The terrible sermon

Photo: Gift Habeshaw

“Honestly pastor, I don’t know what came over me. I… I lost my mind,” Eniola mumbled; his head bowed as tears trickled down his cheeks.

He looked up at the pastor when no response came and saw him staring at the framed picture of his wife and child on his wooden desk.

“Pastor?” he asked. “Are you okay, sir?”

“Ah yes, yes, Eniola,” Pastor Bamidele said. “It’s okay, I heard you fine.”

“What should I do, sir? Bunmi has refused to talk to me, and I have been begging. Her mother has been begging too. I am not that kind of guy, pastor. You know me. I… I just want her back. I swear to God it will never happen again.”

“Yes Eniola,” the Pastor Bamidele said. “Forgiveness is key in every marriage. We must all be willing to forgive each other every now and then.”

“Exactly sir, I said the same thing to her too.”

“Even still Eniola, you can’t blame her for keeping her distance from you, at least for now. Is she still in the hospital?”

“No pastor, she was discharged two days ago. She is in her parents’ house now.”

“Ah, I see. I will talk to her, but you should understand if she doesn’t want to come back to you, at least for now. I saw the pictures her father sent. It looked like she had been in a ten-round boxing match.” He turned to look at Eniola. “So, tell me. What really happened?”

Eniola plucked a tissue from one of the tissue boxes on Pastor Bamidele’s table and dabbed his cheeks.

“I told you just now, pastor. I… I don’t know what came over me. When I saw her in that skimpy dress coming back at two o’clock in the morning,” he wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, “I… I just lost my mind. But I didn’t even touch her then. It was when she spoke back at me that I… I just didn’t know how to handle it. I went mad and only managed to stop myself five minutes later. But by then, the… the damage was already done.”

“You will not run mad in Jesus name.”

“Amen pastor.”

“But Eniola, you need to control yourself. God will help you; yes, God will help you. But you also need to control your anger. I will speak to Bunmi as promised. A child of God should also not be doing what she did. God will help you both. Shall we pray?”

“Yes pastor, please.”

They both stood up and held their hands together as pastor Bamidele prayed fervently, casting and binding the evil spirits of violence and immorality trying to break up Eniola’s home. The prayer lasted for fifteen minutes, leaving the two men drenched in sweat despite the cool breeze from the humming air conditioner.

“Thank you very much, pastor,” Eniola said, gripping his bible tightly to his chest as he made his way towards the exit of Bamidele’s office.

“Thank God for his forgiveness and salvation,” Bamidele replied, ushering him towards the door. “I will talk to her this evening. She will forgive you—I saw it while we were praying.”

Eniola looked momentarily at the ceiling as if to confirm the revelation before turning his attention back to the pastor.

 “Thank God! Yes, I believe. Thank you so much, pastor. You have tried. I know it’s hard to find the time for your members despite what you are still going through. We are also praying for you, sir,” Eniola said, each sentence marked with swift deferential bows.

“May God give us the strength to endure his trials. Have a good day, Eniola,” Pastor Bamidele said as he slowly but firmly closed the door to signal an end to their meeting.

Almost as soon as the door shut, Pastor Bamidele bent over panting, his hands on his knees. He quickly made for his desk, his quivering hands reaching for the bottom drawer. He yanked the drawer open, almost breaking the hinges in the process, his other hand rummaging through carefully piled papers until it found what it was looking for.

Pastor Bamidele brought out the small plastic bag that looked like a calabash, the top end tied in a neat knot, the bottom bulging with white powder. He quickly but carefully undid the knot; his hands still shaking, he flattened the sides of the bag on the table. Without moving his eyes, his hands reached instinctively towards the left side of the table where a pack of business cards were carefully stacked. He snapped up the top card with the sleekness of a magician and proceeded to use it to shape the white powder into a thin straight line. He worked with the swiftness of a professional, his shaky hands guiding the white chalk into shape; then he leant forward and brought his nose to the end of one line, his nostrils flaring like those of a hippopotamus. He paused for a split second, then with a finger against his left nostril, he took a long sniff, his watery eyes fixated on the powder as it disappeared quickly from view.

Photo: Marquise Kemanke

He collapsed back into his chair, his breathing measured, his hands beginning to steady. He loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt, and glanced at the wall clock underneath a pinned statue of Jesus Christ. It was a few minutes past six. Pastor Bamidele let out a weak sigh of relief.  There would be no more visits for the day—no more cheating spouses, no more abusive husbands, no more petty thieves, no more greedy politicians, and no more internet fraudsters.

He closed his eyes momentarily as he felt the effect of the white powder kick in. When they reopened, he was looking again at the small photo frame of his wife and son at the corner of his desk just next to his business cards. Another sigh escaped his lips.

“God, please give me strength.”

***

Pastor Bamidele opened the back door of his apartment, dragging along with him four cartons of Orijin into the kitchen. He needed to have a relatively peaceful weekend this time around and knew the only way he could prevent the nightmares was to ingest at least ten bottles of Orijin before midnight. He made sure to enter the house late, at 11 PM, and to use the backdoor to avoid the judgmental stares from the neighbours—he was, after all, a renowned pastor of a prominent church.

The house was quiet and empty, as it had been for the last six months; a house once filled with contagious laughter and merry. Only silence welcomed him now.

He had stopped watching TV since it happened, preferring instead to drown out the voices in his head with alcohol and cocaine. It had been effective so far with the nights and weekends going swiftly, leaving no memories behind. It was the only way to continue living.

He switched on the light as he stepped in, placing the four cartons of Orijin beside the empty bottles of Hennessy and Vodka laying on the floor. He glanced at the framed pictures hanging from various hooks on the walls of the living room. He ran his hand along one of his wedding pictures. He began to have flashbacks of the nervous sweat on his palm as he held the hands of his wife, Mary. Tears began rolling down his cheeks.

His attention turned to another picture frame of him and his son, Peter. It had been taken on Father’s day, the two of them in matching green agbada, beaming at the camera. How he missed him now—him and his notes, the affectionate messages Peter would scribble on small post-it notes and hide in strategic places for him to find. Under the DSTV decoder, inside his shoes—anywhere. He kept on discovering notes even weeks after they had gone. How he missed him now—Peter. Such was the sad loneliness of the past few days that he now wrote messages to himself, in Peter’s post-it notes.

More tears rolled down his cheeks as he walked to the bedroom, deliberately averting his gaze from the empty bed.

He removed his shirt and tie, tossing them into a corner of the bedroom floor. He wore only a singlet now, revealing a healed scar on his right shoulder and burn marks on his left arm. He switched on the TV, but not after disconnecting the HDMI cable from his laptop, which still had the paused video from Pornhub.

Porn, to his delight, also helped in drowning out the voices. He would have loved to continue watching the two women put their hands in each other’s underwear, but chose instead to watch the Arsenal vs Manchester United football match that was on replay. He liked Arsenal. They were his team—his and Peter’s. Getting high and drunk as his favourite team played was the perfect night for Pastor Bamidele. It was the best way to forget the tragedy of six months ago—the car accident that claimed the lives of his wife and six-year-old son.

***

Pastor Bamidele remembered everything about that day. It was supposed to be a routine family trip from Lagos to Ibadan to see his mother. Of course, stories of accidents along the Lagos-Ibadan expressway were all too common. But he was a pastor, a man of God; surely, God would protect his servant and his family.

Pastor Bamidele hadn’t seen the pothole when he tried to overtake the wobbly trailer. Maybe it was Peter and his persistent nagging about the car’s music that distracted him. Maybe it was Mary telling him he was going to be a father again in eight months. He simply didn’t see the gaping hole in the centre of the road, only felt the car dangerously spin out of control. But even then, they should have made it out unscathed. It would have been a miracle—one to share with the congregation. Instead, the car collided with the trailer causing it to tip its content which landed on the right side of the car—the exact side where Mary and Peter were.

A piece of metal pierced Pastor Bamidele’s left shoulder sending a sharp pain through his body. But the pain was nothing compared to the horror and anguish he felt as he turned to check on Mary and Peter.  He was paralysed with shock when he saw his wife’s crushed skull and the piece of glass protruding from his son’s left eye. He tried desperately to save them, running over to their side and trying in vain to push aside the heavy weight that rested on the car. Bamidele still remembered that day, every detail etched in his memory. No amount of drugs and alcohol in his system could make him forget.

***

It was a late Saturday morning and Pastor Bamidele was still recovering from the hangover of the previous night. He quelled the intensity of the headache with four paracetamol tablets and two bottles of water. He walked to the kitchen, hoping to assuage his rumbling stomach. The fridge had its usual contents: beer, a carton of half-eaten pizza, spoilt milk, and more beer.

Is there a Saturday service today? He thought to himself as he warmed some slices of pizza in the microwave. There was a youth service at 6 PM to address ‘The Rise of Atheism among the Nigerian Youth of Today’. Being one of the junior pastors under forty, he was expected to attend.

He giggled to himself. Maybe if God did his fucking job right then there wouldn’t be any rise, he thought.

He was to preach on Sunday morning too, his third time since that dreadful day his wife’s skull caved before his eyes. He would have to prepare his sermon in the evening.

He began making his way to church that evening, after confirming the sachet of white powder was safely tucked in his wallet. As he drove, he couldn’t help but notice the various religious symbols and messages. There was the car in front of him with a ‘Trust in God: our Strength, our Saviour, and our Healer’ sticker on its bumper; the billboard by the roundabout advertised the ‘Special Miracle Service for Barren Women’ night vigil program; there was the one-room roadside church with a ‘You are born to be rich: Invest in God with a minimum seed of five thousand naira and trust in Him’ banner spread across its gate; another billboard only a few hundred metres away from the previous one read ‘Prosperity is a Christian’s right. Worship with us to unlock your blessing!’

Photo: DJ Paine

 A strange feeling of irritation swept through him as his eyes fell on each sign. He arrived at the church a few minutes before six, greeting everyone he came across with a ‘God bless you’. He was the star of the church at the moment—a role model. To maintain such great faith in adversity—after the loss of his wife and only child—was highly commendable and worthy of emulation. His sermon after the accident, calling for steadfast faith and for more Christians to believe in God, received rapturous applause and brought him the kind of admiration and respect only accorded to the senior pastor. Everyone had a kind message after service.

“God is setting you up for greater heights.”

“Mary and Peter are in a better place.”

“God takes his angels first.”

“Your continued faith in Christ is what kept me from backsliding.”

Pastor Bamidele could still feel the searing irritation as he listened to the youth pastor, Chris, preach on submission to God’s perfect will.

“We never know what God has in plan for us,” Pastor Chris bellowed. “Trials and tribulations make us stronger and prepared for his kingdom.”

Pastor Bamidele couldn’t help but feel that the sermon was directed at him especially given the side glances Pastor Chris threw his way from time to time. Pastor Bamidele reciprocated with a smile and affirmative nod of the head even though, inwardly, he felt like strangling him.

Pastor Bamidele started to feel uncomfortable after a few minutes. He could feel the slight twitch in his hand and knew it was time to take another dose of his self-prescribed medication. He excused himself from the fellowship and made for his office on the top floor of the huge church building. Locking the door behind him, he brought out the cocaine from the hidden compartment of his wallet, drew a line on the desk, and sniffed it. He used his index finger to swipe the residue from the desk before licking it off with his tongue. It tasted good; very good. He felt his hands steady as he sat down to prepare his Sunday sermon.

He went over the theme of the message, ‘Blind Obedience to God.’ The story of Jonah and his three days in the belly of a great fish would fit perfectly with the theme. He scoffed as he read the passage again, checking for errors and practising his opener. Perhaps he should throw in a soulful worship song and say that he saw a vision of his wife and son in heaven. The congregation would be sure to go wild with praises. He giggled at the thought.

He was really looking forward to this sermon—the third since the accident. What would come afterwards? he thought. He had bought his first gram of cocaine after his first sermon. He only had to approach Chief Thomas and explain his situation. Everyone in the congregation knew Chief Thomas was a drug baron but feigned ignorance. After all, he invested the proceeds of his crime in propagating the good news through tithes and sponsorships. It was after the second sermon that Pastor Bamidele discovered the porn site and started picking up the women who stood outside the Ikoyi strip clubs. He wondered what new interest he would pick after his third sermon.

***

It was 7 AM on a Sunday morning. Pastor Bamidele stood in front of the mirror, staring at himself in his cuffed all-black native attire. He had struggled to put the cufflinks on that morning. Mary had always helped him with them. There was a hint of surprise in his eyes as he looked at his shrunken face and hollow eyes that had gone red from weeks of crying. He had changed so much in the past six months, too much to reveal. Now he had to put on masks, each day a different one. Today, he wore the mask of a spiritual leader; the mask of a believer.

He left the house at 7.30 AM, leaving enough time to go over the sermon one more time in his office before making his way into the church auditorium. He felt a slight twitch in his hands and double-checked that the sachet of cocaine was still in his wallet. He remembered his Bible as he locked the front door and recalled that he had been looking for it the night before. He ran back into the house, searched the living room and bedroom for a spare Bible and was surprised to find the one gifted to him by the Youth Church a year ago in Peter’s room. It was a different version from his preferred NIV, and he could only hope that his own Bible was in his office in the church; but looking at his watch, he realised he wouldn’t even have the time now to check.

***

Pastor Bamidele sat on the third seat of the first row, as was the custom for anyone about to preach. He sat next to the senior pastor, Pastor Bode, and clasped his hands together when they started shaking. It was testimony time and the next programme—in ten minutes time—was to be the Sunday sermon. Bamidele knew he couldn’t give the sermon in that state. No way was he going to embarrass himself before the entire church. Turning to Pastor Bode, he asked to be excused to use the toilet. Pastor Bode nodded his permission even though he couldn’t help but worry at Pastor Bamidele’s anxious state.

Pastor Bamidele walked briskly towards the toilet deliberating restraining himself from breaking into a run as the trailing eyes of concerned members followed him. He locked himself in one of the toilet’s cubicles and brought out the sachet of cocaine from his wallet. Most of it spilt onto the floor as his shaky hands ripped open the tiny piece of nylon. He cursed loudly as he eyed what was left in his hands. It would be enough to see him the sermon, he thought. Using the tissue paper on the toilet’s tank cover, he bent down to wipe away the spilt cocaine and then used his right foot to spread the rest of it all over the floor. He flushed the cocaine-wrapped tissue and exited the cubicle for a hand wash.

Staring at his reflection in the toilet’s washbasin, he noticed some white powder on his moustache and wiped it off. His hands steadied first; his breathing followed. He glanced at his watch—five minutes left. He stared at himself again in the mirror, this time with more attention to the details of his face. He smiled, frowned, and grinned as he practised the various facial expressions he would use as he delivered the sermon.

He walked back into the church, much to the relief of Pastor Bode who was rounding up prayers for the week’s testifiers of ‘God’s goodness and mercy.’

Pastor Bode soon began the routine introduction.

“Today we have a special message from a man of God who, as you all know, is more like a son to me. You are all aware of his recent trials and tribulations, but God and our prayers have helped him overcome. Many of us would fall if they experienced anything remotely close to the challenges God has put in his way. Like Job, God is setting him up for greater things. Please welcome our beloved son and man of God, Pastor Bamidele Oladeji.”

The congregation erupted into wild cheers accompanied by clapping that lasted for five minutes. Pastor Bamidele made his way to the pulpit, thanking Pastor Bode who handed him the microphone.

He stood still for a moment, a smile on his face, as he waited for the cheers and applause to subside. The applause soon died down, leaving a tense silence in its wake. Pastor Bamidele’s sermons always left an effect on the congregation, one that seemed to wake them up from their spiritual slumber, if only for a few hours.

He began by widening his grin, taking in the moment.

Photo: Thiago Barletta

“Men and women of God, how una dey?”

“We dey!” the energised congregation chorused.

“I said how una dey?”

“We dey!” The chorus was even louder.

“God is good! Turn to your neighbour and say God is good,” Pastor Bamidele said as he began to turn his bible to the book of Jonah.

“Today we are going to look at the character of Jonah,” he paused and raised his head up from his Bible, “the man who thought he could escape the Lord.”

He could see the attentive faces and synchronous nods.

“Who here thinks they can escape the Lord? Turn to your neighbour and ask, do you think you can escape God.”

The congregation obeyed and a wave of murmurs and giggles rent the air. Then something happened that Pastor Bamidele had not prepared for in his many rehearsals.

Just as he released his hand from the Bible, the standing fan beside the pulpit rotated towards him flipping the pages of the Bible. As he made to flip back to the book story of Jonah,  Pastor Bamidele saw a piece of paper carefully tucked into the edge of the flipped page. He fell into silence at the sight of the childish scribble on a small piece of paper, as the audience looked on curiously. Pastor Bamidele quickly recognised the writing as that of his little boy, Peter. The note read— Dad, so sori bout the milk yestiday. Plis forgve me.

Bamidele was unable to move or speak as tears rapidly formed in his eyes. The message was from eight months ago when he was angry at Peter for spilling the powdered milk Mary had bought for breakfast. He had scolded Peter harshly and left the house angry.

He glanced up, noticing the nervous and worried stares from the congregation.

Adjusting his tie, he began to speak again. “So, as I was saying erm…”

He sighed, his hands still adjusting the tie as he tried to regain his composure.

“The Lord is erm, faithful you know—”

Pastor Bamidele paused, his head bent as the tears trickled to the pages of the bible. He threw his head back and began to laugh—an incoherent, almost maniacal, laughter as he fixed his gaze on the perplexed and anxious audience.

“The church, the church, the church,” Pastor Bamidele began, shaking his head. “You know, I wonder why we even bother with all this.” He waved his arm in the air, gesturing at the choir and congregation. “I wonder why we lie to ourselves so much. The hypocrisy, the vanity, the jealousy, and the immorality that we all try to hide from ourselves. If God indeed exists, then He should kill us all!”

Gasps and murmurs rent the air.

“We lie to ourselves that God is testing our faith,” Pastor Bamidele continued, “setting us up for greater blessings when indeed we are either unlucky or unfortunate to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—when indeed chance determines much of our fate.

“But who is God really? Someone who watches over us? Who knows our every thought? Who knows what will happen before it happens? Oh, what a pathetic joke! Why would such a being bring into the world a sweet innocent child and take him away just to test the faith of his father? Who can be so sick and cruel to put a child through such pain and agony only to set his father up for greater blessings? I will tell you this, such a person can only be described as sadistic and callous.

“But when we give testimonies, as we have done today, can we not recognise the stupidity and blatant hypocrisy in what we are saying? Only a cheat would thank God for revealing the answers to them a day before the exam. Only a fool will attribute the results of surgery to the man in the sky, leaving out entirely the decades of experience of the doctors and nurses involved.

“There will never be enough prayers to fix the bad roads that lead to so many accidents every year. And—abeg, wait—did I just hear a testimony from this crooked politician about winning an election?” He pointed to a bald, pot-bellied man in the front row wearing a white agbada. “Surely, we all know the number of people that died as a result of his so-called call to power by the Lord Almighty.” He paused as his eyes scanned the shell-shocked congregation.

“Speaking in tongues will not heal your sick child. You are just speaking gibberish. Singing praises will not get you that job or promotion you seek, just learn to work harder. It’s all a big fucking joke! We are our only saviours. The sooner we accept this, the better our society will be. This is today’s sermon and thank you all for listening.”

Besides a few gasps here and there, the church remained silent. Even the babies were not crying. Pastor Bamidele could feel his heavy breathing slowing. It was as though a heavy object had been lifted from his chest. He stared at the audience, their faces covered in shock and bewilderment. Even Pastor Bode was too shocked to leave his seat.

Pastor Bamidele stepped down from the pulpit, only taking his son’s note. He walked towards the exit of the church, aware of the heads that turned as he walked past. His peripheral vision caught a few hesitant nods of the head, as though in agreement with the sermon—but only a few.

***

Pastor Bamidele got home that late afternoon, ignoring the many calls that came in. He switched off his phone and brought out the rope he had bought five months earlier. He had learnt from some videos he found online all he needed to know. It was called the taut-line hitch, a rope tying technique that one could easily adjust according to the circumference of the object of its hold—his neck.

“I will join you soon,” he said, smiling at the picture of his family as he stood on a chair with the rope firmly secured around his neck.

He kicked the chair from underneath his feet and stopped jerking only a few moments later.

About the author

Damilola Olagunju is a 24-year-old graduate of Computer Science who reads an unhealthy amount of horror and romance novels. She lives in Lagos, Nigeria.