There is a saying in Chichewa, which goes; 'He who went to see the Lake, also saw the hippopotamus'. So when I happened to be in Abuja- Nigeria with nothing planned for the weekend, I thought, why not go to Lagos to TB Joshua's church. Pastor TB Joshua, also referred to as Prophet
TB Joshua and the Man of God, is a controversial figure within and outside
Nigeria. According to Forbes website, he is one of the richest pastors in
Nigeria and the most philanthropic. He is famous for his divine but
controversial miracles and prophesies. He has predicted major events such as
the Boston bombings, and the demise of Bingu wa Mutharika; former president
of Malawi. The biggest controversy is probably the miracles performed by himself,
his five ‘wise men,’ and his ‘anointing water’. Whatever the truth about TB
Joshua and his ministry, he has a huge global following. Pilgrims flock to his
church from far and wide answering to the promise of healing, miracles, and
financial breakthrough. I decided to go and find out for myself. I should
emphasise, however, that this blog is not about whether TB Joshua is for real
or not. I am purely writing about my own experiences of getting and being
there.
Saturday morning I find myself on the plane
heading for Lagos. The flight is only one hour, but it takes my taxi more than
two hours to navigate through the sluggish Lagos traffic before making our way
to a dusty town of Ikotun; the home of TB Joshua’s church. I remember little of
the taxi journey except for this huffing hefty woman standing in the middle of
moving traffic. Thickset arms in akimbo, she boldly stands in front of a car and
challenges a frightened driver inside to come out and settle their disagreement.
The driver stays put. The endless journey finally comes to an end at an
imposing gothic looking stretch of TB Joshua’s church- Synagogue Church of all
Nations (SCOAN).
The place is chaotic, as is confusing. Revving
engines belch thick acrid fumes while honking minibuses, taxis, kekes (tuktuks) ceaselessly regurgitate
out people in search of hope, healing, and salvation. The smell of fumes and a
hint of a sour sewer permeates the dusty air. The dust is kicked up by endless
pairs of legs frenetically criss-crossing the façade of the church. Some
stumble around in bewilderment as they try to figure out the place; others
shuffle along in pain or are helped along by relatives. Vendors sell greasy
fried chicken and dust covered yams as they weave in and out around the masses.
A few odd white folk, perspiring in the heat, wonder around aimlessly. Amidst
the hive of activity, is a different breed of vendors- the ones waiting to
pounce on the vulnerable. They know a ‘very good’ hotel, or they have a new NIV
or NKJV at a good price…..
Unless you are officially invited by the church,
you are literally on your own. There is no visitors’ centre to guide uninvited and
perplexed guests like me. Nothing!! Getting basic information regarding the
time Sunday service starts, where to eat, which building to go to for the
Sunday service, is very frustrating. Every single person you ask, including the
church officials, gives you different information. And approaching a church official
takes courage. They welcome you with a sullen ‘what do you want now’ scowling
face. I must pause here for a second and say that West Africans do know how to
scowl. I am not even sure ‘scowl’ is the right word. The face is a cross
between a sneer and a frown all happening at the same time. It conveys the
message that you are insignificant, annoying, and are certainly wasting his or
her time. Encountering this expression from church officials, in a church environment
is very disconcerting, if not upsetting. I can understand that the attendants
are probably overburdened by their church duties, not to mention endless disorderly
foreigners asking the same stupid questions again and again, but hey it’s a
CHURCH and we expect church people to be at least welcoming…
To get away from the noise, I decide to stand
in front of the church and wait for a friend who has kindly offered to help me
find my way round the confusion. I am not allowed to. Armed security men
positioned along the façade of the church make sure there is no loitering. The criss-crossing legs hug the fence opposite the church- away
from the guns. As soon as one stops for a second, the soldiers whistle and
motion him or her to keep moving. So one has the choice of either standing
near the entrance of church where all the minibuses and kekes are, or facing the sharks at the
other end of the church- the car park or keep walking up and down. Frustrated, hungry, and not
to mention a start of an annoyance, I choose the fumes. At this point I am also
beginning to question the sanity of this impromptu trip. But I quickly remind
myself of the bible story of Naman who almost missed his blessing because he
was too proud. I also reassure myself that it would totally worth it if my back
pain could be resolved- not to mention those aches and pains I have been
ignoring for years. Facing the minibuses, I stand at the edge of the road next
to a tiny two-walled structure, which is balanced upon an open drain. Its floor
is made of evenly spaced wooden slats and gaps. I presume it's a guard house. I
soon find out that it is a make-shift toilet, but I am too tired to care. I
stand my ground. Men routinely go behind me and stand with their backs to the
crowd to pee. In my musing I think, how typical! They only thought of the convenience
of men. But then a woman goes behind me and stands with her legs apart, half
lifting her sarongs. She then reaches deep inside the skirts and pushes her
underwear aside. An arcing stream of urine soon appears from within the folds!!!
I smile. I am impressed. It brings fond memories of agogos in the village doing the very same thing among tall grasses
and bushes.
Taking the advice of the friend who is still
caught in traffic, I decide to visit the SCOAN canteen and get something to
eat. Having eaten in a few Nigerian restaurants in other countries, I thought I
was familiar with Nigerian food. I am certainly not. Nigerian food is way more
than pepe (pepper) soup and fufu. The first time I realised this, was
in Abuja when I asked the office driver to take me to a nearest restaurant. He
asked if I wanted rice, chips or ‘swallow’.
What the hell is a swallow! Apparently swallow is a generic name for all pap food
such as fufu, ugali or nsima, (polenta-like), which you can just ‘swallow’
without having to chew. While I am crazy about pepe soup, it takes some getting
used to pulling out bits of fish, goat meat, okra, and other leaves from other
types of Nigerian soups. Walking into the SCOAN cafeteria; I am completely bewildered
by an array of unfamiliar food laid before me. Hanging heavy in the air is an
overpowering fetid sweet smell of long-boiled meat. Not helping matters is the sight
of the masses sitting around plastic chairs attacking their food and scoffing
their faces; hands and implements tearing into flesh, grease and congealing liquids
dribble down their fingers while their greedy lips latch onto bones sucking and
vacuum cleaning them of mash, marrow and gristle. It’s not the people, it’s me.
I have issues participating in mass feeding. As
I settle down with my own oil-slick plate, I can’t help but wonder just how many
chickens, goats and cows give their lives every weekend to feed the relentlessly devouring
souls walking this place.
Mercifully my friend finally shows up and we
embark on the task of finding a ‘hotel’. It soon becomes apparent that the once
impoverished neighbours of SCOAN church have converted themselves to comfy hotel
owners. Every house we pass, no matter
how rickety, is a hotel. Only a few hundred metres from the dust and the fumes,
we are suddenly in a different landscape and I am reminded that this is
actually rainy season. Our keke,
which was bouncing happily just minutes ago, is now heaving and lurching on a
muddy sludge of what should be a road. With no storm-drains to channel the rainwater
away, the run-off empties into the road, gets trapped, and becomes stinking
slurry as it’s churned by passing vehicles. The tyres of our Keke are completely submerged with the
exhaust pipe emitting laboured bubbling farts through the churned butter of mud.
But our skilled kekeman navigates us through.
The ‘hotel’ is OK. I scan the walls for bedbugs; I see none. The
toilet flushes and I decide the room will do. Every room in the house has been
converted into a guest bedroom. The family sleeps in a tiny room which was once
a kitchen and the cooking is now done on a paraffin-stove outside. The place is
occupied by Ghanaians who are sitting outside on plastic chairs with their
expectant faces glued to a mounted Emmanuel TV; a Christian TV network also owned by TB
Joshua. Their faces are velvet blue; taking on the blue tinge of the TV
reflection. They tell me they had travelled for two days overland to get to TB
Joshua’s church. Although I would rather lie down in my room, I somehow felt obliged to join them and watch the TV too. The
daughter of the family fills me in on all the information and tricks I will
need to get inside the church tomorrow. Please understand that for uninvited guests,
getting inside the church for a Sunday service is no easy feat. Everyone’s mission is to get inside. But the
church building, though massive, cannot accommodate everyone and several huge additional
tents are erected to house the spill over.
My friend long gone, I eat some delicious okra
dish. I reassure my host, yet again, that I have my own alarm and there is no
need to wake me up in the morning. Then I bid goodnight to the blue faces and
retreat to my room. I lay my sarong over the dirty bed linen and warp my
scarf around the pillow. I settle in for the night wondering what tomorrow will
bring.
