Prisoners of Hope by Fortune Emerence Chinemerem Nwaiwu
CHAPTER FOUR
A few days later, I returned to the hospital to ask Dr. Smart if there was nothing he could do to sustain Levi's life. As I entered the hospital, my mind whispered to me to follow the route to the patients' zone.
As I walked along, I heard a groaning sound. I then looked up to decipher the exact place where the groaner was. Suddenly, I saw her lying in her sick bed, moaning as she breathed.
I was told that she had been in such a state for long. I was grieved, and wanted to pray for her before other patients cut in.
She spoke to me: "Man of God, we recognized you as the only one who visits us here always. Ever remember us in your prayers, since no one asks about us, neither friends nor relatives. We are always reminded that our sins are the cause of our sickness and suffering. We have, though, learnt a lesson out of it, as this ordeal prepares our souls to accept Christ, drawing us nearer to God.
"Such is our greatest gain, because after our bodies have decomposed, we shall see our God in His glorious kingdom. We have no reason for doubting, nor questioning him, nor thwarting what he has designed to be our fate.
“Here, we not only bear the pains of our sickness, but also the pains occasioned by the doctors. At times, they don't feel sympathy for us; instead, they take their injection needles and insert them into our arteries and buttocks.
"Whether we moan or not does not concern them. If we are unable to open our mouths to drink drugs, our wretched bodies receive sound blows, and our mouths are opened by force.
“Even so, thereafter, we remain uncured. No one knows if we are being treated with the right drugs and vaccines or if our sickness has no cure. We are kept aside as soon-to-be-dying patients.
“Please intercede for us in your prayers, for the only source of our survival here after death is God. We also appeal to you to preach to the world that we have surrendered to Christ, and we have forgiven those who wronged us, for we don't know yet the day our journey will commence. We are now at the verge of crossing over to another realm of life.
"Since no one cried for us as we are in pain now, we desire no sad farewell from anyone; no one should bother himself or herself to sacrifice a ram for us, for naked we come into the earth and with nothing we shall return home," thus she and the patients moaned.
People say that grief has a limit. They are right because they have never lost a vital part of their lives. We cannot keep silent to preach the gospel of grief to people. Grief does not know friends, but now has he become our friend, as we have mastered him?
We are more to be pitied. We not only bear our own grief because of our personal afflictions, but also the grief occasioned by our relatives. Yesterday, one of us, a diabetic patient with high blood pressure, died upon hearing that his wife had shuffled off this mortal coil. How could he survive it? The grief, is it not too great for him to bear? How can we express the unspeakable grief that drains man's life? How can we express such an unspeakable grief, and how can we recover the joy that has been drowned by the loss of someone very dear to our souls? As it stands now, many of us desire to leave the Earth and to sojourn in a painless realm.
Sickness has disenfranchised us from partaking in the affairs of life. We no longer attend churches nor are we working to eke out a living. It has enslaved us, and now we are made beggars. Many of us who are made mute in the hospital have decided to roam the streets to beg for bread since no one cares to pay our hospital bills, nor to provide for our living.
Sometimes, we hear about a trailer smashing some who are by the roadside begging. We see that it is a way to gradually eliminate us, because they think we are nuisances to the nation. But who is to blame? Whatever we are, it is by the Maker of mankind. If you are favored, you are lucky and don't brag about it, and if poverty and pain find you, consider yourself favored by the Maker, as he is a distributor of all, both mannered and un-mannered, things. Rejoice, because our stay here is to accompany you as you reap the riches of the Earth, while we starve and bear our pains with much groanings, and as we watch you make merry under a divine revenue allocation and providence.
Since we have not all died, beggars will live, and patients will moan, and pain will continue to wrench our bodies. We can also continue to be a source of blessings to those who want to be blessed through us. We are the human angels; we open doors of Heaven for those who ask us to bless them. Without us, those who think they are rich will experience poverty and grief. We hold the key of favor, but the irony is we can't find the favor, because those whom we are to favor have rejected us with utter contempt.
We suffer along with our friends, our partners-in-suffering, the poor-grief-bearing-beggars in the streets and market squares. What we know is that no beggar is healthy, and so every one bears his or her appalling grief in one way or the other. Some were born crippled, blind, deaf and dumb by poor progenitors, the precursors of our lack and doom. For if we had been born wealthy, many of us might have been spared our sickness. The rich take their patients abroad to be treated. That is why whether we live or die here, our government does not care.
Though the fear of death grips us, we are not alone. We live by the mercy of our Maker. We sing songs of praises even when all is not well with us. And yet, we praise our Maker, for He knows all human needs. Wherever we find ourselves, we form a church, placing all our hope in the Living God. That is why our hope is described as a living hope.
In our pain and grief, we have, not one day, spoken ill about our Maker; this way of life is what we know as a principle of subordination to the divine will. If the Most High has raised his fist against us, we cannot tell; if it's Satan's wish to disparage our flesh, our mouths cannot gush.
We hear believers of the Truth preaching in churches, in the streets and around every corner of markets, but none of them practices their beliefs except you, our God-sent-man, Venerable Peterson. Your God will say to you, "I was in the prison, you visited me. I was in sorrow, you comforted me. I was in the hospital, you visited me. I was naked you clothed me. I was thirsty, you gave me water. I was a stranger, you hospitalized me, and I was hungry, you fed me."
People all over the world are frantic because they fail to acknowledge the importance of our human existence. Until they realize our needs in their lives, we can't open the door of Heaven to bless them. Instead, their sin of negligence will be a tumor in their bodies that will make their lives miserable.
You, the priest of the poor, since believers of the gospel don't care for the poor like us, we would make an appeal to you: leave them and preach the gospel to the grieving people like us, to the beggars in the streets who have the ears to listen to the Word, and hearts to repent, and minds to practice what they hear. We will be eager to do what we hear, hoping to receive consolation from God, our great comforter.
Every grief-ridden and bed-ridden person needs the gospel more than any other man. We need it to keep living and to make our pain less severe. When we were as healthy as a fig tree, we had never liked a preacher preaching from the Book of Job. We all hated the book, but now we are like the withered fig tree cursed by the seed of woman, and we like to hear you preaching from it. The book is a big picture of what we're passing through right now.
Most of us have lost our valuable properties – sold to bid away pain; some have lost children because no one will care for them, and now we are asked to curse our God and die. But we ask: "How can we curse our God Who holds our future?"
To live is to die, and to die is to live; which ever way, let our grief be a center of attraction to people, as you illustrate your homily with our lives while preaching.
We can neither eat nor drink because our hearts are sore with depression. Can you hear the crying of babies from that building? They’ re the voices of motherless babies whose mothers died after delivering them. They are now infant prisoners. Will they kill themselves or ask God why He brought them forth to suffer? No! Such is life, full of ups and downs.
People always come here to snap pictures of us and the motherless babies, promising that they’re sending the pictures to the government and some establishments to help the grief-ridden individuals and motherless babies, but they never come back to us with little tokens. Rather, they cook up all kinds of lies that the government will soon hear our pleas. We realize that out of our grief, people benefit, because in all the newspaper headlines we see, “FG Donated 5.5 Million Dollars for the Sick and Motherless Babies.” Even in some churches, thousands of dollars have been donated to help us, but where is it? After the donations, pastors will travel from one country to another with the money while we perish here. No transfer, no leave!
The free drugs that the government distributes to government hospitals are shared by the doctors. They use them in their various private clinics, charging patients huge amounts of money. How can we survive when no one is to be relied on? Our survival is only through God.
When a rich man dies, people all over the world will hear about his death, and out of our poverty, even we borrow money to pay condolences. But when we die, no one will know, and the rich will not even come to pay us their last respects. We love them, but they don’t love us. We want them to live, but they don’t want us. We like to greet them, but they find it too hard to respond. We want to be their slaves, but they distance themselves from us, avoiding us. Then we conclude that it is a pity we live in a wrong habitation with hostile neighbors.
We remembered Clifford, a ruling class member, when he died in a plane crash. People wept and mourned for him as if something precious had gone from them. Death, thank you for being inevitable for all! The world would have loved only the poor to be dying, but we, the poor, say the grave shall not be our eternal abode.
You see, Man of God, a man who had a mental problem, was brought here a few days ago for treatment. As mentally deranged, he was causing a commotion in the hospital, saying, “Let me see anyone that will inject medicine into my buttocks with sharp injection needles. I will bite him with my sharp teeth and finish him with my left hand!”
Suddenly, one doctor came out and injected the medicine, as the man was held by the medical attendants. After some minutes, the man died, and his wife, a Calabar woman who sells provisions, automatically became a widow.
“Doctor, igbuole dim! Doctor, igbuole dim!” the poor widow cried out in Igbo dialect as she roamed about aimlessly in the hospital.
The next day, the doctor came to inquire about our health. We told him that we were all fine, and we appreciated the last treatment he gave to us. We said so, even when no improvement was seen in us because we were afraid to die. That is the psychology of health-treatment— always tell your doctor that his medicine is nice and effective, and make little complaint about your health, and your doctor will be happy to treat you.
But what is the need to live under pretence when we ought not to lie to doctors? Shall our hearts continue to burn in pain while our faces radiate with smiles to please our doctors? Have we become like sea creatures under the snare of fishermen? Wouldn’t we express our sorrows again? If not, how would they know the right medicines to give without listening to our complaints?
We die, and it’s not only our sickness that kills us, but the carelessness of the men we run to for cure. We hear stories of people that underwent surgical operations, but out of carelessness, a small pair of scissors was forgotten inside the patient. Ah! Where can we run to? We come for a cure, but we contract more sickness, and complications develop more and more.
We are the prisoners of hope; one day, we shall be free. Our bodies are not a residential abode for pain and grief. When death comes, it’ll relieve us from all our woes and restlessness. We will no longer be imprisoned.
Our daughters are not safe! One of us whose daughter knew no man, is now pregnant. She came for treatment of typhoid and malaria, but one doctor injected a medicine that caused her to sleep and he abused her, thereafter spoiling her with money and material things. If we tell all that we have seen here, my dear, our caregivers will force our mouths open and put a poison inside us. The only good man here is Dr. Smart. God will reward him.
I sighed as I listened to their pathetic stories, and I felt sad for them.
I really understood what they were passing through, because I had known someone like them before, though his own sickness was minor compared to theirs.
I remembered that on December 29, 2016, I was awakened in the night by my mother and told that my dad was lying down, sick.
"Peterson, come out now or you’ll hear sad news that your dad is dead," my mum wept.
I thought that the sickness would be minor, a fever or a spiritual attack, since I was not told before that he was sick.
I moved to my dad's room and found him writhing in pain. I began to sing songs of praises to God and then of healing, with my siblings.
We prayed.
Thereafter, we thought about where to take him. My mum referred us to his brother at Okpala, who could take us to a man who had cured him when he had been spiritually poisoned.
I entered my car immediately with my younger brother and we drove off. We saw my uncle and told him about my dad's health. He took us to one Cherubim and Seraphim Church, not far from his house.
As we entered, they asked us to wait because they were having fasting and prayers. So, we parked our car near the gate of the church and stayed inside it because the harmattan wind was too severe. As we sat in the car, I told my brother that the priest would think that we came with gifts and money to give to him if he saw our car standing outside.
We laughed and discussed the matter, then stayed in the car for over three hours before the priest's servant called us in. We came out of the car and saw the man. We did not realize that he was blind before he told us, and in his infirmity, he served God faithfully.
I asked myself if such a blind man can serve God faithfully, what about people with healthy bodies?
My uncle told him about our mission, and the priest asked his servant to give us a bottle of alabaster oil, as my dad complained of stomach ache; the priest commanded us to allow no woman in her menstruation to touch it.
We returned home and gave my dad a spoonful of the oil to drink, which he did. The only things the oil did was to disturb my dad's stomach and cause him to go for toilet, which he hadn't done for two days.
After this, my dad told us that his sickness was a surgical case, that we should look for a gastroenterologist who would perform the surgery.
We did not take what he said seriously because we didn't know that he had a hernia. We kept quiet. My elder brother and I then went to a computer and logged onto the Internet to discover the symptoms of a hernia. What we saw was exactly what my dad was passing through.
We then consulted our bishop, a seller of medicines, a man who also gave people treatments. We told him about my dad's problem, and he said exactly what we saw in the Internet.
He then referred us to one hospital at Grace-Land, where he had been treated for the same problem. We left for Grace-Land, where it was discovered that my dad had a dangerous, strangulated hernia.
Having been asked to buy tissues, a bucket, cups, and the things needed for the operation, we drove down to the Eketa market, where we bought all these supplies. while we were in the market, two of my church members saw me and my two brothers. They knew that something was wrong. I had tried to appear happy, but it wasn't so easy as my heart was so saddened.
"Sir Peterson,” Adanta yelled, together with her daughter Mildred, who came to the market with her mum to buy Christmas cloths, "Is anything the matter?”
They asked me this staring steadily at me.
"My dad is right now in the hospital for a surgical operation, and we have come to buy some necessary items," I answered.
I left them and then joined my brothers. We were in a hurry to meet up. We even thanked God that my damaged Nissan Almera was fixed by then. I had bought the car directly from the UK, and it was new, until enemies in the village damaged it, invoking a spoiling spirit on it.
As I was converting the steering from the right-hand to the left-hand, many things were found to be damaged, the battery busted, the ignition system damaged, the car radio burnt.
I thought that the auto mechanics were incompetent. I did not realize that what was happening to my car was a spiritual matter, later revealed to me by God through his prophets.
I said a series of prayers, and still my car was not in normal state. By then I had spent a lot of money. I challenged God, making a vow for God to work on my car, and yet I was not seeing any improvement, until I fulfilled my vow.
Now that my dad was sick, my repaired car could take me to wherever I wished to go. This convinced me that believers facing challenges with great assurances are all part of being “prisoners of hope.” So, due to my dad's prior sickness, I knew how painful it was for one to be sick.
Looking at the patients in the hospital, I comforted them with God's word, full of hope. I prayed for them.
I wanted to speak with Dr. Smart, but my mind whispered to me not to see him. I thought: you have achieved the very purpose God brought you here for; leave the doctor, and God will take care of Levi."
As I was leaving, a voice was raised indicating that God had harvested a soul in the hospital.
"Rapture has begun," I said, my mind was occupied by the fates of the patients.
My phone distracted me by ringing. I dipped my hand in my trousers pocket and brought it out.
It was Dr. Smart calling. "Hi, Reverend Peterson, I heard that you visited my hospital."
I did not know whether to give him a straight answer or not. I thought, maybe he would accuse me of killing the patient who had died immediately as I left the hospital.
I recalled what happened to me when one of my students in school told me that her mum was bedridden. I went with her to pray for her mother. It was after the prayer that the woman saw angels in white garments, and then became afraid. When I came to see her for the second time, the woman's behavior showed that she didn't like me to pray for her because of her religious beliefs and what she had seen the first day I had prayed for her.
The woman crawled like a tiny crab to another corner of the room, away from where I was praying.
As I opened my eyes a bit, I saw her looking at me disgustedly.
Bad religion has spoiled your mind, I thought. I left my prayer unfinished.
The woman’s daughter knew what was happening, and she apologized that her mum's church did not like prayers offered by a non-member.
This, I thought, may be the reason Dr. Smart was calling. "Yes, I was in your hospital some minutes ago, and I prayed for some of the patients who said they were soon-to-die patients," I replied.
"Please, let these patients be given the privilege to attend the service when Levi delivers his last words, as your church deems fit. As a Christian, I don't want the souls of dying patients to go to hell fire," the doctor yelled.
I replied, "Sure, I will be glad to see them. God bless you," and the call ended.
CHAPTER FOUR
A few days later, I returned to the hospital to ask Dr. Smart if there was nothing he could do to sustain Levi's life. As I entered the hospital, my mind whispered to me to follow the route to the patients' zone.
As I walked along, I heard a groaning sound. I then looked up to decipher the exact place where the groaner was. Suddenly, I saw her lying in her sick bed, moaning as she breathed.
I was told that she had been in such a state for long. I was grieved, and wanted to pray for her before other patients cut in.
She spoke to me: "Man of God, we recognized you as the only one who visits us here always. Ever remember us in your prayers, since no one asks about us, neither friends nor relatives. We are always reminded that our sins are the cause of our sickness and suffering. We have, though, learnt a lesson out of it, as this ordeal prepares our souls to accept Christ, drawing us nearer to God.
"Such is our greatest gain, because after our bodies have decomposed, we shall see our God in His glorious kingdom. We have no reason for doubting, nor questioning him, nor thwarting what he has designed to be our fate.
“Here, we not only bear the pains of our sickness, but also the pains occasioned by the doctors. At times, they don't feel sympathy for us; instead, they take their injection needles and insert them into our arteries and buttocks.
"Whether we moan or not does not concern them. If we are unable to open our mouths to drink drugs, our wretched bodies receive sound blows, and our mouths are opened by force.
“Even so, thereafter, we remain uncured. No one knows if we are being treated with the right drugs and vaccines or if our sickness has no cure. We are kept aside as soon-to-be-dying patients.
“Please intercede for us in your prayers, for the only source of our survival here after death is God. We also appeal to you to preach to the world that we have surrendered to Christ, and we have forgiven those who wronged us, for we don't know yet the day our journey will commence. We are now at the verge of crossing over to another realm of life.
"Since no one cried for us as we are in pain now, we desire no sad farewell from anyone; no one should bother himself or herself to sacrifice a ram for us, for naked we come into the earth and with nothing we shall return home," thus she and the patients moaned.
People say that grief has a limit. They are right because they have never lost a vital part of their lives. We cannot keep silent to preach the gospel of grief to people. Grief does not know friends, but now has he become our friend, as we have mastered him?
We are more to be pitied. We not only bear our own grief because of our personal afflictions, but also the grief occasioned by our relatives. Yesterday, one of us, a diabetic patient with high blood pressure, died upon hearing that his wife had shuffled off this mortal coil. How could he survive it? The grief, is it not too great for him to bear? How can we express the unspeakable grief that drains man's life? How can we express such an unspeakable grief, and how can we recover the joy that has been drowned by the loss of someone very dear to our souls? As it stands now, many of us desire to leave the Earth and to sojourn in a painless realm.
Sickness has disenfranchised us from partaking in the affairs of life. We no longer attend churches nor are we working to eke out a living. It has enslaved us, and now we are made beggars. Many of us who are made mute in the hospital have decided to roam the streets to beg for bread since no one cares to pay our hospital bills, nor to provide for our living.
Sometimes, we hear about a trailer smashing some who are by the roadside begging. We see that it is a way to gradually eliminate us, because they think we are nuisances to the nation. But who is to blame? Whatever we are, it is by the Maker of mankind. If you are favored, you are lucky and don't brag about it, and if poverty and pain find you, consider yourself favored by the Maker, as he is a distributor of all, both mannered and un-mannered, things. Rejoice, because our stay here is to accompany you as you reap the riches of the Earth, while we starve and bear our pains with much groanings, and as we watch you make merry under a divine revenue allocation and providence.
Since we have not all died, beggars will live, and patients will moan, and pain will continue to wrench our bodies. We can also continue to be a source of blessings to those who want to be blessed through us. We are the human angels; we open doors of Heaven for those who ask us to bless them. Without us, those who think they are rich will experience poverty and grief. We hold the key of favor, but the irony is we can't find the favor, because those whom we are to favor have rejected us with utter contempt.
We suffer along with our friends, our partners-in-suffering, the poor-grief-bearing-beggars in the streets and market squares. What we know is that no beggar is healthy, and so every one bears his or her appalling grief in one way or the other. Some were born crippled, blind, deaf and dumb by poor progenitors, the precursors of our lack and doom. For if we had been born wealthy, many of us might have been spared our sickness. The rich take their patients abroad to be treated. That is why whether we live or die here, our government does not care.
Though the fear of death grips us, we are not alone. We live by the mercy of our Maker. We sing songs of praises even when all is not well with us. And yet, we praise our Maker, for He knows all human needs. Wherever we find ourselves, we form a church, placing all our hope in the Living God. That is why our hope is described as a living hope.
In our pain and grief, we have, not one day, spoken ill about our Maker; this way of life is what we know as a principle of subordination to the divine will. If the Most High has raised his fist against us, we cannot tell; if it's Satan's wish to disparage our flesh, our mouths cannot gush.
We hear believers of the Truth preaching in churches, in the streets and around every corner of markets, but none of them practices their beliefs except you, our God-sent-man, Venerable Peterson. Your God will say to you, "I was in the prison, you visited me. I was in sorrow, you comforted me. I was in the hospital, you visited me. I was naked you clothed me. I was thirsty, you gave me water. I was a stranger, you hospitalized me, and I was hungry, you fed me."
People all over the world are frantic because they fail to acknowledge the importance of our human existence. Until they realize our needs in their lives, we can't open the door of Heaven to bless them. Instead, their sin of negligence will be a tumor in their bodies that will make their lives miserable.
You, the priest of the poor, since believers of the gospel don't care for the poor like us, we would make an appeal to you: leave them and preach the gospel to the grieving people like us, to the beggars in the streets who have the ears to listen to the Word, and hearts to repent, and minds to practice what they hear. We will be eager to do what we hear, hoping to receive consolation from God, our great comforter.
Every grief-ridden and bed-ridden person needs the gospel more than any other man. We need it to keep living and to make our pain less severe. When we were as healthy as a fig tree, we had never liked a preacher preaching from the Book of Job. We all hated the book, but now we are like the withered fig tree cursed by the seed of woman, and we like to hear you preaching from it. The book is a big picture of what we're passing through right now.
Most of us have lost our valuable properties – sold to bid away pain; some have lost children because no one will care for them, and now we are asked to curse our God and die. But we ask: "How can we curse our God Who holds our future?"
To live is to die, and to die is to live; which ever way, let our grief be a center of attraction to people, as you illustrate your homily with our lives while preaching.
We can neither eat nor drink because our hearts are sore with depression. Can you hear the crying of babies from that building? They’ re the voices of motherless babies whose mothers died after delivering them. They are now infant prisoners. Will they kill themselves or ask God why He brought them forth to suffer? No! Such is life, full of ups and downs.
People always come here to snap pictures of us and the motherless babies, promising that they’re sending the pictures to the government and some establishments to help the grief-ridden individuals and motherless babies, but they never come back to us with little tokens. Rather, they cook up all kinds of lies that the government will soon hear our pleas. We realize that out of our grief, people benefit, because in all the newspaper headlines we see, “FG Donated 5.5 Million Dollars for the Sick and Motherless Babies.” Even in some churches, thousands of dollars have been donated to help us, but where is it? After the donations, pastors will travel from one country to another with the money while we perish here. No transfer, no leave!
The free drugs that the government distributes to government hospitals are shared by the doctors. They use them in their various private clinics, charging patients huge amounts of money. How can we survive when no one is to be relied on? Our survival is only through God.
When a rich man dies, people all over the world will hear about his death, and out of our poverty, even we borrow money to pay condolences. But when we die, no one will know, and the rich will not even come to pay us their last respects. We love them, but they don’t love us. We want them to live, but they don’t want us. We like to greet them, but they find it too hard to respond. We want to be their slaves, but they distance themselves from us, avoiding us. Then we conclude that it is a pity we live in a wrong habitation with hostile neighbors.
We remembered Clifford, a ruling class member, when he died in a plane crash. People wept and mourned for him as if something precious had gone from them. Death, thank you for being inevitable for all! The world would have loved only the poor to be dying, but we, the poor, say the grave shall not be our eternal abode.
You see, Man of God, a man who had a mental problem, was brought here a few days ago for treatment. As mentally deranged, he was causing a commotion in the hospital, saying, “Let me see anyone that will inject medicine into my buttocks with sharp injection needles. I will bite him with my sharp teeth and finish him with my left hand!”
Suddenly, one doctor came out and injected the medicine, as the man was held by the medical attendants. After some minutes, the man died, and his wife, a Calabar woman who sells provisions, automatically became a widow.
“Doctor, igbuole dim! Doctor, igbuole dim!” the poor widow cried out in Igbo dialect as she roamed about aimlessly in the hospital.
The next day, the doctor came to inquire about our health. We told him that we were all fine, and we appreciated the last treatment he gave to us. We said so, even when no improvement was seen in us because we were afraid to die. That is the psychology of health-treatment— always tell your doctor that his medicine is nice and effective, and make little complaint about your health, and your doctor will be happy to treat you.
But what is the need to live under pretence when we ought not to lie to doctors? Shall our hearts continue to burn in pain while our faces radiate with smiles to please our doctors? Have we become like sea creatures under the snare of fishermen? Wouldn’t we express our sorrows again? If not, how would they know the right medicines to give without listening to our complaints?
We die, and it’s not only our sickness that kills us, but the carelessness of the men we run to for cure. We hear stories of people that underwent surgical operations, but out of carelessness, a small pair of scissors was forgotten inside the patient. Ah! Where can we run to? We come for a cure, but we contract more sickness, and complications develop more and more.
We are the prisoners of hope; one day, we shall be free. Our bodies are not a residential abode for pain and grief. When death comes, it’ll relieve us from all our woes and restlessness. We will no longer be imprisoned.
Our daughters are not safe! One of us whose daughter knew no man, is now pregnant. She came for treatment of typhoid and malaria, but one doctor injected a medicine that caused her to sleep and he abused her, thereafter spoiling her with money and material things. If we tell all that we have seen here, my dear, our caregivers will force our mouths open and put a poison inside us. The only good man here is Dr. Smart. God will reward him.
I sighed as I listened to their pathetic stories, and I felt sad for them.
I really understood what they were passing through, because I had known someone like them before, though his own sickness was minor compared to theirs.
I remembered that on December 29, 2016, I was awakened in the night by my mother and told that my dad was lying down, sick.
"Peterson, come out now or you’ll hear sad news that your dad is dead," my mum wept.
I thought that the sickness would be minor, a fever or a spiritual attack, since I was not told before that he was sick.
I moved to my dad's room and found him writhing in pain. I began to sing songs of praises to God and then of healing, with my siblings.
We prayed.
Thereafter, we thought about where to take him. My mum referred us to his brother at Okpala, who could take us to a man who had cured him when he had been spiritually poisoned.
I entered my car immediately with my younger brother and we drove off. We saw my uncle and told him about my dad's health. He took us to one Cherubim and Seraphim Church, not far from his house.
As we entered, they asked us to wait because they were having fasting and prayers. So, we parked our car near the gate of the church and stayed inside it because the harmattan wind was too severe. As we sat in the car, I told my brother that the priest would think that we came with gifts and money to give to him if he saw our car standing outside.
We laughed and discussed the matter, then stayed in the car for over three hours before the priest's servant called us in. We came out of the car and saw the man. We did not realize that he was blind before he told us, and in his infirmity, he served God faithfully.
I asked myself if such a blind man can serve God faithfully, what about people with healthy bodies?
My uncle told him about our mission, and the priest asked his servant to give us a bottle of alabaster oil, as my dad complained of stomach ache; the priest commanded us to allow no woman in her menstruation to touch it.
We returned home and gave my dad a spoonful of the oil to drink, which he did. The only things the oil did was to disturb my dad's stomach and cause him to go for toilet, which he hadn't done for two days.
After this, my dad told us that his sickness was a surgical case, that we should look for a gastroenterologist who would perform the surgery.
We did not take what he said seriously because we didn't know that he had a hernia. We kept quiet. My elder brother and I then went to a computer and logged onto the Internet to discover the symptoms of a hernia. What we saw was exactly what my dad was passing through.
We then consulted our bishop, a seller of medicines, a man who also gave people treatments. We told him about my dad's problem, and he said exactly what we saw in the Internet.
He then referred us to one hospital at Grace-Land, where he had been treated for the same problem. We left for Grace-Land, where it was discovered that my dad had a dangerous, strangulated hernia.
Having been asked to buy tissues, a bucket, cups, and the things needed for the operation, we drove down to the Eketa market, where we bought all these supplies. while we were in the market, two of my church members saw me and my two brothers. They knew that something was wrong. I had tried to appear happy, but it wasn't so easy as my heart was so saddened.
"Sir Peterson,” Adanta yelled, together with her daughter Mildred, who came to the market with her mum to buy Christmas cloths, "Is anything the matter?”
They asked me this staring steadily at me.
"My dad is right now in the hospital for a surgical operation, and we have come to buy some necessary items," I answered.
I left them and then joined my brothers. We were in a hurry to meet up. We even thanked God that my damaged Nissan Almera was fixed by then. I had bought the car directly from the UK, and it was new, until enemies in the village damaged it, invoking a spoiling spirit on it.
As I was converting the steering from the right-hand to the left-hand, many things were found to be damaged, the battery busted, the ignition system damaged, the car radio burnt.
I thought that the auto mechanics were incompetent. I did not realize that what was happening to my car was a spiritual matter, later revealed to me by God through his prophets.
I said a series of prayers, and still my car was not in normal state. By then I had spent a lot of money. I challenged God, making a vow for God to work on my car, and yet I was not seeing any improvement, until I fulfilled my vow.
Now that my dad was sick, my repaired car could take me to wherever I wished to go. This convinced me that believers facing challenges with great assurances are all part of being “prisoners of hope.” So, due to my dad's prior sickness, I knew how painful it was for one to be sick.
Looking at the patients in the hospital, I comforted them with God's word, full of hope. I prayed for them.
I wanted to speak with Dr. Smart, but my mind whispered to me not to see him. I thought: you have achieved the very purpose God brought you here for; leave the doctor, and God will take care of Levi."
As I was leaving, a voice was raised indicating that God had harvested a soul in the hospital.
"Rapture has begun," I said, my mind was occupied by the fates of the patients.
My phone distracted me by ringing. I dipped my hand in my trousers pocket and brought it out.
It was Dr. Smart calling. "Hi, Reverend Peterson, I heard that you visited my hospital."
I did not know whether to give him a straight answer or not. I thought, maybe he would accuse me of killing the patient who had died immediately as I left the hospital.
I recalled what happened to me when one of my students in school told me that her mum was bedridden. I went with her to pray for her mother. It was after the prayer that the woman saw angels in white garments, and then became afraid. When I came to see her for the second time, the woman's behavior showed that she didn't like me to pray for her because of her religious beliefs and what she had seen the first day I had prayed for her.
The woman crawled like a tiny crab to another corner of the room, away from where I was praying.
As I opened my eyes a bit, I saw her looking at me disgustedly.
Bad religion has spoiled your mind, I thought. I left my prayer unfinished.
The woman’s daughter knew what was happening, and she apologized that her mum's church did not like prayers offered by a non-member.
This, I thought, may be the reason Dr. Smart was calling. "Yes, I was in your hospital some minutes ago, and I prayed for some of the patients who said they were soon-to-die patients," I replied.
"Please, let these patients be given the privilege to attend the service when Levi delivers his last words, as your church deems fit. As a Christian, I don't want the souls of dying patients to go to hell fire," the doctor yelled.
I replied, "Sure, I will be glad to see them. God bless you," and the call ended.
Comments