There is heavy pounding on my door at 3:00am. I wake up to find my cheek pressed to a bare dirty pillow; the scarf has unwrapped itself and is now dangling onto the floor. I groggily take in the sarong, which is tangled and bunched
up to a corner near my feet. The tired dread-lock woman staring back in the bathroom mirror is obviously not happy with me. I ignore her. It’s time. I squeeze myself among the Ghanaians in a hotel car feeling rather sheepish. The previous day I had flatly refused the car -offered for a fee- and had instead made separate arrangements with my kekeman. He never showed up. Nobody makes
a fuss about it and we are soon at the church. It’s 4:30am. We all stand milling
around the same toilet-corner I had stood a few hours earlier, uncertain how
to proceed. Should we go straight to where the little girl from the hotel said
we should? Or should we wait until 6:00am? Or should we wait by the church entrance, as others had suggested? And do we really need tickets to get
inside the church? I decide to strike it out on my own. The Ghanaians follow.
We find a large crowd waiting outside the ‘processing’ building (where ushers decide whether you enter the church or stay in a tent). Someone had told me that
foreigners can get inside if they have a valid ID. So I try playing ‘hey I
am a foreigner’ card, holding out my passport. The church official doesn’t even
blink. I feel deflated.
I am rudely ushered into one of the upstairs processing-room; the same one recommended by the little girl from the hotel. My hopes
rekindle but nothing is certain at SCOAN. Not only are the ushers wearing that
scowling face, they are rude too. Giddy with power, young men bark orders at confused
and frail elderly people, whose only crime has been the attempt to get inside
the church to see the Man of God with their own eyes or to receive their
healing. I keep my rising rage in check by reminding myself of Naman. I am handed a small blue paper. I look up to the ceiling and mouth a silent 'thank you'. I don’t know what has
happened to the Ghanaians. The last I saw them, was outside the processing-building holding their passports. I find out later that they too had managed to
get inside. Dawn is starting to break as I join a 200-metre queue snaking its way
slowly into the church. Men, in neatly pressed suits, clutch their bibles and some literature by TB Joshua. Heavily perfumed women adorned
in fine laced-cotton attires and glittering sequined dresses shuffle along with
me. I look down my blue jeans and plastic sandals uncertainly. But after security
check, I finally find myself walking into the SCOAN mega-church. It’s 6:30am.
The church service starts at 8:30am with the wise
men (TB Joshua’s anointed disciples) praying for invited guests in another part
of the church. The rest of the church follows the proceedings on TV screens. Thanks
to my relations back home, I am familiar with them all. But being physically here feels different somehow. The atmosphere is electric and pregnant with expectations.
Although people flock to TB Joshua in search of a cure for incurable diseases/conditions, barrenness, bad luck, etc, rarely do the pilgrims come with afflictions related to evil spirits. However, deliverance of evil spirits (exorcism) seems to take a larger portion of prayer service. For most, deliverance is swift and short; they freeze for a few seconds, collapse to the ground in undignified heap and rise up free of the
malevolent spirit. Others are not so lucky; big mamas heaving and
swaying like sumo wrestlers take down five ushers with them to the
ground; zombie men with glazed staring eyes and slack
jaws emit moans so ghoulish, it makes me shudder. The manifestations are bizarre; ranging from diabolic sniggering, to fast blinking eyes that so much remind me of
the flattering eyes of a macaque monkey, to twitching limbs that
seem to dance to some internal electrocution. Some helplessly thrash about like beached whales; others fast-spin and roll - ties and jackets flying in every direction, and elaborate hairdos
and sequined dresses unravelling. Some challenge the wise men to a physical fight, mimicking an uncoordinated boxer. Others flee while the surprised ushers make chase right
behind their heels. It's quite comical and we all laugh, but not without anxiety and uneasiness.
The wise men demand answers from the demons. "Who are you?" "What
demonic deeds have you done?" They respond that they are either a spiritual husband/wife, or some queen of the river, or ancestral spirit, or a spirit of death, etc. The spirits also attribute to themselves
all the bad things that have happened to the possessed person. Then they are ordered out
in Jesus's name. Finally the poor demented souls are brought out from a prolonged
agony of spiritual delivery. By the time they come round, they are a disoriented
dishevelled mess with crumpled suits, wild hair and humbled eyes. As I watch, one
of the wise men starts praying for a white woman. Surely, I say to myself, she
is immune to this madness. Apparently not. She too turns into a zombie and starts shaking her head from side to
side as her mouth grotesquely rearranges itself to form a long hideous wail. Her kids, unsure of
what is going on cling, to their father. I wonder if there will be any long-lasting
psychological effects to these kids’ view of God and religion. At this point I also start to contemplate what could be in store for me. I have always been conflicted
when it comes to the spiritual realm. Growing up in Africa, I am convinced
there is a dark spiritual world out there, and the bible makes certain the
existent of demonic powers. But I also do not underestimate the power of mass
hysteria. And I am the type that gets easily incited. I am seriously
worried.
Those familiar with some of the fanatical African Pentecostal churches know the principle of ‘never limit God'. So Sunday services can go on foreveeeeer. SCOAN is no exception. But no matter
how reverting all this entertainment is, I just have to eat. My stomach is now complaining louder
than the possessed. I go out in search
of the dreaded cafeteria. Next to it, I find a long line winding its way
towards a SCOAN five-star hotel (for invited guests with cash). It’s a queue for the famous anointing water! This is water that has been prayed
over by TB Joshua and is believed to hold miraculous powers- another controversy. Since
God’s healing power is free, the water is technically not sold. But to get a
bottle, one MUST buy a DVD of TB Joshua’s sermon. I join this queue; food
momentarily forgotten. An hour later, and a few thousand Nairas short, l
am armed with ‘free’ holy water bottles, several DVDs and TB Joshua stickers.
And a few greasy plantains later, I am back to
my seat vigorously shaking some woman who is sprawled across my chair fast asleep.
This time, the church is in full swing dancing to the Lord. Suddenly there are
excited shouts, people are whistling and applauding. The Man of God is finally
in our midst! I strain forward to get a glimpse of the Prophet, but my failing
eyesight– another petition item for TB Joshua- cannot make out his features. I
am sitting way too far- the front is reserved for invited guests. Once TB
Joshua is inside, ushers position themselves to stop people from moving around
too much. And now with all the cameras rolling, the ushers also take on the
responsibility of keeping nodding heads up. My poor neighbour is prodded
continuously as she struggles to stay awake.
We are led into prayer. Now prayer time is an
exciting topic for me. I never tire of watching people’s expressions and
gestures as they talk to God; the tightly screwed faces, the humble beseeching gestures,
the special tone of voice reserved only for God….I probably do all these things
myself, but that’s a blog for another day. As the church prays in unison and with
fervour, I struggle to concentrate. The pitch of mass prayer keeps on rising, muddling up my prayer. I
give up and watch the congregation. Some shout loudly throwing arms and fists in the air to emphasise their point- I wonder distractedly
how I would react if someone talked to me like that. A desperate lone voice here are there shouts above the cacophony “Man of God, please help me!” Others tremble and weep silently in anguish. I avert my eyes. I am reminded that for some, leaving this place without a solution could mean a death sentence. I am brought back from my contemplation by a woman few rows in front who is repeating gibberish so rapid I don’t think it
is possible for human tongue to do that. Surely this is not praying in tongues...? Her neighbours, who are now giving her a very wide berth, confirm my suspicions. A guy two rows behind starts gurgling up phlegm mixed
with blood while the church attendants run around frantically trying to cover
the vomit with disinfectant granules. The jerky movements of his limbs start and
stop like some malfunctioning robot. The ushers come and take him away- for deliverance later. The cameras at this point can no longer
keep up with all the people going nuts. As the frenzy of prayer ebbs away, and things calm down
again, I breathe a sigh of relief.
After a brief preaching -something to do with
engaging the youth, if we are to avoid a global revolution- the Man of God
retreats to his chambers or wherever he retreats to. It’s 6:00pm. This is now
a record longest church service I have ever attended. Then the wise men start
laying hands over the whole congregation. The moment we have all been waiting
for. The wise men go row by row, touching people on their heads and leaving
mayhem in their wake. The camera men sometimes seem undecided between following the
progress of the wise men and focusing on the chaos behind them. As the wise man who is
moving across my section, gets closer and closer, I start to get more and more anxious. I should probably be praying fervently at this point but a million thoughts are firing in rapid succession in my head. Is this nonsense or is it
real? What will happen to me when he touches me? Will I go berserk? Will my back get healed? What if I am possessed
by some evil spirit? –the thought alone makes me hyperventilate. Illogically, I
am also wondering; what is it like to have your brain take a backseat while
some maniacal disembodied fiend turns you into a raving lunatic and makes a
complete spectacle of you…. Before I know it, the wise man is right before me.
Bang! It’s not a heavy hand, but I am dazed for a second. And while I wait for
an out of body experience of watching myself doing something really nuts, he is
gone. My reverie is broken by fast moving people carrying cameras and cables who shout at us to clear the way. One of them treads on my bare toes. @#*%$! I
almost holler in pain. Disappointed, relieved and annoyed, I nurse
my burning toes while I watch the progress of the wise men with dissipating
interest. It was announced earlier that there will be a closing service at 9:00pm, but
I am too tired and my back has just about had enough. I wearily seek
out some Malawians among the invited guests and unload the
anointing water bottles unto them. My people back home are anxiously
waiting for them. Then I call my kekeman
to come and take me to my dingy hotel. He shows up this time but asks for a ridiculously exorbitant
fee. I gave in. I am beyond caring.
The following morning, I am up at some uncivilised hour again- 4:00am. But this time, I am going back to Abuja. I bid farewell to my host
and to the Ghanaians, some of whom are nursing personal disappointments. During
the flight, I allow myself to reflect over the madness of this mission. What
were my motivations? What did I expect? What did I think of it all? Answers are not easy to come by. But
one thing I am sure of; I am glad I had followed my impulses to explore not just
the lake, but went searching for the Man of God and his controversies. Two hours later, I am
back in the office, back to the mundane, but sane and familiar reality of preaching
the gospel of disaster risk reduction to African governments.
