If I say I hate today pastors, someone will misunderstand me and call me antichrist.
Those who know me well, know one thing that I seldom lack. And that's fried groundnuts. If you come to my house and you don't see a bottle of it ontop of my fridge, know that I'm in dire need of help. Know that I'm in my lowest ebb and might not have had a meal for days.
Mama Amaka made sure of its constant supply. Hers is special. Sweet. No sands.
She always had a large table, full of assorted nuts and fruits. Groundnuts. Coconuts. Cashew nuts. Bambara nuts, in its season. Banana. Oranges. Pineapple. Pawpaw. Watermelon. Avocado. Udara, in its season.
She sold them only in the evenings, by the roadside.
I spent every Sunday evening at her stand, with her and her children. Three of them. I'd spend from seven to nine, licking oranges as she peeled them and casting the seeds at some passersby; those I knew and some harmless-looking beautiful girls who caught my attention. Little Amaka would be dishing out words far beyond her age.
'Sir, if they come and beat you, we won't help you o!' And we'd all laugh and giggle.
Later in the night, I'd walk home with my bottle of groundnuts gripped in my armpit. Joyful. Relieved, then of the pressure of medical school.
We all looked forward to every Sunday evening.
Surprisingly, Mama Amaka's table began to diminish. Until she no longer came out to sell. For over two months, I couldn't see her or the children. Neither did she make me groundnuts.
I was still in school one evening when Mama Amaka called.
'Good evening, sir. It's Mama Amaka sir. Sir...' He voice quivered.
Mama Amaka used to flash me only. And we both knew what it meant; that my bottle of groundnuts was ready for a pick. With her call, I knew there was a problem. So I cut the line to call back later.
Mama Amaka told the ugly story of how she had fallen into the trap of one Richers Initiative Social Empowerment Developement (RISED), a supposed financial institution at Stone House, Afikpo Road, Abakaliki. The fraudsters had promised everyone double of any amount of money they deposited after a period of one month. People swam at them including Mama Amaka. And then one morning after one month, on April 8, 20017, everyone woke up to see that they had disappeared without a trace. It took a keen eye to even recognize the very room they had occupied.
That was how Mama Amaka lost her had-earned #50,000, the backbone of her business and family sustenance.
Governor David Nweze Umahi had visited the wailing victims at the Stone House and rained promises like libations, none of which was kept. All of which have been forgotten.
Mama Amaka couldn't endure the devastation anymore. Hence she called me.
Mama Amaka's plight had broken my heart. I had felt angry too for her ignorance and gullibility and quest for quick riches. She never knew what I did for a living. She didn't know that I was then a student. But telling her wasn't going to provide the solution for their hunger and hopelessness. I was ashamed. And to 'kill' me more was that I kept seeing little Amaka each time I went near their street. And no matter how I dodged, she would run to me, shouting 'Good evening, sir. Good afternoon, sir.'
Her innocence humiliated me. I became uncomfortable and as much helpless too.
I made up my mind to save to help Mama Amaka.
To cut the story short, I was able to raise some money. I called Mama Amaka to make a list of all she needed to start her business in full again.
She couldn't believe her eyes when I gave her the money and told her she needed not to pay back. Little Amaka was the first to jump up and hug me. And the rest of the children took their turn.
I had never felt happier. We resumed our lives.
But my happiness was short-lived.
About a month after, Mama Amaka stopped coming out on Sunday evenings. I called two Sundays later to know why, and Mama Amaka told me that she had stopped selling on Sundays. She narrated that a certain pastor had prophesied to her one Sunday evening after buying some banana from her, and had warned her never to sell again on Sundays.
Mama Amaka knew herself that she sold more on Sunday evenings as people had more time to come out to buy fruits including myself. There was nothing I couldn't say both from logical and biblical views to assure her that it was no sin to sell on Sunday but the pastor had planted in her such a terrible seed of fear and woes if she ever sold again on Sundays.
This pastor bought banana from her on a Sunday. Mama Amaka herself admitted that she always buys condiments at the market for food on Sundays. I told her of Jesus Christ healing on a Sabbath day and of Him plucking in the fields on a Sabbath day too. Yet Mama Amaka didn't heed my counsel. She had agreed on phone to, but I never saw her on Sunday evening again.
Two months have passed and Mama Amaka's table has diminished again. No groundnuts. No watermelon. No avocado. No eggs. No banana. No cashew nuts. Only a handful of oranges.
I saw little Amaka last Saturday and she told me that they no longer worship in Catholic Church. She said her Mum was the chief ursher in the new church they now worship at, and that the church belongs to the pastor who had warned them against selling on Sundays.
What could I tell this little one? What could little Amaka do to change her mother's mind?
I knew that tithing, offering, seed-sowing, pledging and timelessness had taken their monstrous tolls on Mama Chioma's business and finances and plunged her back into poverty, to the boon and boom of that very end-time pastor.
I've been angry and feeling so disappointed. But I know that I've done my best to make them smile as my spirit led me. And I don't regret the sacrifices I made. Neither will I stop.
I've only being wondering, from who do we run these days; the devil or the pastor? Which do we cast into the bottomless pit? Or are these two just synonyms? And how can we make the least of us realize this menace?
God help us!
Those who know me well, know one thing that I seldom lack. And that's fried groundnuts. If you come to my house and you don't see a bottle of it ontop of my fridge, know that I'm in dire need of help. Know that I'm in my lowest ebb and might not have had a meal for days.
Mama Amaka made sure of its constant supply. Hers is special. Sweet. No sands.
She always had a large table, full of assorted nuts and fruits. Groundnuts. Coconuts. Cashew nuts. Bambara nuts, in its season. Banana. Oranges. Pineapple. Pawpaw. Watermelon. Avocado. Udara, in its season.
She sold them only in the evenings, by the roadside.
I spent every Sunday evening at her stand, with her and her children. Three of them. I'd spend from seven to nine, licking oranges as she peeled them and casting the seeds at some passersby; those I knew and some harmless-looking beautiful girls who caught my attention. Little Amaka would be dishing out words far beyond her age.
'Sir, if they come and beat you, we won't help you o!' And we'd all laugh and giggle.
Later in the night, I'd walk home with my bottle of groundnuts gripped in my armpit. Joyful. Relieved, then of the pressure of medical school.
We all looked forward to every Sunday evening.
Surprisingly, Mama Amaka's table began to diminish. Until she no longer came out to sell. For over two months, I couldn't see her or the children. Neither did she make me groundnuts.
I was still in school one evening when Mama Amaka called.
'Good evening, sir. It's Mama Amaka sir. Sir...' He voice quivered.
Mama Amaka used to flash me only. And we both knew what it meant; that my bottle of groundnuts was ready for a pick. With her call, I knew there was a problem. So I cut the line to call back later.
Mama Amaka told the ugly story of how she had fallen into the trap of one Richers Initiative Social Empowerment Developement (RISED), a supposed financial institution at Stone House, Afikpo Road, Abakaliki. The fraudsters had promised everyone double of any amount of money they deposited after a period of one month. People swam at them including Mama Amaka. And then one morning after one month, on April 8, 20017, everyone woke up to see that they had disappeared without a trace. It took a keen eye to even recognize the very room they had occupied.
That was how Mama Amaka lost her had-earned #50,000, the backbone of her business and family sustenance.
Governor David Nweze Umahi had visited the wailing victims at the Stone House and rained promises like libations, none of which was kept. All of which have been forgotten.
Mama Amaka couldn't endure the devastation anymore. Hence she called me.
Mama Amaka's plight had broken my heart. I had felt angry too for her ignorance and gullibility and quest for quick riches. She never knew what I did for a living. She didn't know that I was then a student. But telling her wasn't going to provide the solution for their hunger and hopelessness. I was ashamed. And to 'kill' me more was that I kept seeing little Amaka each time I went near their street. And no matter how I dodged, she would run to me, shouting 'Good evening, sir. Good afternoon, sir.'
Her innocence humiliated me. I became uncomfortable and as much helpless too.
I made up my mind to save to help Mama Amaka.
To cut the story short, I was able to raise some money. I called Mama Amaka to make a list of all she needed to start her business in full again.
She couldn't believe her eyes when I gave her the money and told her she needed not to pay back. Little Amaka was the first to jump up and hug me. And the rest of the children took their turn.
I had never felt happier. We resumed our lives.
But my happiness was short-lived.
About a month after, Mama Amaka stopped coming out on Sunday evenings. I called two Sundays later to know why, and Mama Amaka told me that she had stopped selling on Sundays. She narrated that a certain pastor had prophesied to her one Sunday evening after buying some banana from her, and had warned her never to sell again on Sundays.
Mama Amaka knew herself that she sold more on Sunday evenings as people had more time to come out to buy fruits including myself. There was nothing I couldn't say both from logical and biblical views to assure her that it was no sin to sell on Sunday but the pastor had planted in her such a terrible seed of fear and woes if she ever sold again on Sundays.
This pastor bought banana from her on a Sunday. Mama Amaka herself admitted that she always buys condiments at the market for food on Sundays. I told her of Jesus Christ healing on a Sabbath day and of Him plucking in the fields on a Sabbath day too. Yet Mama Amaka didn't heed my counsel. She had agreed on phone to, but I never saw her on Sunday evening again.
Two months have passed and Mama Amaka's table has diminished again. No groundnuts. No watermelon. No avocado. No eggs. No banana. No cashew nuts. Only a handful of oranges.
I saw little Amaka last Saturday and she told me that they no longer worship in Catholic Church. She said her Mum was the chief ursher in the new church they now worship at, and that the church belongs to the pastor who had warned them against selling on Sundays.
What could I tell this little one? What could little Amaka do to change her mother's mind?
I knew that tithing, offering, seed-sowing, pledging and timelessness had taken their monstrous tolls on Mama Chioma's business and finances and plunged her back into poverty, to the boon and boom of that very end-time pastor.
I've been angry and feeling so disappointed. But I know that I've done my best to make them smile as my spirit led me. And I don't regret the sacrifices I made. Neither will I stop.
I've only being wondering, from who do we run these days; the devil or the pastor? Which do we cast into the bottomless pit? Or are these two just synonyms? And how can we make the least of us realize this menace?
God help us!
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