‘I’m sorry,’ Emeka had apologised after Pastor Kamsi announced the new rules at a youth meeting. ‘Honestly, I would have left all this, but who will pay my school fees if my father kicks me out?’
I laughed; I understood what it meant to be beholden to someone.
‘You know my father used to say that if you spend every day in church, you’ll never get to do anything in the world you’re supposed to shine in,’ I said, taking Emeka’s hand as we left the church premises. Later, he would tell me it was the first time I’d ever spoken of my father with a smile.
The sermons were seditious, the doctrines bordering on heresy. Our true hope and desire as Christians was to live lives of wealth and dominion, and the quality of our lives was determined by our faith, and by our giving. Ten per cent was the portion of our income to be donated, and as students, our pocket monies were not exempted, even though we hadn’t worked for them.
We were to believe enough that we wouldn’t seek secular solutions, like hospitals, for our ailments but instead depend solely on our faith, even unto death. If we were sick, it was because we didn’t believe enough, didn’t give enough to God – why else would He allow evil to befall us? Our greatest adversities in life could be solved if only we gave more. God had become transactional, an automated teller machine.
His words would flash in my head whenever I struggled with my memory, and I would wonder if the accident had happened because I hadn’t done enough. I would withdraw into myself, and Emeka would spend the rest of the day asking, ‘What’s wrong?’
Then there were demons, winged bloodsucking creatures that hung in the shadows, summoned by sin and evil, by relatives who despised your progress and desired your downfall, by witches and wizards disguised as friends.
Outside the church auditorium, plastic tables covered in white cloth were lined with spiritual handkerchiefs, anointed bottles of water and olive oil that could grant protection.
The people flocked to Pastor Kamsi, and our mentorship meetings grew into full services. At the altar, they laid their problems before God remade as a man, crushing their glasses under their feet, throwing away their medication, donating their very last kobo.
They lined the corridors of his office, seeking personalised sessions and special prayer meetings. They pleaded with me to write their names down when he was fully booked for the day. ‘I will wait,’ they insisted. It fascinated me that they were mostly young women, my age or slightly older. Were we raised to be more judgemental of ourselves? To feel inadequate and unsure, continuously seeking external assurance?
A new pattern developed. It would take me a while to notice. Pastor Kamsi was never to be challenged; his word was truth and life. Touch not my anointed and do my prophet no harm. Those who dared to question were scorned, immediately silenced. He’d successfully created his own shrine within the youth ministry.
‘It’s a cult!’ I told Emeka.
‘You don’t think that’s a bit extreme? I mean I don’t like him very much – but a cult?’ Emeka asked.
I went dictionary hunting the following weekend. And now we were in my mother’s new flat, which she shared with Akin whenever he was in the country. My father was still to grant their divorce. But my mother carried on with her life, refusing to despair. She’d signed up for a part-time master’s degree at the University of Lagos and made new friends, inviting them over for lunch and loud philosophical discussions in our living room. Aunty Sally said it was the happiest she’d seen her.
‘They swallow everything he says hook, line and sinker,’ I said to Emeka. ‘What sort of madness is this? Have you noticed that other young men in church cut their hair like him?’
Emeka blinked, surprised. ‘Well, I haven’t noti—’
‘You should start paying attention,’ I interjected, incensed. ‘He’s a man! Flesh and blood. I’ve been sent to buy paracetamol when he has headaches but people can’t wear glasses? My God, even Zina thinks he’s weird.’
Zina had attended a service out of curiosity and never returned. ‘If you want to see me, come to my house abeg,’ she’d said afterwards.
Emeka sighed, acquiescing. ‘I understand what you mean. Unfortunately, my father likes him. He has a way of getting young people to listen, plus he’s bringing in a lot of money for the youth ministry. There isn’t much we can do unless he commits a crime or something.’
Pastor Kamsi’s influence seemed only to multiply. His promotion to regional youth president came as a surprise to no one, except maybe me. And when ASUU called off the strike, inviting us back into our classrooms, Pastor Kamsi moved his sessions to weekends and weekday nights. By the middle of the semester, he’d published a list of inappropriates covering every facet of life – hairstyles, clothing, songs – he considered unacceptable within his ministry and disciples.
The Lagos armoury explosion happened at the beginning of the year of Emeka’s eventual graduation, a four-year course that had become five, delayed by the decayed system.
The year before, in 2001, we’d watched, beaming with jingoistic patriotism, as one of our own was crowned Miss World, her hair slicked up, weave-on twisted into a tower atop her head, gleaming drop earrings dangling from her ears.
‘I didn’t like her response to the question. I don’t think it was the best,’ Emeka said as Agbani Darego was called, Priyanka Chopra in glistening blue and silver as she transferred the crown to her successor’s head. My mother took it all in, waving a flag a similar green as the victor’s dress, the one she’d bought for democracy day.
‘You’re not patriotic,’ I said to Emeka, my tone accusatory.
He folded his arms against his chest. ‘What does it mean to be patriotic? Does that include telling lies?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Nobody is saying you should tell lies, but you’re being overly critical. Were you expecting a dissertation? She’s the first indigenous African and Nigerian to win the Miss World pageant, you should be happy.’
‘I’m happy, proud even, but I’ll still say the truth,’ Emeka said. ‘If she knows what is good for her, I hope she gets away from this place as soon as possible.’
I slapped him hard on the arm. ‘You don’t love your country. It’s not like America or any other place is lined with gold.’
‘Loving my country means being able to tell the truth about it. As it is, Nigeria cannot do what other countries can for her. It’s all about opportunities. Do you know the kind of money she can make abroad? Isn’t it better for her to do that and come back here to help others? How many people eat three square meals here?’
‘There are poor people over there too, every system has its problems, especially for black people. I’d rather be a first-class citizen in my country than a second-class citizen over there.’
Emeka chuckled. ‘My dear, this “first-class” citizen, how “first-class” an experience is it?’
My mother briefly disentangled herself from her euphoria to shock us by saying, ‘He’s right.’
Obianuju Azubuike née Nwaike, who hummed the national anthems – anthems because she sang the pre-1978 version as well – when she was bored, who joined the interminable queues to register to vote every election season there wasn’t a dictator overseeing us, who still said ‘Nigeria will be great’, agreed with Emeka.
‘He’s right,’ she repeated.
‘Why?’ Emeka and I said at the same time.
‘Emeka already said: opportunities. See how well Akin is doing over there. Also, they have working systems and laws that protect even the most vulnerable citizens, especially women.’ I heard what she didn’t say: were we citizens of a different country, she would have been free of my father by now.
‘Akin has a PhD, it’s unfair to compare him with the average immigrant. You have to remember that Nigeria is a relatively new country compared to others,’ I replied.
‘It’s very easy to say all this when you’re not suffering. Nigeria comes for everyone eventually…’ Emeka said, leaving me with an eerie sensation of foreboding that would stay with me for days.
Like comets, a series of successive events came, determined to change my conviction. Bola Ige’s death came first, shot dead in his residence in Ibadan as we prepared for our semester exams.
‘A Senior Advocate of Nigeria. Minister of Justice and Attorney General of the Federal Republic of Nigeria,’ I said to Emeka as I paced the room aggressively. It was a day to Christmas and instead of singing carols and revelling, I was in a windowless room at the back of the church.
