• Ikenna Paschal Okpaleke

On that fateful Sunday morning, under the embers of the sleepy sunlight, Amaka had thrown herself out of bed. She remembered how she had promised to honour Favour’s invitation to church. As a member of the Methodist Church of Nigeria, she had had some mixed feelings about not attending her normal Sunday worship at her local parish in a bid to appease Favour. “Anyway, I’m still going to worship the same God. Afterall, Favour had honoured my invitations severally in the past,” she rationalizes, having shrugged off her earlier rejection of the offer. However, she still kept imagining what to expect at the Pinnacle of Fire and Miracles Christian Ministry. As soon as she had dressed up in her modest but elegant ‘Sunday’ dress, treated herself to a mild make-up of a tiny plaster of Mascara, a faded trace of winged eyeliner, and a perfect shade of mini-glossy nude lipstick, her phone came ringing. Favour was already waiting outside in a yellow-green Keke-NAPEP.

There was nothing out of place in comparison with the normal setting of a typical Pentecostal church, the one she is accustomed to from the TV. The service began with praises, led by the very energetic band and two complimentary choristers. Then came the preaching. Very fiery indeed! Amaka has been enjoying herself so far. But since her mind was effortlessly making some comparisons, she felt the shouting was a bit unnecessary. “Well, it doesn’t matter,” she mutes, as a way of casting away any negative thought.

Pastor Kehinde, as she later learnt as his name, once again invited all to a prayer marathon. This was already two hours into the service. And since she is not used to such a long Sunday worship celebration, Amaka, who was already exhausted, sat quietly while the prayer was going on. Little did she realize that everyone, but her, was standing.

“Hey, you girl, stand up!” the pastor had thundered while moving speedily in her direction.

Favour who had by then become hysterical started urging her friend to stand up, in sharp whispers. Before Amaka could consider her friend’s appeal, it was already too late.

Amaka could not tell the cause of Kehinde’s profuse perspiration. Was it as a result of the intensity of the prayer or the anger that someone dared to defy the prayer posture in the church? What ensued next was an open private conversation. A dosage of trauma-inducing exchange.

“Young girl, why were you sitting down when everyone was standing?” He bellowed.

“I’m sorry. I am tired.” Amaka replied quietly, with a tinge of embarrassment.

“Tired in the house of God!” He fired again. “Are you new in this church?”

“Yes. I was invited by my friend,” with the hope of eliciting some sympathy.

“And what church do you belong to?” the pastor questions.

“I am a member of the Methodist church,” replied she.

“No wonder! You’ve come here with your evil.”

Then, appearing to address the entertained crowd of worshippers: “All these Methodists, Anglicans, and especially Roman Catholics with their traditions from the pit of hell.”

Turning once again towards Amaka, he barks, “young lady, you need deliverance!”

Indeed, she never saw it coming. Standing there with mixed feelings of rage and stupor, she glanced at her friend who was already dazed with confusion and shame.

“Stay back after service for the deliverance session!” commands Kehinde as he resumes the prayer session.

Never had Amaka felt so shocked in life. She had quizzed in her mind: What wrong did I do by honouring my friend’s invitation? Where the hell has gone the normal human courtesy? Does belonging to a church rob us of the African cultural value of hospitality? As a third-year history student, she had studied the advent of the missionaries in the Lower Niger, and had even written a short essay on the Niger Mission in the historical period of 1841-1891. One of her findings was that African hospitality made it possible for Christianity to find a resting ground in Africa.

She was still trying to dilute the shock with her fair knowledge of history when the next round of trauma struck.

“How many of you fasted this weekend?” Pastor Kehinde thundered again. Now, he is moving again towards her direction.

I think I need to save you from the traumatic episode that followed ….