It was also the month when I learned in a staff meeting, instead of from Dexter, that our show was ending because the New Church had decided to invest in a church satellite TV station instead. The station was cutting the whole religious programming schedule, and I was to be without a job. Stunned, I looked around the meeting room, from Dexter, whose face was without fear or remorse, to Erica, who made no attempt to hide her grin. No one was looking at me.
It was, therefore, the month I decided to go see Pastor David Shamonka again for myself, even though it had been almost ten years since we had last spoken.
BANKOLE, MY FATHER, had left us suddenly that October, ten years before. He had called my twin sister and me into the bedroom, after the boys were worn out and asleep, asking us to take care of our brothers.
I called a taxi at the crack of dawn, took it all the way to the New Church to see Pastor David. Pastor David was not as easy to see as he had been ten years before. It took me seven tries calling his office to be passed on to the assistant who wasn’t too frightened to ask him if he wanted to see me. A few hours later, I received a call back from another assistant, telling me that Pastor would see me if I could make it to the Nigerian capital, Abuja, for the Full Gospel Business Crusade.
It was the month before Cindy found out Dexter and I had been fucking. She had found a voice note he had sent to me, a voice note that was nothing but sounds of us climaxing that he had recorded surreptitiously. Dexter, of course, insisted that the voice note was recent, but the recording old, and that it was born from nostalgia and nothing else. Even though his Cindy believed him totally, with the typical gullibility of a woman in love, she still was heartbroken that Dexter could be engaged to her and still miss me.
It was the month I surprised Dexter by continuing our situation even after he told me he had asked Cindy to be his wife. I did not care about her feelings, and I told him so easily because it was absolutely normal for us to talk about stuff like that. Back then, I had yet to grasp how little men, no matter how old, know about women. Most men have no idea how female resentment works. I was not sorry she found out the way she did. I enjoyed it. I wanted his Cindy to hate me. I was not even trying to hide it. Dexter, bright as the morning sun, never understood that.
More and more after that, I let Dexter kiss between my legs even though I did not enjoy it. He would lick and spit and nibble until I was irritated enough to smack him in the face. I never told him to stop. Instead, I would close my eyes and imagine those same lips that were licking me instead kissing Cindy’s pale face, and my heart would quicken with joy. I did not realize then why I did what I did.
If a person has never had agbalumo, no matter how hard you try to explain the unique balance of sweet and sour to them, they cannot comprehend the reality of the “African star apple.” Even for those familiar with agbalumo, very few are skillful enough to determine just by looking at the outside flesh which ones will taste good. The key, I think, is to focus on knowing several irrebuttable distinguishing features of great agbalumo.
I wish I could tell what makes good girls go bad. I wish I could identify, before becoming entangled, which people are traps and which are true friends. Maybe I am the kind of woman who will never have any real friends because I am always aiming for more, always seeking increase.
I cannot give anyone the experience of living my life, of knowing how I felt. I am still trying to understand these things myself. It is obvious to me now that back then, when I was desperate and needy, even though I was many years and several income streams removed from that girl who hawked water in traffic, running after cars while young men made fun of my bouncing breasts, I was nothing in my own eyes.
Yes, I was so small in my own eyes that the idea that the same penis I buried deep inside me could be in the pert mouth of part-Italian, part-German, part-Nigerian Cindy made me feel bigger, brighter, and better than anything else I had ever done at that point. Even earning my first one million naira did not compare. I told myself that Dexter, by sleeping with Cindy and me at the same time, made us equal. I told myself that Dexter, by risking hurting Cindy to continue fucking me, made me better than her.
AS TEENAGERS, MY twin sister and I dressed the same way every day, continuing the tradition our mother had started when we were little girls. We wore the same jeans, same tops, and dragged around the same little purses popular with the girls in our neighborhood. We had to be matching, always. The first morning after we bought our first pair of jeans, we put them on and took a walk around the neighborhood. I was so uncomfortable at first. I felt vulnerable and on display immediately. The tightness of those jeans, combined with the shortness of the tops we wore over them, made me feel like everyone around us was watching our booties jiggle. My sister, who always thought everyone was trying to sleep with us, enjoyed the attention, as though she was glad, finally, to be proved right.
I kept the jeans, even though I hated them. It was easier, more comfortable, to sell water in traffic wearing jeans. I ran faster in them, and when men in cars stretched out their hands to smack my butt, I was comforted by the barrier of jeans between us, that they did not feel the texture or soft of me.
Before the radio station, I got a full-time clerk job at a beauty supply store. I spent the day giving women suggestions on the right hair extensions and makeup for their skin tone. Sometimes, my sister visited me at work. She made the day brighter; the customers stayed longer, bought more weaves, left bigger tips after listening to our team efforts at marketing.
One evening while Bibike visited, a tall, middle-aged man came to the shop. Having a man dressed so formally, as though he were on his way back from his job as a bank manager, was such a surprise. We sometimes had a few men come in to buy stuff as gifts for lovers and wives, but this man was different. He wore the darkest black shoes I had ever seen. He smelled like old wood and rich-man tobacco. He had a BMW saloon car parked right in front of the entrance. He picked up several Kanekalon hair extension bundles in black and came up to the counter to pay. He left a significant tip, then asked me to walk with him to his car. Even though it was stupid to be interested in a customer who was obviously committed to someone else, I still allowed myself to dream. I made several excuses for him. It was possible he was single, I reasoned. Maybe he was shopping for a family member or an acquaintance, I let myself think.
“That’s a lot of hair, who is it for?” I asked as he got into his car, sitting behind the wheel.
“My wife and my two daughters,” he said. “They are getting braids done. They are traveling abroad for holiday and want something that will not need to be redone until they get back to Lagos.”
“Okay. I hope they like it,” I said, turning around to leave.
This man, Lucky—I remember his name like it was yesterday—smiled and called me back.
“Wait, please, I want to talk to you,” he said.
I turned back to him, standing as close as possible to the driver’s window.
“You and your sister are such beautiful girls, can the both of you come visit me at home next week?” he asked.
“Why? Where do you live?” I asked.
“I live in Fola Agoro, it’s close to Shomolu,” he said. With one finger, he rubbed his left eye as though something had gotten inside it. “I will pay you thirty thousand naira each.”
“Thirty thousand naira for what?” I asked.
“See, my wife is traveling. I don’t want to be alone. I have never been with twins at the same time. The house will be empty, we can have so much fun together.” He was frowning as he said this, angry, it seemed, at my bewildered questioning.
I AUDITIONED FOR and got the presenting job at Chill FM a few months after this, and quitting that sales clerk job was one of the best days of my life. It was even more satisfying than getting the new job. But that day, and all the days of my life, are colored by incidents such as the day with Mr. Lucky. I do not expect that I will ever be able to forget that feeling, like an old rag, dirty and dispensable. I
did not tell my sister what the man had said, but after that day I stopped dressing up identical to her. If she got braids, I was sure to wear a weave. When she wore bright colors, I wore dark.
And so, that Saturday morning, the day I saw Pastor David again, I walked into the conference hall of the Ibeto Hotel in Abuja dressed in my best corporate skirt suit and black peep-toe high heels. I walked out of the elevator into the nearest women’s bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, I willed myself to speak with Pastor David again. Several groups of women walked in and out of that bathroom and I stood there, saying nothing to anyone. The floor was white and shiny, as were the tiled walls. Everywhere I turned, my reflection—a put-together businesswoman in a gray suit—stared at me. She made me want to run away.
I was unprepared for the nervous energy stirring inside me. Within the conference room, a crowd of mostly younger men in dark-colored suits stood with arms raised or outstretched, singing worship songs The only women I could see were ushers and greeters scattered across the room. I grew even more nervous. My scalp was sweaty. The air-conditioning was failing to contain the dampness and heat. I walked around for a little while until I found a place to sit, an empty seat a few rows away from the makeshift podium set up in the conference hall. Just as I was relaxing into the chair, a fat man in a bright orange suit, his high compact belly straining the buttons of his jacket, walked up from behind me, asking me to get out of his reserved spot.
Pastor David walked in right as I was standing up out of the chair. Before I turned to look at the stage, I could feel him. It was as though a gust of wind blew into the room, over all of our heads. People screamed. Some cried. Everyone was clapping, even me. It took him several minutes to hush us up, and then he began to sing. His voice threw me. It was still as hoarse as I remembered but it was skillful now, tempered by better musical equipment. He sounded more than tolerable. His voice was pleasant. Arresting.
He moved from worship song to worship song with such passion and ease that when he was done, almost no one was left standing. We all were on our knees singing, praising God. “There is no one like you God, our Father.”
Finally, Pastor Shamonka began his message on the Cave of Adullam. He read from the Amplified version the story of future King David seeking refuge from King Saul.
“In the first book of Samuel, chapter twenty-two, we are told David escaped to Adullam. Just like some of you. You have escaped your town and village. You are in Abuja hiding. Trying to make money so you can go home with pride. Or maybe, like David, you are hiding from the enemy of your destiny. Like David, some of you have left your father and mother. Like David, you have the promise of God in your life, but life has forced you into hiding.
“Book of Samuel, chapter twenty-two, verse two, says, ‘Everyone who was suffering hardship, and everyone who was in debt, and everyone who was discontented gathered to him; and he became captain over them. There were about four hundred men with him.’
“Can you see what happened here? That is the difference between you and David. That is why David won and you are losing. David did not stop winning souls. David did not stop building his army. He did not stop leading.
“But I have come in the glory of God Most High to raise up the new mighty men of David!” he screamed into the crowd.
“I am here to raise up glorious men. Men who will not give up or turn backwards. Men who have been brought up to fight.
“You will fight for your money. You will fight for your job. Fight for your business. And when the enemy comes against you like a flood, you will raise up a standard against them. Somebody scream, ‘I am a standard!’”
As the audience screamed, Pastor David took two steps off the podium. For a moment my heart stopped beating. I thought he was walking my way. He began to touch the foreheads of all the people in the front row, and as he did, he screamed into the microphone.
“You are the standard. You are the best man for the job. You are anointed for victory. Success is your birthright.”
One woman in a yellow blazer over a black skirt began to scream. She was loud and unrestrained, as though she were in pain. Another man shook like a vibrating phone. People were falling on their faces, this way and that. My hands began shaking on their own accord. Waves after waves of something like electricity ran from my wrists to my fingers. Before long, I was praying like everyone else at that meeting. I was crying and weeping, I was praying with all my heart. I was pleading with God in Yoruba and English and asking him to help my family. I was not asking to be rich, a standard, a mighty man, or whatever. No, none of that was for me. I just wanted to have enough.
That service ended about three hours after I arrived, and it was not enough time to calm my nerves. When Pastor got off the stage, I realized to my dismay that I was on a long queue of people waiting to speak with him. Up close and away from the bright yellow lights of the stage, I noticed that his hair had begun to gray at the edges. His cheeks were full, round and wrinkly, and his eyes had a yellow tint to them, a yellow that contrasted with the deep dark circles around his eyes. He yawned at least three times in the minutes I waited in line.
During my wait, I chatted with a man next to me about the Word we had heard and the blessing we had received. The man had a large shipping envelope of papers with him, related to his manufacturing business.
“I just need Pastor to bless this,” the man said, showing me the contents of his envelope. “I don’t even need prayer. If he can just touch this. I know my business will revive.”
The man was going on and on, and because I was being polite, standing there and listening to him, I realized too late that Pastor had decided to stop his one-on-one meetings. He was headed out of the venue. Without thinking, I ran after him and his entourage, screaming, “Daddy, Pastor, Daddy Pastor, I am here to see you, sir.”
Immediately, the men around him linked arms, making a human fence around him.
I persisted with my screaming. I screamed even louder.
“Daddy, its Keke from Chill FM, we have a meeting for today. Daddy Pastor, sir, I just need five minutes.”
Pastor David turned to his right when I said this. He did not turn around to look at me, he spoke inaudibly with the man closest to his right. Then he walked away. The man Pastor David had spoken to walked up to me with a wide smile.
“Good evening, Sister Keke. It is okay, Pastor says to bring you with us to the hotel.”
“YOU HAVE GROWN into the most beautiful woman in the world. And I am not even the man I was ten years ago,” Pastor David Shamonka was saying to me later that night in a voice hoarse from all that preaching. We were sitting next to each other in the L-shaped sitting area of his penthouse suite. “I think I am better in many ways. I am richer, of course. But I know I am no longer young and hip.”
I told him he had never really been young or hip. He laughed gently at this.
“You are loved by many people,” I added quickly, keeping the mood light.
“People will love anything under a spotlight,” he said. “Especially troubled people.”
I did not agree with him. “Well, they must like what they see.”
“I am just God’s conduit. If I die today, someone else will take my place. Blessed be the name of the Lord,” he said.
“Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
“You are the reason I never married,” he said then, with a small sigh.
I laughed without thinking. The large power inverter next to the mini fridge hummed loudly. It was an awkward and foolish laugh, and immediately I tried to remedy it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh,” I said.
“Are you courting anyone right now?” he asked a few quiet moments after.
“Courting? I think so. I don’t know,” I said.
“I thought about you every day back then. You were so young, and the ministry was so young, and I did not handle many things very well,” he said.
He had gotten out of his chair as he spoke. He picked out a c
andy bar and two bottles of water from the mini fridge, handing the candy and one bottle of water to me before sitting back down.
“When did you realize I was the one working at Chill FM?” I asked after taking a bite of the candy.
“I knew right from the start. Who do you think told Dexter to hire you? You do not know this, but I saw you arriving for the interview. I had planned to sit on the panel, but I left when I saw you in the lobby,” he said.
I laughed again, this bout longer than the last.
“Please do not cancel the show,” I said finally. “Andrew, my younger brother, I’m not sure if you remember him. He is about to start university, and I am his sponsor. I need this job.”
“We are starting our own satellite station, my dear. The radio programming was canceled months ago, did you just now hear of it?” It was the impatience in his words that wounded me.
“Have you heard about our new station?” he continued. “It will be called New Hearts TV. We will be broadcasting from South Africa and Lagos. We have spent millions of dollars on it. We will change this world. I promise you.”
“Amen,” I said.
I felt a gust of wind blow through the room and all over me. I realized that I was sitting on the floor, with no recollection of when I got out of the chair. I wondered if I had fainted from shock but did not realize it. How and why can it be so easy to fall again into poverty, after having come so close? I had paid my dues. I was always on time, working as hard as a donkey. I built a solid reputation as a Christian radio presenter, supported controversial public topics like anti-gay legislation and the criminalization of adultery. No reputable radio station was willing to hire me. It was hard to believe I was being cast away so easily.
“What is your boyfriend like?” Pastor David asked. He was a little bent over, looking down at me and smiling, the kind of bright smile a father might force to comfort his daughter.
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