TO BE DELIVERED IN THE NAME OF GOD (PART 2)

Previously on TO BE DELIVERED IN THE NAME OF GOD…

*

After a few days, my mother had them all ready, and we returned to the church. Not long after we arrived, the prophetess and her minions did a little prayer and then proceeded to make a concoction with the milk from the coconuts my mother brought, some olive oil and sand from the entrance of the church.

This concoction was then handed over to me to DRINK!

It tasted horrible, and a couple of hours later, I started to feel diarrheic. I had to go to the toilet, and when I came back, it was to meet the prophetess telling my mother that I was excreting all the evil in my body.

Jeezuz!

Towards evening time, the prayers started. And among the prayer warriors was a guy named Festus. Festus was a very effeminate guy who used to work for my neighbour in a cyber cafe. I was both shocked and amused that this person who gave off such gay vibes would make himself a part of this charade.

By this time, I remembered what my sister said about me being more cooperative. There was wisdom in that, though not the type my sister intended. I was ready to do whatever I could to convince everyone concerned that this period in this church would cure me. I didn’t want to have to come back here, to this situation.

So, during the prayers, I played along. I jerked and whirled and thrashed about, playing up the act of one whose demons were getting smitten by the Spirit. All the while, I had an eye on my mother, silently willing her to believe that all this was working. When she eventually left me to the church’s care at the end of the day to go home, I’d never felt lonelier in my life.

The following three days spent in the church were a real test on my mental health. I was made to fast every morning till 6 PM. Then, I would have a bunch of people stand around me and cast and bind over me while I stayed kneeling. Those were the longest three days of my life. I tried to stay sane through it all and it was a struggle.

On the second day, I staged an act to prove that I was feeling more heterosexual. My mother and Charity had come around to witness the deliverance session that day, and I deleted a bunch of numbers from my phone in their presence, letting everyone know that I was cutting off the other snake people from my life.

The third day was the grand finale. It was a Wednesday, the day of the weekly service. During that service, I tried to be more participatory, even though a lot of things just didn’t make sense to me. As the service went on, a young woman was brought by her mother and sister to be healed from kidney failure. They said the doctors claimed there was nothing that could be done anymore. This young woman’s legs were so swollen, she could barely walk. The prophetess started declaring how the mother was angry with the young woman over some hurt she caused her. The mother agreed, because as it turns out, the afflicted woman had indeed been very cruel to her mother and sister. It would seem impressive that the prophetess got this right – except that we lived in a very small town, where almost everybody knew everybody’s business, and she could have simply heard the gossip about this family’s dysfunctionality.

The prophetess went on to state that the mother had to forgive her daughter, and that the whole church had to forgive her as well, and that the daughter needed to buy a few things to appease her mother. The mother begged on her daughter’s behalf, pleading that they had used up all their money on her treatment. So, a few prayers were said and all was believed to be well.

The young woman died a few days later.

When the service came to an end, it was my time again. My deliverance resumed. This time, I was asked to put on the white kaftan, socks and gloves my mother got. Then a coffin-sized box was brought out to the deliverance grounds, and I was asked to lie in it. Then they stuffed my nostrils with cotton wools and I was asked to lie very still. Then the prayer warriors launched into their prayers, while dancing about all around me. They looked absolutely ridiculous, and I had a feeling I looked even worse, trussed up as I was, all in white, with cotton wools up my nostrils like a bad Nollywood character playing dead.

Then they took the brooms my mother got, set their ends on fire and started beating at me with it. The flames singed my body, causing me to scream in pain. They claimed they were sweeping away the death hanging over me. I lay trapped in the box, petrified, enraged and sad all at once, wondering if my mother could really see what these people were doing to me. Tears pricked my eyes as I sought her out in the small crowd, silently beseeching her to put a stop to this madness.

When they were done almost setting me on fire, I was instructed to rise out of the coffin – er, box. The kaftan was ripped off of me and I was stripped down to just my briefs. Then they proceeded to cover me with oil and sand. I had so much oil and sand all over my body, the only place they didn’t manage to get the oil and sand on were my privates. Then I was led to a section of the grounds, where a guy was asked to bathe me.

After all that, the prophetess declared that I’d finally been delivered. She however added a dire warning, that if I went back to homosexuality, I would end up dead.

I felt very terrible, but for the most part, I was just relieved to finally get to leave this place. But by the time this whole drama was over, it was almost midnight. My family members had left earlier, and so, I had to spend the night in the church yet again.

Late that night, everyone around me had fallen asleep, no doubt exhausted by the great battle they engaged in with the demons they cast out of me. I couldn’t sleep. Another person who wasn’t sleeping was Festus. He was on the phone with someone who he was trying to guilt-trip into coming to visit him at his place. It was so apparent that he was speaking to a guy, and at various points during the conversation, was even flirting with him.

And yet, I was the one getting delivered of homosexuality.

The next morning, my family came to take me home. I was still so numb. I couldn’t feel anything. I spoke with my friend, Diamond, on the phone. She’d called to check up on me and to know my state of mind. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know what was going on in my head. It was almost like I was catatonic. I stayed that way for two days. I didn’t shower. I barely ate. And I still had parts of oil and sand on me.

I stayed in my room for those two days, unable to process what I’d just been through.

On the third day was when I finally snapped back into some semblance of my life. I first went to the barbershop to cut my hair, because washing off the sand in it would be much too tasking.

During this time, I got a few text messages from my other sister, Karen. She must not have been following up with my mother regarding what was going on with me, because her first text was her expression of displeasure over me disrespecting her. She wanted me to move out of her place when I come back to town. I didn’t reply.

Then, a few hours later, she texted again, saying she had just spoken to our mom and heard that I was “better now”, and so, I could continue to stay with her. Still, I didn’t respond.

A few days later, I was set to go back to the city because a new semester had started. When I got to my sister’s house, she wasn’t home. Finally alone for the first time since this whole nightmare started, I wanted to let it all out, all the emotions I’d kept bottled up all this time. I tried – oh god, how I tried. But I could not break out a single tear. I had buried everything so deeply that I couldn’t feel the sadness anymore. Instead, I felt rage. I was MAD!!! At myself, at my sisters, at my mother, at my friends… I was mad at everyone and everything that had happened.

The next day, my sister came home and was acting like nothing had happened, like she wasn’t the one who had set me on this nightmarish path I’d been on for the past several days. As she chattered about the house, I stared coldly at her, thinking of ways to kill her.

I wanted her dead because I could not stand the sight of her. I was so filled with a cold murderous rage, I am positive I would have been pushed to do something harmful to her, had she spent the night at home. She didn’t. She left home in the evening and didn’t come back that night.

The following day, I packed my bags and all my belongings and left. I told my mom that I was going to stay with a friend in school. Truth was, I had absolutely nowhere to go, but I could not share a roof with my sister any longer. I didn’t want to see her or hear her, or I was going to snap.

So, I left. I called up my ex and begged him to find me a place to stay. He tried, but nothing seemed to work out. He took me to meet one of his friends who he’d given a brief summary of what happened to me. The guy couldn’t provide accommodation at the moment, but took my number, promising to see what he could do for me.

I went from house to house; I even begged a friend to let me keep my bags in his place so I wouldn’t be lugging my belonging about, and he agreed. I ended up crashing for the night with a friend in a room with three other guys in a lodge near my school. It was very uncomfortable, but it was a lot better than my sister’s house.

My friend accommodated me for about a week. Then my ex’s friend called me, asking me to come over. He apologized for not being able to let me stay with him back when I initially needed it, because his cousin was with him then. He welcomed me into his home.

He also seemed into me, and when he kissed me, I was more than willing to go all the way. And for the first time since I was delivered of homosexuality, I had sex again. And it felt fucking good. We went at it for almost the entire night. He was good, an aggressive lover, which was what I needed at the time.

But as the days passed, as I struggled to get a handle on my life, I began to slide deeper and deeper into depression. Months passed and I got worse. I would wake up in the morning and just lie there, staring up at nothing for several minutes, until someone comes to shake me out of it. My life had lost its colour, and that was the way it was for almost a year.

I finally got better with the help of friends who did everything they could, whenever they could, to bolster my spirits.

And after a long while, and a lot of ignored calls, I was finally able to communicate with my sister, Karen, without wanting to kill her.

It took a couple more years for me to finally forgive her. Even then, till this day, I still carry a little hurt in my heart against her for her betrayal of me. For outing me and being the catalyst for an experience that nearly broke me.

Written by Rolex