See, in this life eh, don’t use public opinion as the basis for your life decisions, okay?
You know what everyone has been saying about pastors’ children being spoilt and bad and all that? I was eyeing my pastor’s daughter. She just completed JHS. May I hasten to add, however, that she looks like a final year Kumasi Polytechnic student.
It seemed she liked me too because she gave me her number without me asking. She always texted me first on WhatsApp, sent me 2 cedis for MTN data everyday and often sent me pics of her food. So I thought she was feeling the boy.
Two weeks into our interactions, I proposed love to her. The message ticked blue but she never replied. It was around 1:13 am when the message went, so I assumed she had slept off. I wanted to sleep too, but I just could not. I was scared and excited at the same time – would she say yes? would she say no? I don’t even know when I drifted into dreamland.
I dreamt we had gotten married and were flying to Johannesburg for our honeymoon. We were sleeping on the flight when our plane started experiencing some turbulence. I opened my eyes only to see my mother shaking my body and my bed vigorously. She said, “Come to the hall.” Then she walked out of the room.
I was confused. I didn’t remember getting into any trouble that warranted such early morning summons. I quickly brushed my teeth, put on something then went into the hall. The sight that met me almost paralysed me.
My pastor was there with his wife, the seven elders of the church and their wives and elder sons, the team of prayer warriors, the men and women’s fellowship leaders and finally, the Sunday School teachers. My parents and siblings were all there, too. The little crowd of almost thirty people had formed a semicircle and there was a chair that had been positioned to face them.
“Sit down”, Sofo Gbormita ordered.
My trembling weak legs were more than happy to comply.
A quick scan of the room revealed a gallon of anointing oil and several unhappy faces. The saddest faces were my parents’.
“Shall we pray”. I didn’t even know whose voice it was. But it sounded like it had been trained and tuned to naturally sound judgmental.
“Father Lord, we are here at this early hour to cast out and ostracise the demon of lust that has eaten into the sacred fabric of the church. Let your spirit fill this place. Let the wind of your direction move mightily in this room. Amen.” The amen that thundered through the room woke up our cat.
The pastor took over. He went straight to the point.
“Kossi, my daughter woke me up at 1:15 am to show me a text from you. Do you remember what you sent?”
“Pastor, please permit me to…”
“Gentleman, I am not here to negotiate. I ask, you answer. Is that clear?”
“So I ask again, do you remember what you sent the little girl?”
But she wasn’t a little girl? I almost asked him which part of the girl looked like a little girl to her. Her wide hips? Or her thirty-year-old-like busts? Or the blessed backside?
“Pastor, I remember what I sent her.”
“Is that something Jesus would do?”
“I don’t think so, Sir.”
“You are possessed, and that is why we are all here. To free you from the demonic distin that is holding your destiny. Ogyanframa, come and lead the prayers.”
I was made to kneel down and for 45 minutes, I was the prayer topic. Ogyanframa, the prayer warrior, led the little crowd to clap, stomp, shoot, and pray the demons of lust away.
At the end of it all, the gallon of anointing oil was poured down my head like I was a newly ordained bishop .
When they left, the embarrassment made me want to kill myself. But I had a better plan. I deleted the foolish immature girl’s number from my phone, changed my name and relocated to Madagascar to start a new life there as a fisherman.