Been a while I did this, but stumbled upon this old story and though I should share... Twill be going on simultaneously on my blog, yea like a step ahead there, so I would urge y'all to warm up that place too.

Show me some love with your comments. Tell me what you think and say it how it is... I believe we can learn one or two things from each other. So here we go with Deception.


And the blog is

www.goldentouchcorner..com

How can I now claim to have been joking that fateful evening? When I remember the earnestness with which my message was received, the fervent shouts of hallelujah that rang forth from multiple throats, the obvious awe with which fellow congregants then regarded me, I doubt if I can ever come out true about this.
I didn’t have to make such an expensive joke, not when I knew what the consequences could be. I guess I wasn’t even sure of the weightiness of my message. The act was soon on, and I just had to keep up appearances. Water, when spilled, they say, can never be recovered; at least never in full. This was the case for once those first words escaped my lips, and I beheld the reaction of my fellow worshippers, the act had to continue.

Maybe I’m beginning to beat around the bush, but what other way can I effectively communicate my remorse at an act that led to the deprivation of another’s freedom. This isn’t intended in any way to justify my buffoonery, but simply to empty my heart of this secret, the remembrance of which has long kept me in distress. Length of time, weight and height, amongst others, are relative, so what I regard as long may actually be short for others. I am talking about five weeks here, five weeks of secrecy, five weeks of living a lie, five weeks of sometimes wishing I could just disappear rather than hear the inaccurate references to my spiritual emancipation. They believe I have the gift, the ability to see beyond this terrestrial plane, and I won’t be surprised if they start approaching soon with requests to help cast my privileged gaze into the success or otherwise of their aspirations. I who can’t see beyond my nose!

Enough of the digression; what really happened that day?

Having been born into a family reputed to have produced one of the first Christian converts in my village, it was naturally expected that we would belong to same faith. But over the years, the ascetic approach to Christianity, as passed onto my great-grandfather’s generation by the Whiteman, had given way to a more convenient and exciting mix of Christian and African traditional religious elements. We loved the drumming which the Whiteman seemed so averse to; we loved the frenzied dancing and hollering which we felt charged the divine into action, we also loved the burning of incenses and other scents which we believed either attracted or dispelled spirits according to their good or bad inclinations. These explained why three generations down the line a major part of my extended family had made the switch from the Anglican Church, into which my grandfather’s dad was baptized, to the white garment donning group of worshippers popularly referred to as the Aladura, which translated as the praying group. My father was one of them and so was I by birth.
Every Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays, we would file to attend our worship services, with my parents at the rear of the file and my youngest sibling, John, leading the procession. I, the eldest of three kids, will be third in the file, nudging on my immediate younger brother, Peter, every now and then. We would all be clad in our white garments, like cattle egrets – as some friends jocularly described us, marching on with jolly countenances, while wary of the teasing breeze suddenly upping the ante and blowing up our light garments and exposing our underwears. My friends didn’t know the right name for that bird though, and would usually use the locally derived appellation, leke-leke. Thus, it wasn’t unusual for a friend to say: “I saw your family on Wednesday going to church like leke-leke in the dry season,” and others will respond with resounding laughter. I didn’t like that description, didn’t like the jesting laughter that followed and couldn’t really claim to like the church. But that was as much as I was without it. Once within those white-painted walls, with all the adornments hanging around, it felt like I was in another world, another realm where the spirit held sway.

Go one step ahead here: https://goldentouchcorner..com

I like this already.
The first paragraphs set the tone for this piece, and undeniably it piqued my interest.
What happens next? I wait.

Johnglefury! What a furious moniker. Thanks for the patience. I am eager to be done too...

Bring it on, Ohibenemma. Imagine doing this in church!
But I think I know where this story is going to...and E go badt sha.

observer88:
Bring it on, Ohibenemma. Imagine doing this in church!

But I think I know where this story is going to...and E go badt sha.

Haba! You for wait for church to close nau.

I'm sorry I couldn't update again today. Sundays can be busy sometimes, especially with the lockdown on the church lifted in Lagos.

Catch ya tomorrow.

And the show continues...


And you needed to see those adornments to understand what I’m talking about. From the entrance door, the one we knew as the western door in the Anglican Church, one was greeted by the dazzling lights from the chandeliers in the altar. Beside these chandeliers, reflecting their radiance were decorative frills of gold coloured satin, hung from the ceiling. These frills were replicated all around the church hall, complementing the glow from the lights and chandeliers with their reflections. There were also the gold lettered plaques on the walls, of notable quotes, so considered by our church leaders, with some of them framed with multi-coloured lights and others with reflective material. The balusters around the altar weren't spared either. They were all wrapped with reflective gold material. Then there were the fluorescent statutes mounted here and there and the candles strategically lit all around the hall. These all combined to give off this brilliant extravagance that anyone on entering the church couldn’t help feeling cut off from the world without.

Yet, it was in this ambience the world in me still shone through.

An important feature in our worship sessions are the drums. These aren't the foreign made, plastic drumhead drum-sets, but solid African drums with skilfully carved wooden hollow cylinders and drumheads of choice animal skin. They are played with bare hands, by drummers so dexterous in the act that none can help but dance when they are at it. These dances aren't the easygoing European steps, but energetic, bone shaking, leaps and twirls sure to draw the sweat out of performers. Such dance steps take on hyper dimensions when the worshipper is under the spirit. And it wasn’t unusual to see worshippers go under the spirit in my church. In fact, it was something highly anticipated.

At this time, the worshipper will commence violent and frenzied twisting; leaping with so much vigour that it will be obvious he is being controlled by extraterrestrial forces. Then the howls and moans will come on, at which the leader of the congregation, who had been dancing around sprinkling holy water from a can in his hand, will signal for attention. The spirit wants to speak. They always listened, with great anticipation in their eyes. And such persons, after some usually vague prophecies, would assume a reverential status. The leader will refer to them as vessels, a set apart group to henceforth enjoy certain privileges.

I had witnessed this scene so many times that I couldn’t help imagining how it would feel being the centre of attraction myself. Others were pulling it off; why couldn’t I? And so the plan was conceived. But I had this fear about our leader. What if the heavily bearded man saw through my ruse? What if the spirit alerted him to the fakery of my stunt? I wasn’t to be deterred anyway. Didn’t they say winners were simply those who tried and succeeded? Was there any hope of success if one didn’t make a try in the first place? I reassured myself on the prospects of my mission and resolved to carry it through.

To be continued...

Nice update, Ohibenemma. Let's have more.

Ohibenemma:
Thanks, Observer88 ; but does it mean there's no one else viewing this? There's virtually been no comment from anyone else! Maybe...

The stats state otherwise, but people may be awaiting the end of the story before commenting.

Just bring it on, oga

observer88:
The stats state otherwise, but people may be awaiting the end of the story before commenting.

Just bring it on, oga

Yea, I know that, but it's kinda unmotivating... I'll continue, after all I have shot it off already.

But I'm way ahead at my new blog; you may check it out...

www.goldentouchcorner..com

Subscribe and drop ya comment, pls....

The rehearsal sessions weren't easy – those dance steps, twists and moans that usually preceded the revelation, they just had to be convincingly pulled off. I had to ensure that that my preparations were off the public eye too, speaking of which I meant the members of my family. My father was usually off to his place of work before anyone else had even bathed and was rarely back before 5pm, so he wasn’t a problem. My mum was usually engaged for most of the late afternoons, as that time appeared the peak period of patronage in her little kiosk, just beside the house, where she engaged in petty trading. She wasn’t going to be much of a problem too. John wasn’t going to be a problem; he was usually beside his mum for the most of the day after school hours, and was probably too young to understand even if he walked in on me. The problem was Peter. At nine, and four years my junior, he was quite a smart kid. He had been involved in most of the mischief in the neighbourhood and knew one thing too many about virtually everybody around. He knew who was dating who, who was heavily indebted, who was having extra-marital affairs and who was involved in some illegal business and was using the legitimate one as a smokescreen. It was from him, then eight, I learnt that Baba Mayowa, who owned two houses just a stone’s throw from ours, wasn’t the real father of Mayowa as he was impotent. My mum had severely rebuked him that day for making such a wild claim, but we were all present when, two weeks later, a man had arrived in a Toyota Camry, and after an angry spat with Baba Mayowa, had left with the boy of seven. Mama Mayowa had been in tears through it all, pleading with both men to take it easy. We had expected the marriage to break up soon afterwards, but a year after, the union was still intact. It was from Peter I had learnt that Elizabeth, the nerdish, bespectacled daughter of Dr and Mrs Matthews, another of our neighbours, wasn’t as innocent as she appeared. Theirs was one of the fenced in houses on our street and the kids lived a sheltered life. I had given it no further thought until the day Peter had called me to witness a spat between her and a fellow neighbourhood girl.

“I am tired of this aimless exchange,” the other girl had said heatedly as we approached them, “the next time I catch you with my boyfriend, someone will definitely be sorry.”

Elizabeth had wanted to reply in like manner, but when she discovered our advance, the words had stuck in her throat.

“Talk to me!” The other girl had barked, perceiving the cause of her hesitation. “You think you can deceive everyone with your glasses and pretentious manner?”

I had resolved, as we left the scene soon afterwards, never to take any claim of Peter’s lightly again.

So Peter was the problem. He would be quick to form valid conjectures if he caught me mimicking our leader or one of the vessels’ leaps and twists. He was that smart. Even if he failed to catch it at that initial stage, he would be the first to connect the lines and link the eventual act with the rehearsals. I needed to be very careful.

But my plans weren't to be deterred. I had to make extra effort against being caught out and it worked. The preparation was seamless and I was soon ready; soon ready to become a vessel.

To be continued...

Meet us up @ www.goldentouchcorner..com

I am glad you are continuing here, though I done port to the other side too.

Let me contribute these mentions to your ministry:

Kimbrielle, Millieademi, Nigerianization, DEIFIED, Khrizstarl, bada007, Chigold101, Gfon, Preshob, Raydans, Shytreasure, iamoyindamola, DonDemu, Wizdray, DonBrutus, Boomzaga, Swaqsultan, Ixorat, Backwardneva, Yujiz, question, jemmal, kolenda, chinnasa, Halyma, Jadden, Maysonkaycares, Klass99Maysonkaycares, Faithfulmartins

We are following oooo....

observer88:
I am glad you are continuing here, though I done port to the other side too.

Let me contribute these mentions to your ministry:

Kimbrielle, Millieademi, Nigerianization, DEIFIED, Khrizstarl, bada007, Chigold101, Gfon, Preshob, Raydans, Shytreasure, iamoyindamola, DonDemu, Wizdray, DonBrutus, Boomzaga, Swaqsultan, Ixorat, Backwardneva, Yujiz, question, jemmal, kolenda, chinnasa, Halyma, Jadden, Maysonkaycares, Klass99Maysonkaycares, Faithfulmartins

Thanks bro/sis.

stancydg:
We are following oooo....

You're welcome, ma'am.

We yaf almost reach the end nau. But you can get it all over with @ www.goldentouchcorner..com.

Now, I can’t state what led to my choice of prophecy, but can mischief really be explained? Her name was Rukayat, a daughter to a Muslim mother and a Christian father. Her dad attended some of our worship sessions, though he was of the Methodist church. Our leader had helped him, it was rumoured, when he was having problems with his business. In what form the help had come, I wasn’t told, but help it was anyway. The man was in church that day with this beautiful daughter of his, their occasionally used garments more resplendent than those of many other members of the congregation. Whether it was envy, I can’t tell now, but I knew my prophecy had found a target the moment I sighted them walk past the entrance door that evening.

The worship session was soon on, with heavy percussive accompaniment as usual. In fact, the drummers seemed to up the ante that evening. I looked around, at the white garmented bodies moving in ecstatic animation as they raised their voices, singing in unison; I looked at the leader who was busy jumping around, sprinkling holy water on the members of the congregation with some receiving these drops with exaggerated fervour; I checked around to make sure none of the vessels was already at it or seemingly about to as that would have lessened the impact of my act. The coast was clear. Without further ado I leapt and landed with an agility that would send even a seasoned martial artist green with envy. The ongoing song then was:

Wole wa, wole wa O
Emi oke, ewole wa O

This translated thus:

Come enter, come enter
Spirit on high, come enter

It was the perfect song for the moment and had been one of the most featured songs in my rehearsal sessions. I leaped a second time and landed with my face contorted and my eyes tightly shut. As expected, the voices around me stopped singing and the tempo of the drums dropped. I knew this was at the leader’s beckoning. The spirit wanted to speak.

After some convulsive jerks, some howls and moans, all with my eyes still tightly shut, I opened my lips to issue forth those highly anticipated pronouncements.

“Holy Michael! Holy Uriel! It isn’t encountering the battle that matters, but that the battle will always end up the Lord’s. I see the ups and downs, but the Lord has promised us the victory. Yes, I see it so clearly now, holy!” I paused for effect, the church was dead silent. Even a pin drop would have been heard some metres away. The congregation obviously desired to hear what I had to say. I proceeded to another round of convulsive motions: “Holy Michael! Holy Gabriel! Holy!” I loved the sound of my voice as the hall reverberated with it. I would have loved to see the expression on my dad’s face, on Peter’s face especially, but knew I could give myself away if I
opened my eyes. What if Peter had on one of those funny expressions of his and I couldn’t resist the resultant urge to laugh? No vessel had burst into laughter in the middle of a prophecy before; I wasn’t going to be the first.

“They want to drink your blood and dine on your flesh, but our God can’t allow it!” I had resumed speaking, but wasn’t oblivious of the grunts of awe at the mysterious workings of God. “Their plan was to have you for supper within the next seven days, but the Lord led your footsteps here today. Hallelu…!”

“Hallelujah!”

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Following ooo
ThankGod uve repented

Hallelujah!”

I repeated the hallelujah cue two more times before continuing the prophecy: “I don’t know how, but the spirit is emphatic that they had mounted barricades on all fronts for you. There are barricades everywhere – in your trips, school and all, but thank God our leader has been praying for you…” At this point, I knew I just had to give the prophecy a focal point. “Rukayat, the Lord will help you…”

Her dad’s voice broke out, suddenly like he had bottled up the opinion for long: “I knew it! I knew it had to be her…” But he was hushed before he could complete his statement.

What a miracle! What a hit! I had to do all I could not to break into a smile, a triumphant one. I had picked the right person and said the very right things so far. I knew I had stretched my luck to its limits, but it wasn’t going to be easy pulling off at that point. And where would have been the mischief in my soul had I done that? It had been done before, from what I had heard, so it wasn’t too difficult making my next statement.

“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty,” I quoted from the ninety-first chapter of the Biblical book of Psalms, “you don’t have to be afraid, for in God’s presence there is liberty…”
“Hallelujah!” That was her dad’s voice again. The restraints hadn’t worked after all.

I continued: “Seven days they had proposed to finish you, but the Lord will prove himself by finishing them in seven days…” I was interrupted once again by multiple shouts of hallelujah. This provided me another opportunity to make some more convulsive jerks and twitch my face as I was set to deliver the final salvo. “That can be possible only in God’s presence, Rukayat. Seven days, you must remain in this church or the forces against you may have the final laugh. I am the Lord, I changeth not.” I let those final words out in a diminuendo, signalling the end of the prophecy.

As if to be sure I was done, the leader allowed some seconds of silence before clearing his throat and shouting: “Hallelu…!”

“Hallelujah!” The congregation responded with equal zeal. I thought I could hear Rukayat’s dad’s voice above the chorus.

The leader repeated the cue two more times and the congregational response was successively louder. I was on cloud nine, and still wonder how I was able to keep on my feet as my legs had virtually gone rubbery.

Continues shortly

Please visit www.goldentouchcorner..com now. Read and drop your comments...

And now, the final salvo for Deception

It was later I got to hear the full story. Olaide Jegede, Rukayat’s dad had twice dreamt of his daughter being hacked down in unusual circumstances. In the first of these, he had been called to a morgue to confirm if he knew the corpse just brought in. There had been a huge gash on her forehead and several bruises on her body. Even her dress was torn in different places. The mortuary attendant was saying something about a car accident when he woke up. The second wasn’t much different, only that instead of a morgue, he had found Rukayat’s corpse in an open field with gashes all over her. He had kept these dreams to himself, but had intended revealing them to our leader the very day of my prophetic act. It was for this reason he had swallowed my sham hook line and sinker, it was for this reason he had requested a meeting with me the very next day.

My dad had driven us to his beautiful bungalow the next weekend, and we had left the place about an hour after our arrival with two baskets of assorted groceries, placed in the car boot by Rukayat’s grateful mum. What was more, Olaide Jegede had offered to fund my education until my first degree. And Rukayat had already spent a couple of days in the church, inhaling those incenses, engaging in those tiring prayer sessions and chanting those ritualistic hallelujahs!

You should understand my plight now; it is just like living a big lie, one I don’t see myself coming out of anytime soon. Maybe my mischief was for good after all, as Rukayat is still alive and strong; maybe the spirit had actually used me, unknown to me. But how can I stop my pulse racing whenever I stumble across Rukayat or any of her parents? How can I stop the discomfort into which I’m thrown whenever the subject of my spiritual exploit is broached in my presence? How no one, especially the leader, has discovered my fraud is something that beats me. The heavily bearded man sometimes regards me with this funny look that I start wondering if he hadn’t discovered my fraud, but the ensuing words soon reveal his actual impression – raw admiration.

Aside Peter, virtually everyone treats me differently now. If they could be so easily misled by my act, could it be that the many claims of supernatural interventions out there are mere deceptions? Now I wonder if the problem is with the religion we received from the Whiteman, or could our version of it have become fake?

We have commenced a new story @ www.goldentouchcorner..com titled Magdalene.


What happens when a young man decides to visit his romantic interest in her church ten years after he last attended one?

It's funny, serious and even annoying...

Check it out on the blog...

this I know... everything that has happened so far is not beyond the knowledge of God, but not all has he approved. we humans sometimes try to find "our" kind of solution to problems. but because God is God... his will shall be done. to you it was a craft, but God done see you finish , so no qualms.
Faith is what is really important and not religion. Religion is full of rituals that only tend to amour the physical. A "real" shepherd will lead the flock by faith through Christ to God and not by religious obligations.

good write up, thanks for sharing.

Nice write up I must confess

Chai! Thumbs up, OP! I'll be back for a review. Can you post "Magdalene" here too?

Good write up man

Faith is "believing is seeing", as against the natural empirical way of "seeing is believing". The humans who manifest God's Power are those who are perfecting trusting what God through His Spirit drops in their spirits to do or tell. That's why we call them MOG's. The rest are mostly sense ruled, hence there's a barrier stepping down the high voltage flow like a transformer. Yours was a case of "all things work together...", even though you planned to deceive. Therefore, it isn't correct to think everyone has been like that. They've simply been demonstrating more faith by being more Spiritually minded, even though those theatrics may be unnecessary and just mere religion.

You write well.

Odoogu:
this I know... everything that has happened so far is not beyond the knowledge of God, but not all has he approved. we humans sometimes try to find "our" kind of solution to problems. but because God is God... his will shall be done. to you it was a craft, but God done see you finish , so no qualms.
Faith is what is really important and not religion. Religion is full of rituals that only tend to amour the physical. A "real" shepherd will lead the flock by faith through Christ to God and not by religious obligations.

good write up, thanks for sharing.

Hmmm, deep insight there! Of course, the foolishness of the foolish can be used to confound the wisdom of the wise.

Jerry59:
Nice write up I must confess

Thanks

observer88:
Chai! Thumbs up, OP! I'll be back for a review. Can you post "Magdalene" here too?

Thanks... Post Magdalene here too? I think it sounds like a good idea.

OlufemiWhit:
Good write up man

Thank you. I hope you like Magdalene as much.

stancydg:
Faith is "believing is seeing", as against the natural empirical way of "seeing is believing". The humans who manifest God's Power are those who are perfecting trusting what God through His Spirit drops in their spirits to do or tell. That's why we call them MOG's. The rest are mostly sense ruled, hence there's a barrier stepping down the high voltage flow like a transformer. Yours was a case of "all things work together...", even though you planned to deceive. Therefore, it isn't correct to think everyone has been like that. They've simply been demonstrating more faith by being more Spiritually minded, even though those theatrics may be unnecessary and just mere religion.

You write well.

Another MOG spotted! Thanks for commenting. Happy Sunday.

MAGDALENE shoots off here...

From the roadside, I heard the baritone voice of Pastor Josiah Obazu as he led the congregation on some prayer points. I paid off the commercial motorcyclist who had just dropped me off and, after a glance at my belt and sparkling shoes, marched confidently to the church. I was accosted by an usher at the entrance. She was dressed in a red long-sleeved shirt which was firmly tucked in a white skirt. With a white tie around her neck and high heeled red shoes which illustrated her firm calves, she was every inch smart looking.

‘You are welcome, sir,’ she said in a sweet voice, flashing me a smile. ‘Please, follow me.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ I replied and followed like a sheep to the slaughter.

She led me to a seat in the front row, a row I had never sat in before. I didn’t argue with her; it was actually a vantage position for my plans. I sat down, closed my eyes, bowed my head and muttered some gibberish – feigning prayers. I opened my eyes and made sure to wear a big smile for effect as I sat up to see a lady from the choir move to the space between the congregation and the altar. She was holding a red capped microphone which she lifted to her lips with her left hand while raising the right above her head. She was dressed, like every other female member of the choir, in a black top and skirt with a gold coloured tie to match. The male choristers were in black suits with gold coloured shirts inside. They wore no ties. From my position, I could feel their egos emitting forth.

The lady shut her eyes and made a face like one about to puke. The pianist was already playing an intro and the drummer beating an accompaniment when she broke into a song.

That is why you are called Jehovah…
That is why you are called Jehovah…
What you say you will do…



I smiled slyly as I watched the congregation join her – some swaying like palm trees left at the mercy of the wind. The drama seemed funny to me – I, who hadn’t been in any church for about ten years. So why the change of heart?

To be continued