Pentecostal idiosyncrasies

Pentecostal idiosyncrasies 

By Clem Oluwole

I did not have the opportunity of growing up with my parents in faraway Kumasi, Ghana. I was hovering around 10 when my old man felt he had had enough of my rascality and got my elder sister to take me along to Abeokuta, a Nigerian ancient town of the present-day South-west. For a kid of my age, going to the movies was considered as an act of waywardness. There were many cinema houses in Kumasi. And I hardly missed the afternoon shows which ran from 12 noon to 2 pm on weekdays that clashed with the school closing hours. I would rather sacrifice the last one hour at school than miss any of those spectacular shows. Our break time was 12 noon to 1 pm. One of such shows nearly cost me my life. There was this movie entitled Robin Hood whose coming attraction had wet my appetite for days and I was determined not to miss its premiere. Odion cinema was about a kilometer away from my school, a distance I usually covered in less than 10 minutes. On this fateful afternoon, I hit the ground running like someone who had just escaped from hell.

Midway to my destination, I heard from a distance some people announcing the presence of a felon in the local language: ’Ewi! Ewi!! Ewi!!!’ An Ado Ekiti indigene resident in Kumasi would think the people were announcing the presence of their paramount ruler- the Ewi of Ado Ekiti. But in this case, it was the presence of a thief that was ringing from their throats. Some folks who fanned out of their houses to join the chase sighted a school boy in full flight and mistook him for the fleeing thief. That kid was yours truly. Well, since I did not steal anything, I did not fear anybody until I saw a man who stood ahead of me. He steadied himself and lowered his height, spreading his enormous arms like someone waiting to catch a fowl. That was when I sensed danger. I employed the little football sense in me and sold a dummy as I swept past him like Hussain Bolt. A thousand and one Bolts could not have caught up with me as I accelerated away like a cheetah and as I thinned out of the sight of my pursuers, I heard them screaming in despair: ‘Emanu nkoo! Emanu nkoo!! Emanu nkoo!!!’ meaning ‘Don’t let him escape o! Don’t let him escape o!! Don’t let him escape o!!!’ But escape I did.

My addiction to movies was not borne out of waywardness or rascality as my old man would want everyone to believe. I think God simply endowed me with a seminal mind right from childhood. I was a storied kid by nature. I loved telling stories a lot. After reading all the story lines in the Bible, there was a lacuna. And since nature abhorred a vacuum, I turned to Odion to entertain myself. It was not even easy with my dad over his Bible which I used to smuggle out of the room for my own reading pleasure.

One day, he wanted to do his Bible study only to discover that the Holy Writ had disappeared. Moments later, I emerged with it, tucked it under my armpit. He was so angry and looked at me as if I was a Bible thief. Looking back now, I am not surprised that I ended up as a professional story teller which is what journalism practice is all about.

I was born into a Baptist atmosphere. Then, I veered into the catholic milieu for a short while, but I got pissed off by their routine and monotonous mode of worship and scammed, landing in the Pentecostal environment. Waaao! What a place to be! I love the Pentecostal system. It was full of pulpit-inspired stories. Some stories are real; some are make-believe or sheer mythology. It is those that had the semblance of mythology that fascinate me a lot as a creative writer… all the idiosyncracies. But they are meant to achieve the same purpose: to lift the spirit of the worshippers and strengthen their faith. Stories of someone who closed down her kiosk and sowed the proceeds in the church and was blessed with a supermarket a week later are constantly spewed on the gullible congregation from the pulpit. One thing I like in most of the new generation pastors, reverends, bishops, arch-bishops, general overseers, presbyters, etc, is that they are blessed with creative minds that can spin out with a drop of the hat. Then there are the regular sessions of testimonies rendered by the worshippers themselves. Testimonies are encouraged in the Pentecostal churches as proofs that the Holy Spirit is moving in the midst. They are also intended to hearten those who have written themselves off as a hopeless case. Testimonies such as someone securing employment without as much hassle as writing an application letter to any office; miraculous discovery of huge sums of money in one’s bank account lodged by the merciful angels; winning of contracts that were not tendered for; the purchase of jeeps, flashy cars, erection of bungalows, duplexes, after sowing seeds of Naira and not of corn.

There was this account that was rendered about a man who had a witch as a mother. The man lived in faraway London. However, his witch mum had donated him to her members for barbecue because it was her own turn. But fortunately for the young man, his Nigeria based pastor saw a revelation to that effect and sent a word of warning to him. He told him to be on the lookout for an arsenal of cockroaches that would visit his London apartment on that particular night. Cockroaches are not very common in London and as such, he should not spare them when they arrived. Unknown to the man, the evil pests were his mother and her flesh eating gang that were flying all the way from Nigeria for a London barbecue. Predictably, by 2 am, the demonic invaders arrived but the man was ready for them. To cut a long story short, he doused them with a highly potent insecticide. Three days later, he got a message that his mother and her army of witches had kicked the bucket.

A couple of months later, I arrived at my dining table to have my meal. No sooner had I settled down than a giant cockroach emerged from the other end of the table, raised its body up a little and began to swing its twin antennae menacingly. “Could this be an attack from home?”, I wondered aloud as I remembered the evil visit to London. I gently pushed my chair back and tiptoed my way to fetch a canister of Raid. By the time I came back, the caller had vanished. I looked underneath the table and saw it as if it was laying an ambush. To catch a monkey, it is said, you have to behave like one. So also, to kill a cockroach, you have to act like one. No problem. I sank on my knees like Nebuchadnezzer and began to crawl. When I got to the firing range, I slowly gathered my lips into my mouth and squeezed the trigger. Then there was a loud distress call not from the cockroach which was frightened to safety, but from the imitator of the king of Babylon. Unknown to me, the nozzle of the Raid was pointing in the direction of my eyes which I sprayed with a hail of atomized bullets. I flung the canister away and groped my way to the bathroom. I daubed my eyes with cold water for a while. A neighbour who heard the SME or Save My Eyes came over and offered to take me to the family doctor for a check-up. One thing I failed to do was to give a testimony about the encounter and how God saved me from being stricken with possible blindness through the instrumentality of the titanic cockroach. But it was never too late: Praise, praise, praise the Lord! Ha Ha Halleluiah!!!