The pinnacle of skill among the elderly in Igbo land is being able to mould a perfectly round ball of Akpu or Eba, toss it a foot into the air, and snatch it before dipping it in soup — if you doubt me, ask your grandparents. We grew up seeing Grandpa and every other old person in Afuli do it by reflex action. It was a godly skill. So, imagine my bewilderment when I entered the kitchen and found Sis. Nonye frantically attempting the technique and failing miserably. “Are you well today?” I asked. She eyed me without answering. Chinwe, my brother, was there as usual, ready with his mischief. “Michael is coming into town today and Sis. Nonye wants to prove her knowledge of tradition before the day is over.” Michael was Sis Nonye’s boyfriend, and today was his grand introduction to Grandma, Uncle Joe and the rest of the family heads. None of us seemed to remember that we were actually gathered for Grandpa’s burial — not after the theatrics of yesterday and the revival-like devotion this morning. Papa had mentioned that the elders would meet again later, and I was supposed to show remorse for killing Ofili. Honestly, though, I was more interested in breakfast — it was Saturday, and it was already 11 am.

“What’s for breakfast?” I asked.

“Have you not seen Mama’s seven prayer points on the family Whatsapp group?”

“Wait, what?”

“Mama declared fasting and prayer. 6 to 6. So there’s no breakfast,” said Chinwe, “unless you’re planning to eat the Oha soup Sis. Nonye cooked?”

Sis. Nonye had learned to cook in Lagos. These days, she cooks pepper with a sprinkle of everything else. The last time she made noodles, my nose ran, and my eyes were watered and red all evening. “I shall drink garri”, I declared.

The weather in Nigeria has become unpredictable. Rainy and dry seasons were a thing of the past. Harmattan could appear in June if it wished. So, when it started raining that afternoon, no one was surprised. I secretly hoped it would continue into the night to disrupt the elders’ meeting scheduled for 6 pm. To my dismay, the rain stopped fifteen minutes before the hour. The elders began arriving, but they weren’t the only ones set for action. From the room I shared with Chinwe, I saw Mama arriving with eight people.

“Mama has brought a prayer band,” Chinwe said, amused.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I helped her find the nearest branch of our family church this morning”.

She arrayed her prayer warriors in the sitting room, but they didn’t start immediately. It seemed like they were waiting for someone.

A few minutes later, their pastor arrived. At the same time, another man, undeniably a native doctor, entered through the gate.

“Did you find a Dibia for her, too?” I asked.

“What?” He hurried to the window to witness the unfolding drama. Surprisingly, the pastor and the Dibia seemed to know each other. They began singing opposing battle songs — the pastor sang, “Jesus na bigi man…” while the Dibia chanted something unfamiliar to me.

Uncle Sam knocked on our door. “The meeting is about to start. Uncle Joe and the village Dibia are here now, too.”

This time, it was just Papa and me at the meeting. Dede and Sis. Nonye had driven to the airport to pick up Michael, whose flight was landing at 6:30 pm. Uncle Joe, a liberal thinker, insisted no family member would bear any sacrifice. The meeting quickly reached an impasse. The Dibia wouldn’t budge, and neither would Uncle Joe or Papa.

“What if we pay you to carry it yourselves?” Uncle Joe negotiated.

“Tufiakwa!” Dibia retorted.

“You cannot transgress the village’s omenaala”, One of the elders pleaded.

“Which of my sons is a village boy? Ask any one of them to come and speak Igbo.”

“This generation!” One of the elders wailed at every chance he got, surely referring more to Papa than me.

“Ichie, understand us,” Uncle Joe addressed the oldest man in the meeting, “The gods should have evolved with the times.”

While the elders grew visibly stressed, Mama’s prayer band grew louder in the next room, clapping and thundering, “Jesus power — superpower, mami water power — powerless power!” I think one of the qualifications for joining a prayer band is to have this microphone voice and their clapping — my God! “Dibia power?” the pastor boomed. “powerless power!” I could hear Mama’s voice.

‘This Chinwe is a bad person’, I concluded.

“Put your house in order”, Dibia warned Papa.

“Is it disturbing you?” Grandma immediately began an inquisition. I did not see her join us.

“Nma”, Papa cautioned again.

“I am here for my husband’s burial.”

“Let us finish this first, Nne”, Uncle Joe said. He turned to the Dibia, “We cannot continue dragging this matter like Foofoo and Ofe Ogbono.”

“It is a grave matter, Elder,” the Dibia replied. “The sacrifice must be borne for Ofili’s spirit to be renewed. But I shall consult the great godmother who suckled Ofili and can plead the killer’s case.” He stepped outside to make a phone call. It was funny to see a Dibia communicating with the spirits via an iPhone 13 Pro. The godmother must be a trendy deity.

The Dibia returned, smiling. “Good news. Godmother will compromise. Instead of the previous requirements, in her kindness, she demands only ten bags of beautifying pink clay from Onuegwu.”

It seemed I was the only one who left the meeting relieved. Papa and Uncle Joe considered the meeting an utter failure, and I would come to find out why later. The good part, though, was that Grandpa’s burial was to take place next Wednesday and Thursday, and preparations were beginning immediately. That night, Dede was very displeased with the outcome of the meeting because, apparently, Dibia had demanded an impossible thing. The Quarry at Onuegwu had been a court case between the federal government and the state for the last eight years, so it was impossible to even go within a mile of it without risking litigation for trespassing or even military assault. Dede thought they did it on purpose to complicate the matter further. We were all in the sitting room while Papa was narrating the events of the meeting. I noticed Mama was not interested at all in the conversation but was frantically searching the bookshelf; I wouldn't know why until the next morning when Mama added book reading and exhortation to morning devotion — this was quickly becoming a convention. The book she chose: “Satan Get Lost!”

Sunday morning, we attended Grandpa’s local Presbyterian church. Uncle Sam was a deacon there, throwing occasional angry glances at me. It was later I found out he had asked Sis. Nonye, yesterday, if I had any headache, fever, or stomach trouble — any symptom at all. Some of the elders in that meeting also attended the service. It was a wonder to behold. One of them went as far as to ask me after the service, “Nwa Hyacinth, Idinma?” to which I replied, “Yes sir,” and purposely jogged as I left him. I imagined that they expected me to dry up like Ugu and die, but I had just made a statement; much to their dismay. What I didn’t imagine, though, was getting home to find Chinwe storing away a loaf of bread and Ribena in the fridge. “What are you doing?” “Two-factor authentication”, he grinned. I would not understand the meaning until devotion the next day.

We had sung and prayed, and Mama made Sis Nonye take the book reading. It was a spectacle because she kept reading through her nose with a fall-off British accent even though she had never left Nigeria, saying things like “uh hmm”, “oops”, and “This next paragraph is absolutely bonkers”. I wish I could show you Mama’s face that morning. Later, I discovered that Michael had joined our devotion from the nearby hotel where he stayed through a WhatsApp call. It was after this devotion that Grandma started calling her “Nonye Beeke”. It meant “Nonye the Foreigner.” As soon as we were done enduring her pronouncing water as ‘war-ahh’ for thirty minutes, Mama announced that we would be taking communion that morning. ‘I knew it.’ Mama had listened too attentively to the pastor of the Presbyterian church while he preached about the power of the holy communion yesterday. She even took notes, and now this:

“At this rate, we shall have to go through water baptism tomorrow morning”, Papa lamented.

“It’s reinforcement.” Mama countered.

“Are we still fasting after bread and wine at 6 am?” Grandma asked. Good question, too.

“The body and blood of Jesus does not count as food.” Mama retorted, and I saw Chinwe smile. He would probably have bread and Ribena for the rest of these seven days of fasting.

Later that day, when one of the elders from Iwe arrived to talk with Papa, he was mildly surprised to see everyone in the house wearing crosses of olive oil on their foreheads. I didn’t blame him; I have been feeling like a walking sacrament today. He informed Papa that the rain that fell that morning was going to continue through the week until Ofili’s spirit was fully appeased and that if the rites were not fulfilled in time, he would rain down a storm on Grandpa’s burial days.

“Are you still not concerned?” Sis Nonye asked me.

“No. Rainmaking is not a big deal.”

“I’m waiting for when Ofili arrives at Thunder; I hope he doesn’t plan to drown you at the end of our seven days of fasting; that would be very dry,” said Chinwe halfheartedly. Mama, who was at the dining table, threw one of those silent African-parent looks of intense disapproval.

“Anyone can make rain,” I gladly ignored him, “They do it in Dubai.” But I was actually concerned for Grandpa’s burial. This whole fiasco was threatening to affect it, so when, by Tuesday night, I had totally given up on obtaining any pink clay, I confided in Dede, and we made a private deal with Uncle Sam to settle Dibia with money so we could all move on. He came back to tell me that Dibia could appease Ofili’s godmother spirit with 1.5 million naira. I knew this was their endgame; I mean, this was Nigeria, and as ridiculous as it sounded, we needed to do it for Grandma’s sake. In Igbo land, burials had to go smoothly because of the many existing superstitions. Something as trivial as rain during one’s husband’s burial could start a number of false narratives around the village. If there was one thing you needed to know about village life, it’s that news spread faster by word of mouth than it did by radio or social media, and if a rumour started, by the time it got to the tenth household, what you would be hearing could only have happened in Bollywood movies. We couldn’t let Grandma go through that, so I asked Chinwe for money to add to the two hundred thousand I was willing to part with for this. When he found out it was to pay off the Dibia, he refused and insisted on allowing the will of God over my life to take place, and the next morning, when Mama allowed him to lead the book reading, he started by reading Proverbs 17:23 for no real reason:

“A wicked man taketh a gift out of the bosom to pervert the ways of judgment.” he thundered that morning with a very straight face. I’m sure Papa wondered when he even began to know the Scriptures. When he finished reading the portion of the book, he ended with “Isaiah 61:8 — For I the LORD love judgment… Amen.”

“Amen,” Mama took over, “Now, we will end morning devotion by praying for a spirit of judgment and burning…” I had never seen Chinwe pray that seriously since we started fasting and praying. Sis. Nonye figured out something was up with the way he was acting, and she got Dede to eventually tell her, after which she also informed Michael, who was not doing a good job impressing Grandma and Mama so far and was more than willing to do any good deed. In the end, we were able to gather eight hundred thousand, and Dede negotiated with Dibia through Uncle Sam. He made a fuss for a bit, but it was a deal he couldn’t refuse. Most chickens are sold for maybe forty thousand naira; this one was fetching eight hundred thousand. He said he would handle everything in the village, and we would have a very peaceful burial ceremony tomorrow.

Wednesday morning was both the first day of Grandpa’s burial and day five of Chinwe’s countdown until Ofili’s vengeance, but I guess it would not happen now because even deities needed money in the great beyond, and I was fine with it. Dibia and the elders won this battle, and I was willing to live with it until Dibia showed up to Grandpa's traditional rites with a brand new Ofili!

Everyone in the family had inquired how that happened, and he had proudly announced that Ofili’s spirit had been renewed overnight in the great beyond. He was now reincarnated into the world as the black-feathered diety once again, and as the god of fair weather, he had come to grace Grandpa’s burial with the fairest weather ever granted in Afuli and all of Iwe.

I looked at the fat, mindless, obnoxious black cock he held in his arms. I could swear that what I killed with Dede’s car was a hen.

What was worse was the fact that the Dibia actually rode a new Bajaj Boxer KS 100 motorcycle into our compound and parked by the short, old, orange tree near the gate.

“So, you bought a new black chicken?” Grandma insisted after his long, esoteric explanation.

“Ochie biko nu. Don’t talk about tradition like that.” Uncle Sam pleaded.

“Shut up, you,” Grandma fired at Uncle Sam. “When you die, I hope Ofili has space for you in his heavenly poultry, Ewu Gambia.”

“Ahh. I’m going to kill that chicken again.” I made up my mind. Day six and seven may very well end up being my own vengeance.

This was far from over.

It takes ten hours to travel from Lagos to Afuli, my hometown, so I wouldn’t say I liked that journey growing up. Still, I could not avoid it because, as was the custom of every Igbo family, in January, everyone returned to Afuli to spend the New Year holiday and catch up on kin frivolities, so it wasn’t all that bad. Grandpa had a large corn and cassava farm, and that meant there would be an endless supply of boiled corn, pear, and Abacha. We, the children, were allowed to leave the house before dawn to hunt for snails, and we usually returned from the nearby bushes with buckets full of them: a very delicious treat, especially when Grandma fried them her way; they would shrink in her palm oil sauce, and we would eat them with Akamu. When I thought about this, it made me angrier because I had just entered Iwe, the main town that connected Afuli, and today was only September 13th; we stopped coming to the village every January when my brothers and I entered university and gained some form of coalition against Papa in the affairs of the house. Sis Nonye gladly supported us, provided we did not tell Papa she had been taking ushering gigs behind everyone to make extra money. Mama, trying to create “girl power” in the house, would back everything Sis Nonye backed, so Papa stood no chance. I still think he conceded quickly because he realised that the round trip was a major cash burner but blamed it on our stubbornness instead.

It made me angrier that not only was I in Iwe, but I was also driving Dede’s CRV, so I was utterly exhausted from driving all the way from Lagos. Worse still, the leave I planned to take in November so I could attend the camp meeting of my church was now being used. I had been driving since 05:00, and now it was 16:00. As the sun turned red, my irritation intensified. The rest of the family was already in Afuli with Grandma.

Grandpa died last week, and our Big Uncle Joe, the new oldest in the family, had insisted that the entire extended family converge before the burial could take place. So, Chinwe, my immediate elder brother who worked at the Dutch embassy in Abuja, had flown in yesterday. Dede, who was our eldest brother, had driven Mama and Papa at the beginning of the week. Sis. Nonye came with me, and she’s the sole reason I’ve been stopped by policemen four times! She packed enough luggage for a honeymoon. Now, she was sleeping with her mouth open in the back of the car; I considered winding down the rear window to let in a fly or spider — she deserved it.

There was a bypass from Iwe into Afuli. By this time, I was impatient to end the trip. So, when I ran into a black chicken crossing the road with such confidence while I was speeding down the bypass, I angrily hit the horn. When it didn’t flinch, my ego was bruised, and I didn’t slow down either. I didn’t think much about the consequences of running it over until I felt the soft squish of flesh and the popping sound of blood under my front tires. I felt vindicated. “Silly, audacious thing!” I cursed and drove right past.

Five minutes later, we were in the family house, and I vented the rest of my frustration on the food meant for Chinwe and me—where was he, anyway?

I didn’t think much of it when a small crowd gathered in the compound; it was normal during burials to have crowds of people and lots of condolences until Uncle Sam marched into the kitchen where I was, wearing a look of utter horror.

“What is it?”

“What have you done?”

“I’ll explain to Chinwe that I ate his food. I’m sure he’ll understand.” I explained.

“No. No. All these people outside — they’re here for you!”

“Did I steal someone’s land?”

“That would have been better. You killed Ofili!”

“What is an Ofili?” I asked, half laughing

He was shocked. “Ofili, the black feathered diety!”

“The chicken?”

“Yes. The chicken”

“Whose god was it?”

“Ofili is the god of fair weather.”

“Was”, I corrected him.

“Is this a joke?”

“I think so,” I replied, “why should a chicken be one of the gods in 2024?”

“Go outside and tell it to them.”

“Uncle Sam, if I go outside there, Ofili won’t be the only thing I kill today.”

He marched out of the kitchen, rapidly cussing in our dialect, but I was too tired to be bothered. ‘Where is Chinwe?’ I was struggling to free my phone from the pocket of my tight jeans so I could call the rascal, but the noise from outside was becoming a distraction. ‘Maybe I should be concerned.’

I was already boiling when I entered the large sitting room area. Three elderly men with red Isi-Agwu shirts were sitting on the sofa. Mama and Papa were standing by them, listening to the reports of my sin. Uncle Sam was still in a rage and eyed me with numerous rapid, bombastic side-eyes. Sis Nonye, who appeared to be alive now, was listening intently with Grandma, who was on a wooden stool at the far end of the room, also listening.

“I plead the blood of Jesus,” Mama kept repeating in her best whisper, and we all kept pretending not to hear her; she had actually improved. Sometimes, I still think she was born with a microphone in her throat.

“Nna’m,” called Grandma to get the attention of the three men.

“Nne,” they chorused.

“Er, you said Dede’s car killed Ofili?”

They nodded.

“Then you should worship that car instead.”

I wasn’t the only one gaping. Sis Nonye was doing everything to keep from bursting into a laughter fit.

“I mean, if Ofili can be killed by a car, isn’t that a sign that you should give your life to Christ and serve the Living God?” Grandma continued.

‘Ahhhh.’ If looks could kill! I just stood by the corner of the room, looking at the ceiling and pretending to count something invisible. I wished Chinwe was here, but maybe it was good that he wasn’t. He’s a clown on his best days.

Papa signaled for all of us to leave the room so the men could talk, after which he called for a family meeting at night.

Chinwe was present at the meeting. Sis Nonye, who was already dozing before the meeting, had told him everything, and the silly boy had changed my contact on his phone to ‘Ofili’s murderer.’ Dede was present, too, and he took his place beside Papa and the representative elder from the council of elders. Grandma was also seated and ready to be unhinged.

“They said you would have to bury Ofili,” Dad announced to me in everyone’s presence.

“How?” asked Dede

“By performing the burial rites,” the elder took over from Papa, “One goat, a motorcycle for the Dibia and a canoe to aid Ofili’s spirit to crossover or the cash equivalent, three crates of beer and two kegs of palm wine…”

“Are we mourning Ofili or celebrating his demise?” Grandma didn’t finish talking before Chinwe, who was already cracking up, burst into laughter; I had to nudge him in the side to restore his manners.

“Ochie!” Papa cautioned Grandma

“Five litres of palm oil, a crate of eggs, and three white wrappers.” The Elder man also raised his voice in order to exert control.

“Is that all?” Papa asked

“The killer will have to bear the sacrifice that appeases Ofili’s god-mother on the night of Eke.”

It was at this that hell broke loose. Mama’s blood-of-Jesus chanting intensified. Grandma stood and screamed, “Over my dead body! I am a born-again child of God, and he is a born-again grandchild of God.” Chinwe was having the time of his life, but I mostly ignored him. Papa remained calm in his seat. It was Dede who surprised everyone; he was the family pacifist, so we actually expected him to offer to carry it in my stead — anything to keep the peace, but he went to the door, opened it wide, and asked the Elder to take his leave. At this point, Sis Nonye was secretly filming; she was never far from her phone’s camera, and to think she was one of the causes of this melodrama. I really wished I had opened the car window. Fireflies are usually abundant and naively easy to get to fill her mouth. Perhaps I will try it out this night when she sleeps.

“Hyacinth!” the Elder bellowed, rising to his feet. I had never heard anyone call Papa by his baptismal name before. “If these things are not done, Ofili’s spirit will come for its pound of flesh in seven days.”

“What does that mean?” Papa asked, mostly out of curiosity.

“The killer will meet an untimely end.”

“Ehn!” Mama screamed. Oh Lord, now we had to bear with Mama’s tantrum. I was already imagining how she would use up one of her bottles of anointing oil on me during her midnight deliverance prayers, and I was so sure she would drag everyone into it. “Fasting and Prayer!” she declared, “They will know that I serve the God of Idahosa.” The protests began instantly. It started from Chinwe, “I can’t fast, o!” “I’m not the one that killed the oracle,” Sis Nonye joined in. By this time, the elder had taken his leave, and what followed was a full-blown family meeting.

“Who can battle with the Lord…” Mama was already sprawled on the ground singing in the typical Igbo voice —honestly, is that thing hereditary? How she already had a bottle of Goya oil in her hands, I couldn’t understand; it’s like she carries it around even when watching TV or sending us one of those old people's WhatsApp broadcasts that often start with “The first five people to type Amen…”

“Chere chere!” Grandma was pacifying Mama. “Nne dim,” Mama responded. Thank God! Prayers have been temporarily stalled.

“You too, you’re wicked o,” Sis Nonye was accusing me, “How will you run over a full chicken with blood and life? You’re a murderer, o.” Luckily, my home training and respect for older siblings were still intact, so I remained calm. My steeze was honestly impressive.

“You’re not even bothered. I don’t want to fast o.” Chinwe has always been insufferable about food, and no one paid attention to him.

“Do you know how many Hagin and Kenyon books I’ve read in this life?” I shot back at him, “You think I’m afraid of a chicken ghost?”

“That’s the spirit.” Grandma hollered. On a good day, I believed she was born far ahead of her generation when it came to superstitions. The last time she was in Lagos, she came to church with me because she wanted to hear a young pastor preach. She claimed all the pastors around her age only preached of death and heaven.

Mama resumed her singing, and when we could not get her to stop, Papa adjourned the family meeting till the next day, and we left Mama travailing in the sitting room. I slept in Grandma’s room that night because I knew Mama would soon go around bathing all her children with olive oil, and I wanted to sleep until morning.

Sure enough, when I woke up in the morning, there was a huge cross sign in the middle of my head that was made of oil. I was grateful I did not wake at any point of the baptism. By 5:30 am, Mama had already rang the bell in the sitting room for morning devotion. Devotion was usually 7 am, but we all knew what would happen if we didn’t attend — even Papa, especially since Mama is now in battle mode. When I got to the sitting room, all my siblings had similarly giant oil crosses on their foreheads.

“Ekuemeee..” she started, and we sang along. We knew Mama’s War playlist by heart. The next song was going to be “Ike di nelu..” and then “Agbara esu daa.” But we didn’t get that far because Chinwe’s phone, which was charging by the dining table, kept ringing.

“Chinwe, who is calling you by 5:45 am?” Mama stopped to ask the question in all our minds, and we were curious because Chinwe was twenty-six, and maybe — just maybe he now had a girlfriend.

“It’s a reminder,” he teased.

“For what?” Dede asked

“Countdown to Ofili’s vengeance. Today is day one. By day seven, the killer will kick the bucket.” he smirked, knowing fully well that he was referring to me.

‘This boy is an idiot,’ I muttered to myself, even though he was two years older, and he had said it in such a hilarious manner that Dede even chuckled. Mama, of course, took it as a very bad joke which turned devotion into a two-hour revival.

The next seven days were going to be quite the story to tell.

“I said I am an Angel!!”, the Preacher bellowed again, “I want to go back to Heaven right now!”

“Please don’t go prophet” the few holding his feet begged, it was now clear to me they were trying to prevent him from ‘going to heaven’.

“Oh, I say I am going now, leave me alone”, the pastor began to make wing-flapping motions with his outstretched arms.

I was perplexed. More so, it was on satellite TV. “Have mercy Lord!”, I began to say under my breath but was vexed in my spirit.

A little while later, the pastor lowered his hands and announced, “You people have begged, I am not going again, I will stay!” The people began to celebrate and the musicians began to play in jubilation.

I turned off the device.

The witness of Benaiah, though fully fiction, is a small attempt to re-capture for the heart what faith was like in the first century; faith did not rest in audacious boasts of power or exaltation, nor was it in positive confessions, faith itself was a confession, a death mark magnified upon the foreheads of the saints, it was not a performance, for Life did not need to perform, Life lived!

The church was not a theatre filled up with the ignorant; the very men who served breakfast and supper were full of the Holy Ghost and wisdom.

Bowed from the sheer exhaustion of being pulled and pushed through the old city into the Temple, Benaiah stood before the great crowd sitting in the Chamber of hewn stones. This was the Sanhedrin; the supreme court of the Jews; a council of scribes, elders, and scholars. It was they who had the power to declare war, to appoint the king or the High Priest, they could try a Prophet, an erring tribe, or another member of the Sanhedrin, even the High Priest! It was they who condemned the Lord a few years ago, and it was they who heard the testimony of the Lord’s martyr Stephen some years afterward, it was they who had summoned him.

It seemed like the whole of Jerusalem awaited the outcome of this trial, they filled up the streets, the housetops, and the outer courts of the temple complex. Saints and mob alike. The saints, he was sure were gathered in homes and in little pockets raising up prayers for him. Benaiah prayed for strength for the ordeal. He himself would have cheered on the Sanhendrin if he had not encountered the Lord Jesus through Peter when he tried to confront the Apostle for converting and taking his sons Ruben and Oded. The Apostle had turned abruptly and looked at him with very gentle but fierce eyes and had said, “Benaiah, to know the Lord Jesus is better than all ambition, all profession, all reason, and all love”, that day, those words fractured everything he had built his life upon, those words ignited the spirit of search in him.

Now that he stood before the great council, he saw how futile it all was to be in search of eternal life, be at its threshold, yet not be able to enter in because it was sought in the wrong places. He wished he could give his life if it would enlighten the eyes of even one of these learned men. Religion without hope, legalism, and systems yet without the breath of Life.

He bowed and began to mumble words in other tongues under his breath, he knew this was to be his witness, the record of his faith, but it was not yet revealed to him how, a burden filled his heart as he prayed for the fathers, elders, teachers that were now seated to try him.

The Chief priests and Saloman the High Priest sat in the central court on well-cushioned seats and to their left spread out till the back room were men with stern pious faces, they were garbed in their distinctive robes and cloaks, elongated fringes around their garments, scripture containers in the left hands of some and on the forehead of some others, they are the highly reverenced Pharisees, they bore the oral scriptures and traditions of religion and life. To the right, equally robed in piety but more expressive and liberal were the Sadducees who advocated only belief in the literal written oracles.

Rabban Gamaliel, the revered Elder, and Nasi entered the chamber walking with a lot of thoughts in his heart, Quiet was restored to the council. He had an air of gravity about him and his wisdom was renowned all over Judaea. Benaiah who was before the dias continued muttering prayers under his breath to the Lord.

“You were summoned here today for blasphemy against Moses and against God, Benaiah, what say you?” Saloman announced when Gamaliel settled into his seat.

“God forbid that I should blaspheme against God and against His prophet sir” Benaiah replied.

“We have heard you teach in the temple. You have a bishopric with the followers of that Man and His doctrine, you teach it also”, Saloman retorted and several others nodded in agreement.

“You have a church in your house don't you?” One man in the back of the room shouted.

“I only preach Jesus as Christ”, Benaiah replied almost defiantly and this statement set off hisses and mutterings, even a few curses.

“Don’t you see what you do?”, Saloman cried, “Mashiach is not a Carpenter’s son and definitely not of Galilee!”

“Our fathers were shepherds and wanderers, what has his profession to do with anything?” Benaiah asked.

“You preach a Mashiach who was defeated right from birth, born in a horse shed, ran from Herod — a puppet king of the Romans…”

“Oh, let’s not forget he was raised in Egypt, the very Egypt that our Fathers before us curse”, another scribe scorned.

“Everything about that man rejects the very idea of Christ”, one of the Pharisees shouted from the back of the room and several others raised their voices in agreement. Benaiah raised his head and his voice, “Tell me sir, what is the idea of Christ? who do you wait for?”

“I am not about to debate that with the unlearned”, that pharisee retorted, and another one willing to indulge the question said, “Our enemies yet overcome us, where is your messiah? does he prepare to march upon Rome as we speak? does he yet breathe?”

“Kingdoms rise and fall, sir, Kings come and go and Caesar is just another one of them. The enemy of the Jews is sin and death, I should expect the teachers of the law to know that much”, Benaiah responded calmly.

There were several gasps across the room.

“Do you equate us with gentile dogs?!”, Saloman cried with indignation, and at that point, Benaiah knew he was treading heavy waters and he must count his next words very carefully.

“Mashiach saves his people from their sins…”, He replied with humility.

“…and Jesus from Galilee of the Gentiles is that messiah?”, A Sadducee piped in a mocking laughter.

“Yes”

“You reduce the Christ to this? To a man who died accomplishing nothing for the people? to a man who died the death of a lowly thief?” Another Sadducee mocked while many others shook their heads or fists in contempt.

“He does not fit your stereotype?” Benaiah asked and quickly added, “So did every Prophet before him whom our fathers killed in the same manner”

“You put Moses to shame to even compare him with the criminal” Saloman spat.

“Oh but that’s not all”, one of the chief priests suddenly stood, “in their sect, he is bigger than Moses, have you not heard the stories they tell of Yeshua’s transfiguration, he is Lord over Moses and Elijah, nay, over our Father Abraham!”

“They pray in his name”, one scholar added.

“They call him Lord and God”, another cried and at this, the council was in an uproar.

“Blasphemy!” someone else cried.

“Heresies”, another cried.

“You make Elohim a man? our God, the Almighty who crumbled the head of Babylon and reduced him to a beast of the field, who brought down Jericho with a shout, you make him into a man who can be touched and who can be killed?” Saloman narrowed his eyes, visibly shaking in wrath.

‘Save me Lord’, Benaiah prayed again silently under his breath.

“They say Jesus is the Godhead in body” A pharisee seeking to fan up more wrath spoke.

“They fill up Jerusalem with Idolatry and with heresies, our fathers turn with sorrow in their graves”.

Gamaliel had not said a word since the trial started, this was not new, but what never ceased to amaze him was the conviction with which the followers of this Jesus spoke, they seemed so sure, so unbroken. A pattern was starting to emerge here, they were like Lillies, weak, very weak, they could be uprooted in a wave, and they had no use for violence. This was surely why they were spreading; their message appealed to the lowest and weakest of all society, a god who died for his subjects, this was a first. Elohim surely is not that weak or helpless. This idea of a lowly Messiah will not inspire fear in the nations. But there was something about them that made him curious. Where one is killed, three take their place, it is almost as though their faith thrived in persecution. Perhaps leaving them alone would kill this faster, they will fade into obscurity just like many others before them, their message is not acceptable or sellable, not to the Jews who valued strong signs, nor to the Greeks who valued substance. Jesus is made weaker than even the pagan Zeus who wields thunder and lightning; He is not fit to tie the shoelaces of our Father David, he has no military feat. Everyone tries to paint the omnipotence of their diety, why are they so willing to go so far making theirs ever weaker in the eyes of men? it is almost laughable if they were not so willing to give their lives for the same cause.

The Angel stood a few feet behind him, he was Benaiah’s Angel and he was highly alert and had his sword drawn. He had followed Benaiah and had helped him avoid any major injuries while he was being brought to the chamber of hewn stones. He didn’t like where the debate was going, it was like they were trying Stephen all over again, he was here in Jerusalem that day also. He looked at Benaiah who prayed some more, silently, he was so weak and frail, a middle-aged man who was bald in the middle of his head and was just a little above five feet and nine inches. He was wearing an ordinary tunic and had his old brown leather sandals on his feet. The angel looked into the crowd, they were all so full of rage and contempt, he could hear some of them scheming in hushed tones and he raised his sword a little higher, he could tell it would take just one misgiving and it could become bad for Benaiah.

At that moment another Angel walked through the wall into the room and stopped just beside him, he bowed and said “Captain”

The captain nodded in response and turned toward Benaiah, “how is he holding up?” he asked.

“barely”, came the response, “this has to stop soon or it might get out of hand. The good thing is, he has peace in his heart.”

“Hmm,” the captain said, “The Holy Ghost has spoken to me and I have your instruction”

The Angel braced up for whatever might be said.

“This will be Benaiah’s testimony for me, saith the Lord”, the captain said, “He will be offered up as an offering today, you are to stand down and suffer it to be so”

Benaiah’s angel slowly sheathed his sword, deeply saddened and worried. “But sir…”

“You’ve done well, now stand down and let the will of God be done” the Captain cut in.

“These are the Lord’s elect, they live for the unseen, I am not sure how I would fare if I were to be in their place; to be unable to discern much and yet be charged to believe much; to live in a sensual world and yet be charged to live by faith; to have so great an onslaught against me and yet be charged to overcome all, it is extraordinary, it is miraculous even.” The Captain continued and Benaiah’s Angel who was now resigned to this fate could perfectly share in the awe of being here before the brothers and sisters of the Lord.

The two men decided they would stand in place and watch the playing out of Benaiah’s witness.

Benaiah straightened up. The Holy Ghost had just impressed upon his heart what he should do and while it was a hard cup, he realized the honour he had been given to share in the Lord’s cup so physically. He felt some joy and now he knew there was utterance for him to enter his lot.

“Men, Brethren, Fathers, Elders, if you will that I make my defense before the Sanhedrin this day. What is true religion? Do you take pleasure in being so far away from Elohim? They which came and called him a golden calf, we worshipped and danced before, He who came and called him Father, we have killed, He who is made both Lord and God we have rejected. We credit ourselves with possessing the oracles of God and yet ye think like the Gentiles in that you know not that true religion is to build a resting place for God and He doth not dwell in houses made of stone and straw. The Son came to close the gap your religion has widened but ye are so bent on keeping the gap this wide..” He stretched out his arms to show that gap.

“Speak no more…” Gamaliel spoke, he had seen this before, and he knew what was going on. Benaiah was offering his skin for the knife. He needed to try and save this one, there was no need for more bloodshed, it was unnecessary.

“If ye so wished to be afar, then so shall it be”, Benaiah continued anyway.

“You wish for an earthly kingdom, you wish for the Romans to be vanquished and to sit on Caesar’s throne, and rightly so for ye are so carnal and sensual. Ye have not prayed for the Kingdom of God neither have you sought earnestly to sit on His own throne, ye will perish like the Gentile dogs ye so despise for you already think like them!”

Saloman stopped his ears and cried in a rage, and promptly the room was in an uproar. Gamaliel bowed for it was done. He had looked at Benaiah and had seen a man who had nothing to lose, to him, living was for Jesus, and death was a gain, you can’t overcome someone like that, the Sanhedrin had lost, once again, and Benaiah’s blood will be an offering to raise many others like him.

The two big Angels in the corner of the room who were invisible, bowed, wept, and saluted the frail little man in front of them, this was not a boast or courage, this was the life of a man being poured out willingly before them, it was far from over but he had overcome already. This was the faith of the saints, dishonor, shame, and foolishness before men, but before God, the Angels, and the Devils, the power to show staggering defiance of the world and all its glory, to lose this life for the next, To exchange corruption for Eternal Life. They could see the marks of Christ upon the soul of this man. He had won. The consequence would be the quenching of his body but that was not the victory, the victory was that he chose the reproach of Christ over his own life. This was the witness of Benaiah the Elect.

Selah.

I remember a time, about nine years ago when I first came across a book on Tongues. I loved to read any book that spoke about the Holy Ghost. I had read a number of them, but wasn’t satisfied no matter how much I learnt.
I’d usually visit my friend, Valentine, while I was preparing to take my WASSCE. During my visits, we would read, talk, and then watch satellite TV (there was a HiTv installed at this time at Val’s house). We didn’t watch it for music videos or movies; HiTv had closed down operations and the dish had become “free-to-air”, so we had access to a lot of christian channels. I especially liked watching Sidd Roth’s “It’s Supernatural”.

One day, we stumbled upon a meeting airing in very dull colours (almost black and white really). An old minister who I already knew to be Reverend Kenneth E. Hagin, was behind a huge wooden pulpit with a shield at the front, speaking ever so fluently in other tongues, demonstrating and laughing intermittently. I was awestruck! At this time, I knew tongues to be a fairly crude affair where a person would pray loudly with a microphone in church, usually repeating the same vocabulary ever constantly, and a prayer “backup” supplying tongues support (also with a microphone). I was always unimpressed about it, maybe I even laughed a few times.

What captivated me wasn’t that Rev. Hagin had the most “fluent” tongue I’d ever heard. It was that he wasn’t praying in tongues. Rather, he was speaking with other tongues and there was another minister (who I didn’t recognise) who perfectly understood what Rev. Hagin was saying. He appeared to be in a conversation with Rev. Hagin in other tongues. They spoke, laughed and replied one another with strange tongues. That experience lit a fire in my heart, and I became very hungry for everything I could get about Rev. Hagin and his Holy Ghost meetings.

So that day in 2013, when I stumbled upon “Tongues beyond the upper room”, I finished the book in two days and reread it! I remember getting on my knees in my school’s library that day after I finished the book and praying, “Dear God, can you just take me in a vision or dream to an early church meeting? I just want to see what it was like back then”. Two years after that, in 2015, I got my admission into Unilag and God had just answered my prayer.

It’s been about seven years since then, but I’ve never gotten over that feeling anytime I’m in church. “This is church!”, I hear in my heart so often. I hit a jackpot to be under the teachings of pastors, prophets, teachers, and an apostle. I got everything I asked for. The demonstrations of the Spirit in my local church are so normal that no one thinks they’re special for it.

EGFM Believers’ Convention (BECON) 2022 was without question beyond a meeting. It was in my opinion, the most profound witness in my spirit of what an “early church” meeting would have looked and felt like. 5000–6000 saints, young and old gathered in one place. Exceeding great joy and fellowship, worship that had no performance.

There was no comedian, but we didn’t need it or any other type of entertainment. I saw young people cry and laugh in the spirit, and dance under the power of the Holy Ghost. 800+ teenagers gathered every morning for several days, just to hear and encounter Jesus.

There was no symposium or some skill acquisition programme to occupy youths, for the word of God kept us seated from 6 pm till 2 am. Teachers and Preachers ministered, and ministered by the anointing of the Spirit of God.
Rev. Hagin had prophesied in 1988 about increasing interjections and cooperation between saints and ministering spirits. It’s very clear that the word could not have been brought forth without the help of Angels this BECON. Indeed, an early church meeting, for visions and prophecies was brought forth and read to the edification of the saints.

Reverend Kayode Oyegoke presided over the meetings with the total help of the Spirit. I kept wondering if this was how the Apostles didn’t also set an agenda for meetings but waited on the Holy Ghost for every step. Even introductions and round off sessions were ministrations in themselves. I saw ministers taking good time to greet the saints and other ministers before teaching, just like Paul did in his epistles.

One peculiar thing about this BECON was the grace with which tongues were brought forth and interpretations are given plainly and precisely. One instance I can’t stop remembering was when Rev. Kayode prayed for the raising of the body of a certain person and soon after that a tongue came forth from the congregation; the brother who gave that tongue kept repeating the word “Eliakim”. That tongue wasn’t interpreted but Reverend Kayode explained it to be an actual Hebrew word which meant “God has raised”.

We prayed for the president of Nigeria and for the 2023 elections throughout the 7 days, without any sentiment or bias whatsoever. It was devoid of hate, condemning speech or curses. We just prayed for the will of God — peace.

Many healings took place, but none happened because Rev. Kayode taught about healing in any of the sessions. He taught the doctrine of Christ and of His Father, and healings happened while the word was preached. Rev. Kayode did not preach election or politics, economy or finances. He just preached God, and that was all we needed. I know the eyes of my understanding opened again to see the Bible and to see God. I’m not as confused as the rest of my generation. In fact, I got to experience firsthand how much of Christ I and my brethren are becoming when I had to serve as an emergency security officer on day 7 and I was stationed in the midst of a party happening close to camp. I could not compare the attendees of this party to my community. The gap in conversation seemed too much. It was then, that I appreciated the enormous work God was trying to achieve in us and what Satan is doing to push a lot of people to damnation.

I’m not even a tad apologetic about this. I know a place where I see everything written about the church in the gospels and the epistles and it’s here in Nigeria. God is so real here. I reckon that I will still be in awe at BECON 2030 even more than now because then, Eternal life will be tangible in our persons.