my oppressors, Pastor. Dem dey suck my blood.”
“Holy Ghost fire!” He shouted and the caller shouted ‘Amen’.
“My Bible tells me not to suffer the wicked to live and that is to say that the soul that sins shall die.”
“Yes Prophet.”
“See, I n eed to see you in this city on Tuesday and while coming buy candles and olive oil. Fast from now till that Tuesday, 6-12 and trust My God that answers by fire.”
“Ok My Prophet.”
He is already calling him ‘My Prophet’ which is quite an
upgrade for someone who was just speaking with him for the first time in his
life. His easy trust spurred him towards the kill. He had learnt that
the best time to make such requests was when the man or woman has already trusted
him well enough to actually eat off the palm of his hands.
“While coming bring a very fitting sacrifice” He noticed the sudden tension in the conversation. It was unsurprising as he himself had lurched into that same lull during the sermon preceding offertories in the church. In those times, he never claimed to understand what the pastors were saying then as their words often sound as impressive and sweetened as that of a siren beckoning on sailors to their ruins. In those times, he often pinched himself to ensure that he had not been hypnotized, for he felt many had been.
The strategy
to get the purses and the wallets out from the pockets and bags of the
congregation was as elaborate as it was impressive. Offertory was often
sandwiched between testimonies and praises. The testimonies are often tilted
towards the benefits of generosity, of compliance to the words of the pastor
and the efficacy of faithful belonging to a particular denomination.
He was in a
church when a Pastor stated that there is quite a difference between the God of
His church and every other church. The God of his church answers prayers and is
a God of testimonies. There are so many other gods in different denominations
who sleep on prayers and never give returns of the investments of tithes and
offerings. His God rewards and his reward is always parallel to the amount of
tithes and donations and offerings one gives. God loves a cheerful giver, he
stated.
On that day,
amidst raucous praises and incendiary beats that lit up the tightly
air-conditioned church and got the entire congregation in a frenzy, he asked
that anyone who knew that he could give the Lord two million naira should line
up in front of the altar. To Ogbunta’s greatest dismay, and while he was still
wondering where his house rent was going to come from, four people came out
with their cheques and with the size of their bellies, he could easily guess
that there was a lot more where that came from. They were politicians with
their stolen funds or monies earned through contracts awarded to their proxy
organizations. Contracts for projects which they under-delivered or had never
delivered. However at the end of their donations, The Pastor invited them to
kneel down for blessings and afterwards assured them that wherever the money
had come from, His God will replace it a hundred fold.
When the
Pastor invited the people who could give the Lord one million naira, six people
lined up with slightly less protruding stomach. They wore well-sown and fitted
brocades and carefully cultivated looks of bankers and top-ranking civil
servants and well-to-do business men who visit the church once a week and needs
divine reinforcement for whatever underhanded practices they had employed to
get ahead in life.
The size of
the stomachs kept decreasing until the Pastor called on the ‘hoi poloi’, with
their hungry looks and tired demeanor. He insisted that all file out line from
their queues. These groups of people, those who could only give God N1000 and
below were in their droves, and unlike the contented men who sauntered slowly
and assuredly, these people danced ferociously as if they were trying to
convince themselves that the dance was what they are paying for. Beside him, a
dark short young man extracted a N1000 note from his pocket and closed his eyes
in prayers or silent contemplation. Slowly but surely, the line filed out until
it was their turn.
The usher
tapped at the first seat to Ogbunta’s left and the man stood up with a dance.
The contemplating man jerked awake from his contemplation and reached into the
breastpocket of black shirt. He withdrew a N100 note and thoroughly squeezed it
until disappeared into his fists. Ogbunta did not know where the N1000 naira
had gone but he himself was not interested in giving a dime to the church, as
far as he was concerned, the pastor’s would use it to buy the newest car or
complete the building project he had abandoned before he became a pastor.
Thus, on his
part, he just squeezed his fist tightly and filed out with the rest. He was too
tired to dance and did not see the point of dancing for a pastor who must be
subconsciously calculating just how much he had made for that Sunday, or the
kind of lace materials that could look good on his beautiful wife who always
wore heavy make up.
When, Ogbunta
stepped into the line and could see the excitement of people who are all too
willing to give their money to someone who was eminently better off, Ogbunta
danced to their stupidity, bending down and making stomping movements with his
legs. He danced so well that people looked at him and clapped. They must think
that he was squeezing a wad of naira notes in his tight fists, he thought. When
he reached the offertory box, he dipped his hand in and unsqueezed an empty
fist and restarted a very vibrant dance, the one imported from the gold coast and
called Azonto.
Therefore, he
was not surprised to learn, a week later that the pastor had bought a new
Toyota Venza and had converted his old rickety Peugeot to the church’s
property. It was in the Pastor’s testimony and no one thought more of it. In
that same church, after three collections, another was organized; a voluntary
collection for people who had been led by the spirit to fuel the Pastor’s new
car. A sizable number of the led have no cars and just outside the church, a
widow with a cancerous breast which she often bared for all to see was being
chased by the church’s security to an obscure part of the compound because she
constituted an eyesore. She begged for alms to feed her three small kids and
possibly cut off the cancer before it spread but could barely raise enough to
feed them and certainly could not go for a much needed surgery to cut off that
malignant cancer.
Speaking to
Ododo and noticing that uncomfortable pause in the conversation, Ogbunta could
feel a reflection of his own thoughts. He always did a double take whenever the
issues of generosity came up. He called it scam alert and Ododo’s scam alert
might have been triggered, so he needed to play down the finances. He will get
to it when Ododo become’s comfortable.
“Sacrificing
to God is optional” He quipped but he could not even convince himself.
“Ok Pastor.” Ododo replied, his hesitant tone underlining his doubts. He is yet to be convinced to make a purchase or to invest. He still has a man he wants dead and Ogbunta is yet to set a date of his demise.
“Ok Pastor.” Ododo replied, his hesitant tone underlining his doubts. He is yet to be convinced to make a purchase or to invest. He still has a man he wants dead and Ogbunta is yet to set a date of his demise.
“Are you
ready to fast and pray?”
“I am ready to die if that is what it takes to be free from that man.”
“I am ready to die if that is what it takes to be free from that man.”
At that
statement, Ogbunta queried the mentality of a man who was all too ready and
willing to die for something that he cannot pay for.
“Christ has
died so that we may live, so there may be no need to die”
“So when are we starting the prayers?” The palpable eagerness, devoid of confusion has returned in the man’s voice. He is once more sounding like a man that could pay for his salvation. So Ogbunta went in for the kill again.
“So when are we starting the prayers?” The palpable eagerness, devoid of confusion has returned in the man’s voice. He is once more sounding like a man that could pay for his salvation. So Ogbunta went in for the kill again.
“Buy two
Saint Michael’s candle, three bottles of olive oil and a white shirt.”
“Ok Prophet.”
“I want to prepare a holy oil made with a secret ingredient and imbued with the power of heavens. It is called The Oil of Judgment.”
“Yes Prophet.”
“It is an oil so efficacious that I am even scared to make it for my worst enemy.”
“Prophet of God…” Odedo’s excited voice interjected his “That oil is what my situation needs now.”
“My Dear, The Oil of Judgment does not come cheap. I will have to defer making it until the time when you have money.”
“Please Prophet…I need it right now, please.” His voice was insistent almost like that of a child demanding some candy from an intransigent mother. He was on the verge of throwing a tantrum; such was his ferocity of his need and insistence.
“Ok Prophet.”
“I want to prepare a holy oil made with a secret ingredient and imbued with the power of heavens. It is called The Oil of Judgment.”
“Yes Prophet.”
“It is an oil so efficacious that I am even scared to make it for my worst enemy.”
“Prophet of God…” Odedo’s excited voice interjected his “That oil is what my situation needs now.”
“My Dear, The Oil of Judgment does not come cheap. I will have to defer making it until the time when you have money.”
“Please Prophet…I need it right now, please.” His voice was insistent almost like that of a child demanding some candy from an intransigent mother. He was on the verge of throwing a tantrum; such was his ferocity of his need and insistence.
Finally,
Ogbunta almost heaved a sigh of relief. He has him on the ropes now and could
mold him to any shape he wanted. The only contention was how much he was worth.
Even top businessmen agreed that it is rather impossible to cost a product
which one had not seen. He had not seen the man, or his place of business or
even if he had any. He had not seen his face, does it look fresh and cleanly
cut? Does he look haggard and unkempt?
He sounded like a man with access to resources. He could see that in his insistence on having things his own way. There is also a whiff of presumptuous entitlement about him as Ogbunta could glean from his tantrums. He would possibly hail from a spoilt background where tantrums influenced decisions. He may not be rich but he had the temperament of one who had smelt opulence.
“Am not sure
that you can afford it.”
“What do you mean, Prophet?” He queried impatiently “Is it one million?”
“No of course not. It costs N14,000 to make the oil.”
“What do you mean, Prophet?” He queried impatiently “Is it one million?”
“No of course not. It costs N14,000 to make the oil.”
Then the
uncomfortable pause came again. Ogbunta knew he had to interject it, in
Spiritual jobbing, silence is a red herring and consequently disastrous.
Silence forces the minds to open, falsehoods to sediment, keeping the truth as
clear as the spring waters in the early morning. That is why most churches
unconsciously compete against themselves to know who will win the war of the
decibels. In that war, contemplation and meditation is shunned and the oft-used
cliché was that ‘a closed mouth is a closed destiny.’
“Let's leave
the oil and start with the prayers. Prayers can move mountains.”
“Prophet, please make the oil.”
“Ododo, please don't stretch your meager resources, we can still demobilize the wicked man with prayers”
“Prophet, I don't want all those ones. I want his annihilation. I want his total obliteration”
“The Oil of Judgment is the oil for you” He said with undisguised relief. The marketing was effective and he was now at least sure that he will be getting an inflow of N14,000. He had made in a day what he could not make in the six months that the construction company declared that they could no longer pay salaries. He had never made so much as a porting carting people’s wares on his back in the popular Oze market.
“Prophet, please make the oil.”
“Ododo, please don't stretch your meager resources, we can still demobilize the wicked man with prayers”
“Prophet, I don't want all those ones. I want his annihilation. I want his total obliteration”
“The Oil of Judgment is the oil for you” He said with undisguised relief. The marketing was effective and he was now at least sure that he will be getting an inflow of N14,000. He had made in a day what he could not make in the six months that the construction company declared that they could no longer pay salaries. He had never made so much as a porting carting people’s wares on his back in the popular Oze market.
It was after
consummating the sales to Ododo that he realized that he was yet to have
breakfast and by that time, a ferocious sun was already overhead, as if it was
competing with the rain of the morning. He had been standing at that same spot
in that junction for more than twenty minutes and could now hear the
surrounding cacophony of drivers shouting their routes and destinations on top
of their voices, hawkers announcing their wares on top of their voices and food
vendors, carrying food in wheel barrows and calling on hungry men and women to
patronize them.
Ogbunta was
hungry but he does not want to eat his usual breakfast of N50 okpa and pure
water. He does not want to eat the rice and beans carried about by the vendors.
He needed a proper meal, the first he had eaten with his own money in six
months.
Having made
up his mind, he hailed an ‘Okada man’, a commercial motorcyclist. He had always
been known as Johnny Walker by Adara who could often see him, from the comfort
of her husband’s cement shop, trekking all over Oze market in search of menial
jobs. However, today he felt rich. He will not trek.
"Jesus Christ trekked barefooted so that all of us will never have to trek to anywhere" One of his mentor pastors said in a video
"Jesus Christ trekked barefooted so that all of us will never have to trek to anywhere" One of his mentor pastors said in a video
He asked the
motorcyclist to take him to a popular restaurant, Restaurant De Real, located
three kilometers from the junction and which was known for their lavish menu
and exorbitant charges.
They settled at N50 and he climbed the bike.
In the
restaurant, he ordered a plate of fufu with egusi soup mixed with small okra
soup. The waiter was to make the egusi slightly more than the okra and would
add a turkey lap to the soup. As he waited for his order, he looked around the
restaurant. A Flatscreen television played some music in the background. A lady
clad in matching black leather underpants and bra that revealed her massive
cleavages shook and bounced her huge behind ferociously that her behind seemed
to have a mind of its own. He felt a familiar stirring in his loins. He had not
lain with a woman in six. Sex was only a consideration when one had eaten
properly. However, the dancing woman’s backside reminded him of someone’s.
It seemed a
lot like Shirley’s. However, Shirley was shorter and had fortunately missed
being a midget by inches. She is a very pretty lady that spoke very good
English delivered in a very attractive, breathy American accent that gave his
customers the illusion of laying with a white woman. Her skin was fair and her
eyes brown. She smelled like vanillas and sometimes like exotic fruits and
flowers picked fresh from the wild. Furthermore, her attraction was reinforced
by creating the legend that she is a Calabar woman, renowned for their prowess in
the other room. But having shared a certain level of intimacy with her that
went beyond ‘service provider’ – ‘customer’ relationship, he learnt that she
was indeed an Igbo woman, Chimuanya, who lost both her parents while she was
eleven. She cried as she told him the story of how she could not even finish
school.
As she cried,
she kept asking rhetorically why she was giving her all the details of her
life. Ogbunta felt that it was in a bid to get more than the N500 they had
agreed for ‘short time’ yet Ogbunta wanted to give more. He Wished that he
could give more. The short time became an overnight stay in her dingy room,
carefully scented with vanilla perfumes to mask the smell of male fluids that could
have hung around the room, a testimony of her hard work.
“How many
paying customers have you had today?” He had asked during the conversation that
had succeeded their first session. He saw himself caring. He wanted to make
sure that she was making enough money.
“All my
customers are paying customers. I have had nine for today.” She had answered
caressing his hairy chest “You are the only customer that I did not collect my
money for hand before my back touch the mattress.”
At that
answer then, he reached into his trousers to extract the N500 he had kept there
but Shirley stopped him, placing her hands on that pocket first to stop him
removing any money from it and from there, her soft hands wandered immediately
to his throbbing member. They had another round of sex, conversed, had another
one, conversed and still had another. Ogbunta had entered her hotel room at 9pm
in the night and had left at dawn. She asked him to call her anytime he needed
her companionship. She said she will not charge him.
They exchanged numbers and names before Ogbunta left. However, struggling for survival had not allowed Ogbunta to think of Shirley until that day in a fancy restaurant, after having ordered his favorite meal.
They exchanged numbers and names before Ogbunta left. However, struggling for survival had not allowed Ogbunta to think of Shirley until that day in a fancy restaurant, after having ordered his favorite meal.
He will pay
her a visit after the hearty meal. He wanted to buy her something nice. He does not necessarily need sex, not that he would reject if she insisted, but sorely wanted companionship. He had always thought of her everyday
since they last met but his squalor could not allow a visit.
He would see
her that evening, after dark. He would divest, remove the crucifix he wore and
drop the bible. He would go to the market and buy her apples and oranges and
Bananas. Then they would talk. They may not end with mere talk.
When his
order arrived, he purposely asked how much it was.
“N1200”
“Add 'Sir' while talking to me”
“Ok. N1200 Sir” The waiter responded with a half-smile. The price was steep but the whiff of the aroma suggested that it was worth it. That was the same aroma he could only salivate after whenever he trekked past the restaurant but was not able to savor. Now he is there, surrounded by big men and women who could afford to throw N1200 for a meal; an amount that could feed him for a week.
“Add 'Sir' while talking to me”
“Ok. N1200 Sir” The waiter responded with a half-smile. The price was steep but the whiff of the aroma suggested that it was worth it. That was the same aroma he could only salivate after whenever he trekked past the restaurant but was not able to savor. Now he is there, surrounded by big men and women who could afford to throw N1200 for a meal; an amount that could feed him for a week.
He would
finish the meal without ceremony and then move around the tables for more
marketing. The gospel should not only be preached from nation to nation but
also from table to table. He was on a lucky streak right now and would wish to
maximize the opportunities offered by fortune.
As he
swallowed the first morsel of fufu, he brought out his phone with his left hand
and dialed Shirley’s number.
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