The prophet knew his onions. He was a master at his craft. He knew how to play with a dramatic pause, how to manipulate the tone and the volume of his voice. He knew how to look like a disembodied spirit and sway his energetic body to the sporadic rhythm of the soulful music coming from the band. He usually started staring into nowhere, attracting a studied silence from the audience. Then, he moved. He stopped. He ran. He stopped again. Then, he spoke inaudible words, hands lifted to heaven, as if in a conversation with heaven
By Abiodun Fijabi
He stood like a god before a captive audience, moving sporadically like a drunk. His oversized handkerchief worked furiously, cleaning the endless beads of sweat streaming down his face. He looked like a visitor from heaven. Much like the Biblical Moses that was just back from God’s presence. The only difference was that his audience didn’t look away from the glory that the face radiated. May be, because it was the glory of man in a stupor and not the glory of God’s presence.
Everyone was enamoured. Everyone hung on every word he spoke. The prophet, as he was called, knew his onions. He was a master at his craft. He knew how to play with a dramatic pause, how to manipulate the tone and the volume of his voice. He knew how to look like a disembodied spirit and sway his energetic body to the sporadic rhythm of the soulful music coming from the band. He usually started staring into nowhere, attracting a studied silence from the audience. Then, he moved. He stopped. He ran. He stopped again. Then, he spoke inaudible words, hands lifted to heaven, as if in a conversation with heaven. The audience knew the rhythm and the cues. They knew when silence was golden and when screaming made the prophet madder, or was it more anointed. It was one large choreographed orchestra with everyone playing their part.
Then, he began. “I have received from the Lord concerning the 2023 Presidential elections in Nigeria.” Shouts of ‘Alleluia’, ‘glory’ rent the air. There were whistles, aimless walks, feet stamping, and diverse other religious poses. As the noise petered out, the prophet continued, “It will surprise you! I said it will surprise you!”
Months after, his prophecies did not materialize. Nobody expects an apology because the prophet never makes mistakes. Afterall, he is not human; he is a god. Some puerile attempts are made to assuage the battered hope of his audience. “Don’t believe all that you are seeing and hearing. God is full of surprises,” he says unconvincingly. “Don’t ever doubt the prophet, even if you think he is wrong. God’s ways are not your ways. Remember not to touch God’s anointed or do His prophet any harm.”
The audience acts as if nothing is amiss. They see and hear what is happening in the political space. A few of them that have really sucked up to the prophet mount a fierce defence of the man of God. The vast majority carry in their fragile hearts unresolved conflicts between their prophet’s posture and the realities around them. They have unanswered questions. In moments of sober reflections, they accept that their faith is shaky as their belief system suffers a breakdown. They own up to their deteriorating mental wellness. They need help. They cry for help. But the culture of silence and the perverted notion of the prophet’s invincibility will not allow them question or confront the prophet with their fears.
The prophet knows this and immediately concocts a new series of prophesies that are directed at keeping the sheep in line. He needs them more that they need him. They pay the bills, fuel his larger-than-life style and give him the affirmation that he is a prophet of God. And, as such, the deception goes on and on.
