THE CALLING (PART TWO)

  

"The Presence of a path does not necessarily mean the existence of a destination"

- Craig D. Lounsbrough.

Ogbunta began his church on a Monday, clad in his then-black-now-grey suit with his favorite red tie. He wore small, plastic-rimmed optician glasses because he felt that it gave him the air of quiet intelligence and sincerity, valuable commodities in the business.

He sat on a white plastic chair and positioned two others directly opposite him as he anticipated his first customers. He sang slow worship songs in loud voice to draw attention. It was a marketing move but for the first two days it was futile. People cast curious gazes at him but their curiosity did not draw them through the open door of his church.

On Thursday, he went fishing. Evangelism is the key. It is the way to capture his first few members. With his huge silver crucifix hung around his neck, and the heavy Bible cradled inside the crook of his arm, he set out in his badly scuffed black shoes with the soles badly scraped. He walked slowly, weighed down by the heavy Bible he slugged and the crucifix he carried across the neck. He sweated as he walked, like Christ on his way to Calvary.

He entered shops and markets and spoke to men and women about Christ. He received mixed receptions. some asked him to leave before he even had time to introduce himself while some listened distractedly their very demeanor telling him that they would rather be somewhere else.

One of the shop he entered had the lady there confusing him for a beggar and throwing a N200 note at him. He caught the note midway, opened his mouth to protest that he was not a beggar but stopped himself. He had not eaten since morning and it was already past afternoon. He would get himself something to eat. Probably something heavy, he still has a long day ahead of him. He had resolved to not come home without a member.

He bought two okpa and a bottle of Coca Cola in a kiosk by the corner of the Oze market. Before he entered for another round of aggressive evangelism. He was invigorated and was somewhat inspired. He would not preach again, he would use prophecy and revelations. There was a reason why the prophets had to come to prepare the way for Jesus Christ.

The next shop he entered had all the evidence of strife and poverty. The dusty shelves were scanty, and few and far between. Empty cartons of sold goods were strewn all over the floor while the ceiling fan played a slow beat of frustration and of hunger. There was the overarching sense of disorder that was evident in the scattered shelves of poorly arranged goods. The shop-owner was sitting in the center of the chaos, sleeping on a reclining wooden seat with his massive sweaty head thrown back over the seat. He sometimes fanned himself in spite of the fan that was beating a slow dance song and intermittently yawned, totally oblivious of Ogbunta whose tall frame was now crowding his doorway.

“You are a blessed man Sir.” He said, his deep voice startling the man from his nap.

The man opened his bloodshot eyes slowly, regarding Ogbunta with an undisguised hostility. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hands cleaning some saliva which he had drooled as he slept.

“Ehen…what do you want?” He approached slowly but Ogbunta held his ground. He was determined to make this sleepy man his first convert. He was not his kind of member. He was evidently poor as he could glean from the state of his shop. But he was still a good place to start. He would climb the ladder slowly but surely.

“They are attacking your destiny. They know that you were meant to be a very rich man but they do not want that.”

The man’s curiosity had been irked and his features changed from hostility to confused curiosity, his eyes asking the questions of identity that his mouth could not.

“You make sales per day but find it difficult to account for it.”

At this assertion, the man drew ever so closer until Ogbunta could almost feel the stale breath of alcohol emanating from the man’s mouth fanning his nostrils. Ogbunta saw a torn receipt on the floor. The header announced the man’s name as the Manager of the Mek-Richy Investments.

“Who are you?”
“I was directed to speak to you on your deliverance.” He smiled confidently and asked “Can I come in?”
“Sure Sir.” The man drew back from the door to allow Ogbunta easy entrance into the chaotic shop.
“The occultic men and women of this market have been doing so well for themselves with your very bright destiny. But God” He pointed to the heavens at the mention of God “Has heard your cry and has sent help from Zion.”

At that the man looked him over again, wondering if the help from Zion looks this bedraggled and unkempt. However, he seemed to resolve that help could easily come in the most unattractive of packages and proceeded to motion him towards a seat.

Ogbunta slumped into the seat with an undisguised relief. The moment was epochal, he was the first man to offer him a seat in his shop, others had merely listened to him with distractions, writing receipts, excusing him for a phone call or merely counting their goods in the shop.

The man ran out of his shop and for a moment before he returned with a cold bottle of coke, Ogbunta wondered if he had gone to call the police to arrest him.

“Pastor” He said handing him the cold bottle of coke before he drew a small wooden chair from behind him. “I knew that I have a very great destiny. All the prophets I have met have told me that same thing.”

“What I want to learn now is…” The wooden chair made a scrooping sound as he drew it closer to Ogbunta “…who has been the men and women that do not want me to drink water and drop the cup comfortably.”

“I will want you to take it calmly. The battle we fight is not against flesh and blood but against principalities and powers and wickedness in the highest places.”

Ogbunta watched the man whose name he had learnt through the receipts was Emeka as he nodded in agreement. The war will be fought in the spirit.

“I want us to pray together for 21 days. I will fast on your behalf for 7 days.” He fiddled the large silver crucifix unconsciously while his mind churned through the ranges of available prices he could give him.

His was a business, with declining fortunes and thus could probably spare some thousands. He could feed him for a week in the prayers if he maximized the opportunities.

“We can even start right now, Man of God.” The man said eagerly, he tapped his foot restively. On the floor as he spoke “I am already sick and tired of my luckless life and compromised destiny.”

At these words, Ogbunta invited him to his church the next day, told him to buy some fruits that they will use to end their prayer session.

They exchanged phone numbers and he mixed him some Chapters of Psalms. He understood the business, the more Psalms, the better. It was also best to ensure that the Psalms are long, promised divine vengeance and intervention.

“Please come along too with an offering that will pain you. It is a sacrifice.” When these words left his mouth, he cast his gaze upon the tired man, trying to detect some traces of rebellion in his tired bedraggled face. However, the man’s face retained its anxious equanimity, depicting his total conviction on the words of the Pastor.

He was not expecting deception and right then, Ogbunta was not sure that he was deceiving any other person but himself.

Friday was unusually depressing for the new pastor, on that day, the dry earth welcomed the first rain of the year. The clouds started gathering in the early hours of the morning and the cool wind from the seas caressed his sweaty skin, as he lay on the old mattress which he shared with cockroaches and bed bugs. The cool weather almost forced him to appreciate the imminent rain as his night was restless, uncomfortable and disrupted by so many nightmares. However, he was deeply pensive about his decrepit church structure that could give in against any sort of pressure. His thoughts gravitated between the much-needed rain and his shanty-like church. He was almost certain that the church would have been reduced to a rubble by the end of the rain. He feared that he may have to meet his first member on that pile of rubble. With this at the foremost of his mind, he had a restless sleep waking up severally in the night before the rain pummeled the roof in merciless torrents by the first light of the morning.

The rain was accompanied by a fierce gale similar to the fearful ones that had names, the ones he had sometimes watched on the television, destroying cities and leaving carnage in its wake. He could hear the gale, whatever it’s name, tearing rooftops off buildings, battering trees and banging wooden windows and doors to walls. Despite being kilometers away, he could almost swear that he could hear the old, weak aluminum roofing being shredded piece by piece by the fierce hands of that gale, he banished the image of his church reduced to rubble of alumina roof on top of woods, crowned by the cross he had constructed by weldering two metals to each other.

The image terrified him as much as his current squalor. It was the threat of a reversal to type, a return to status quo ante. The shanty church built by his hands, wetted with his sweat and his blood was symbolic. It stands like his life, shambolic and weak, threatening to collapse with every gale battering the weak fabrics of his life.

When he woke up in the morning, he did not pray; the worst must have happened to his church built with his bare knuckles. He had no reasons to pray to a God that had decided to release the greatest storm of his time to shatter his fledgling dream, his desperate grasp at survival. So he just rinsed his mouth with a satchet water, bathing would be superfluous for the morning. All he needed to do was to reach the site of his church and get to work. He could piece something together to form a shelter before Emeka arrives.

He wore his big crucifix and cradled his heavy bible in the crook of his arm.

He did not pray in his one room apartment but as soon as he emerged from his room, he broke into a song.

“What a mighty God we serve!” He crooned soulfully, straining his voice to achieve that difficult and nearly absent baritone. He saw the Landlord’s wife, Adara sweeping off pool of collected water from off the corridors of their two bedroom apartment. He sang louder and threw himself into tongues .

“Maki supre tandika kayama labuska seprelamande.” He said and with great quaking of his body, he strode with large strides and pace towards the exit of the compound, ignoring the greetings of Adara, The Landlord’s newest wife who also functions as his self-appointed lawyer and manager. In his thoughts Ogbunta called her Daughter of Eve. She has the penchant of asking for rents at the oddest of hours. Ogbunta does not think that it had to do with the fact that he runs away from home and returns at the oddest hours too. Like this morning, he was already leaving home at 6AM and will not return until it's past 10PM so as to ensure that The Daughter of Eve would have been sound asleep. However, Adara had adopted the strategy of that Eneke Nti Obama bird that has resolved to flying without perching since the hunter had learnt how to fire without aiming. So some nights, she would knock at his door at 11pm in the night clad in the sheerest of nightdresses, her hardened nipples showing through the silk robe, announcing boldly that she was wearing nothing underneath. Sometimes, Ogbunta would pretend that he did not hear her and other times, he opened his door and feasted his eyes on her almost naked body, often clad in sheer, see-through robes that she uses as nightwears. In such times, his head tells him that Adara had come to collect her six months overdue rent but his little member, his third leg argues otherwise, often standing erect to make his point.

That morning, she was dressed in a tight black yoga pants that showed her robust behind but wore a woolen grey sweater on top. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes darted about as she greeted. Acknowledging the greeting was dangerous thus, Ogbunta resorted to hurrying to the gate praying in tongues.

“Good morning oooo” She greeted rushing after him but Ogbunta hastened his steps even as he was engrossed in his deep prayers.
“I will be here when you come back, Ogbunta. Even if you come back by 13 O’Clock.” She shouted after him “I will be waiting in front of your house this evening. If you like be casting out demons then.”

He pretended not to hear her. He was very scared. He had only N200 on him and he still has to worry about his dilapidated church.

He prayed on as he strolled, in loud voices, He wanted people to see him praying devoutly, it would not hurt his emerging brand. He strolled through the street, head bent devoutly. He was hurting for his dilapidated building but anxiety and anger is not a good sign for a Man of God.

He strolled, sweaty and with his breath tainted with bad breath, he prayed on towards the church, but when he was within sight distance of the church, he witnessed a miracle. At the center of destruction, broken branches, torn roofs from better structures, fallen kiosks and destroyed uncompleted buildings stood his shambolic church, standing, barely scratched by the terrifying storm that had ripped through the night. The improvised cross still stood proud atop the structure.

It was 7:30am when, Emeka’s call came in.

Why was he calling him this early?

“Man of God…” He was excited; possibly by the prospects of his impending deliverance from the forces of deliverance that has been plaguing him.
“Emeka…how are you?” His heart leapt when he heard him call him ‘Man of God’.
“I am fine Pastor.” He said.
“I am on my way to your church.”
“Ok…hope you have not eaten today?” He told him, still stupefied by what he had seen.
“No Sir.” His voice broke probably due to network “ have fasting.”
“Okay…come to the Oguegbu Junction and call me.” I will come to pick you.

Emeka ended the call.

He hurriedly left the premises and started towards a kiosk. He needed some menthol sweets. He cannot afford halitosis while praying for his first customer. He can buy some from the N200 he had on him.

When the next call came, he was already at the junction.

Emeka was looking better than he had looked when he saw him the last time. He was fresher and the frustration he had seen earlier had disappeared. He looked fresher and was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt and a faded blue tapered jeans. He broke into a smile when he saw him.

“Pastor, you can't believe what had just happened yesterday.”

“What?” His heart skipped a beat. Has he been found out already?
“I have a testimony.”
“A testimony already?” He broke out incredulous. He was expecting to be lucky in the near future but hitting the target with his first throw is unbelievable. Is this a sign that he was going to become a millionaire faster than he had imagined.
“Yes ooo.”
“Praise The Lord.” He said and added “Please share this to the glory of God.”

Emeka excitedly told the tale of how after he had prayed with the Psalms, he slept and dreamt where Pastor was pulling him out of a quagmire riddled with insects and snakes. The next morning, he woke up to the news that one of his fetish uncle had died in the night as a result of a snake bite.

According to him, the Man had been dragging his father’s land with him and his death has settled the case which he, Emeka had tabled before the kindred.

“Please Sir…I am traveling to the Village from here and will ask for your prayers and spiritual permission to travel.”

“Okay…May God keep you safe for when they moved from nations to nations and from one kingdom to another, he suffered no man to do you wrong, he rebuked the princes for your sake saying touch not my anointed and do my prophet no harm.”

“Please Man of God…accept this token as sacrifice.”
“Please…no. Emeka.” He began to reject the outstretched envelope unconvincingly.
He handed him an envelope and hurried away.

He opened the envelope and counted six pieces of one thousand naira notes.

Without understanding fully what had transpired, he fell on his knees at the junction and burst out into tears. That was the biggest money he had received in six months. His sick mother in the village would need it. He would need it for a proper meal. He had not had any in three months.

As tears flowed freely, his next prayers of gratitude were clear, distinct and was sincere.