The Atheist's Messiah: Yanif

by Saul Dobney

  “So why did no one tell me?” asked Mr Gates. He cursed, and steadied himself against the wall.

  “And risk our jobs,” said Pamela. “It is hard enough to get work with way things are. We find ways to cope. The smart girls tell him they have a disease so he should not touch them. Eshe didn’t know.”

  “I’m sorry Eshe, John. I didn’t know.” Mr Gates waved the man with the gun away.

  Tremus raised himself up off the crate and Yanif undid the rope that bound Tremus's wrists. Eshe ran over and hugged Tremus.

  “I’m truly sorry Eshe,” said Mr Gates. “Mr Joho will have to answer to me. Put your things back in your room. Pamela will make sure you are treated properly.”

  15. Charlatans

  “So, Dr Hill do you feel any responsibility for the death of Jennifer Pommel? It was after all your article and lecture that sparked off all this frenzy and led to the creation of this TV programme.” The presenter, Rick Hughes, adjusted the headphones on his ears and scanned the notes on the radio desk in front of him.

  Dr Hill leaned forwards towards the microphone. Next to him sat Tim Spearman, twiddling a pencil in his fingers and beside Rick across the desk sat two older gentlemen, Bishop Thomas and Dr Hashimi waiting for Dr Hill to respond.

  “I don’t see how Rick, I think you have to look at how the media have whipped themselves up. And you would have to ask some very hard questions of the producers of the TV programme,” Dr Hill replied.

  “ 'Hope for the World’ the programme that the girl appeared on,” Rick clarified for listeners. “But if you hadn’t written your article about new prophets, this type of programme would never have been made. Surely you must feel some level of culpability?”

  “But how has the outrageous behaviour of the TV producer on a cheap TV panel show got anything to do with me?”

  “Your fellow secularist here, Tim Spearman thinks you were irresponsible even to raise the subject of a new religion.”

  “Too right,” said Tim. He jabbed the pencil in Dr Hill's direction. “We've been winning the argument against God, and then James's talk revived all the old superstitions and muddle-headed thinking. The media lapped it up. Hope for the World even used a quote from you on their press release.”

  “I just can’t see the connection with this pile of trash Tim. A reality show that gets teenagers to compete on spirituality. How can anyone believe that this is connected with what I said? When the TV show took what, in all honesty, are sensitive group of young people and set them spiritual challenges with TV cameras following every move, … This was always going to be disaster waiting to happen.”

  “Misguided perhaps,” interrupted Bishop Thomas, the grey haired man in the dog collar opposite. “But on the other hand it is important that people see religion as good with positive outcomes. Religion on the news today is always being connected with stories of hatred and violence, instead of love and hope. The true message of religion.”

  “Misguided?” said Dr Hill. “Jennifer Pommel was criticised for not praying hard enough on national television. How do you think she would feel? She was on the show because she felt connected to God and then there she is, being let down, and told she is not connected enough. They turned praying for ill people into a game show. And then for Jennifer, to be judged as to whether her prayers came true. It doesn’t bear speaking about,” said Dr Hill a tone of disgust in his voice.

  “Dr Hashimi what are your thoughts?” said Rick turning to last of the studio guests.

  “Well Rick, from where I sit, Dr Hill has to take some of the blame in getting this whole mess started in the first place. Many believers would be able to tell him there will be no more prophets so he started it with a false premise. Of course the TV production company are culpable too. I would agree very strongly with Dr Hill on that. You cannot put such pressure on individuals or judge people by how hard you think they are praying,” answered Dr Hashimi.

  “But Dr Hashimi,” Tim Spearman interrupted, “isn’t that what religions demand. Aren’t you supposed to be public in your prayer? If things go wrong in someone's life, don’t you get the whispering that perhaps that person is not devoted enough and so God is punishing them?”

  “Mr Spearman, you are deliberating misinterpreting and trying to make mischief,” replied Dr Hashimi. “Of course people want to pray together. It means we can support each other as a community going forwards. If someone is having difficulties then this community will pray for those in need. That is understood.”

  “Bishop Thomas?” said Rick returning to the guest in the dog collar.

  “Well Rick. Spirituality is a delicate matter. It needs to be nurtured and those who are most spiritual are often the most delicate. We cannot treat religion as lightly as Dr Hill and Mr Spearman would like.”

  “And the media. Do you think the blame is with the media?”

  “I think what the media did in conveying Dr Hill views was positive in that it raised the profile of religious thinking and got people talking. But Dr Hill and Mr Spearman are playing with fire. Religion is not a schoolboy game but a deep part of our existence. And now we have two troubled children who have died because of this mischief making.”

  “Dr Hill, the last word.”

  “What I said was a prediction based on facts. Not faith. Facts. For me, the tragedy of Jennifer and Johannes is the desperate need that people feel they have to believe something, anything, even if that belief can drive people to destruction. Isn’t that wrong? Isn’t that the real problem?”

  Dr Hill and Tim Spearman came out of the radio station together in silence. Outside the main foyer a group of clowns in polka-dot outfits were rattling buckets collecting money for charity.

  “Smile please gentleman,” said one of the clowns. “We'll get the rain back if you don't brighten up.”

  Dr Hill gurned a cheesy grin. “Better?”

  “We'll have to charge double for that.”

  Dr Hill put his hand in his pocket and pitched some coins into the bucket the clown was holding.

  “Anything to declare?” the clown asked Tim rattling the coins.

  “Already paid,” said Tim trying to walk past.

  “You can donate again,” said the clown swinging the bucket back towards Tim.

  Tim shook his head.

  “Certain…?” said the clown.

  The clown grinned malevolently and honked the rubber bulb of a circus horn in his belt. The other clown-collectors crowded around and pulled funny faces at Tim and Dr Hill.

  “This is not fair. I gave some money when I came in,” said Tim. “This isn't right.”

  “It costs more to get out,” said the clown and the next instant Tim and Dr Hill were engulfed in a spray of silly string.

  “Hey. Leave it out. This better not stain. I have an engagement to go to,” shouted Tim, trying to pull coloured strands out of his hair.

  A shout came from across the car-park and Dr Hill waved as his wife came towards them.

  “What is it with you and men with red noses?” Jill asked as she reached her husband, still smiling at the clowns. “Mind you, Tim you deserved it. A bit too aggressive with my husband this morning for my liking.” She picked off the goo on her husband's back.

  Tim grimaced. “I call things how they are. James gets these fancy ideas and then wonders why he causes chaos.”

  “Tim. Over here.” From across the road, a woman in her early twenties made a b-line for Tim.

  Jill locked eyes with her husband and raised her eyebrows.

  “James, Jill this is Gemma,” said Tim. “Gemma's my, err… , new assistant.”

  “Assistant,” said Jill greeting Gemma. “I used to be Tim's assistant in the long distant past.”

  “Really?” said Gemma. “You used to work for Tim.”

  “Before I was married I was a bit of an activist,” said Jill. “Tim was chief organiser and I started helping out. You know, making the tea, first aid support and all that for his hardcore campaigning.”

/>   “That sound familiar,” said Gemma.

  “So how did he manage to rope you in then?” asked Jill

  Gemma smiled. “Tim gave a talk at my college, and one thing led to another.”

  “You're a student?”

  “Medical student,” corrected Gemma. “Hoping to be an oncology consultant several years into the future.”

  “That's a coincidence. I was a nurse when I met Tim,” said Jill. “I was lucky though and James saved me, or maybe I saved James.” She smirked at her husband.

  Dr Hill tapped his wife on the bottom and smiled. “I guess I was more of a hanger-on. Then I got talking to Jill and she discovered I knew a bit about science and suddenly I was the science spokesman when anything technical came up.”

  “All theory and no practice,” said Tim. “Just like now.”

  “That is a little unfair,” said Dr Hill.

  “Unfair?” Tim raised his voice. “When was the last time you did anything practical? You've created this storm of interest in your messiah idea, and you have no idea the impact its having on campaigns on the street. Go and see for yourself for a change.” He took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “Here, someone was handing it out on the tube.” Tim read from the leaflet, “ 'Seeking the New Messiah? Come and find him at Champions Hall in Golders Green.' Look at this junk James and tell me how it is helping a secular cause. You should go and visit, and see the trouble you're causing.”

  “Oh enough boys,” said Jill. “Too much bickering for one day.”

  Jill turned to Gemma, “Oncology must be fascinating. There seem to be so many tests now, and I have yet another scan coming up in a few weeks. We're going for a coffee. Would you like to join us?”

  Tim shook his head. “Sorry Jill, Gem and I have somewhere to go. Maybe some other time?”

  They made their excuses and left.

  Dr Hill and his wife returned to their car. Through the windscreen they could see Tim and Gemma crossing along the street past a man in a green parka coat taking photos. As they reached the other side of the road, Tim tucked his arm around Gemma's waist.

  “I thought Tim was still married,” said Dr Hill.

  Jill smiled. “So did I. But in all the time I've known him, I don't think being faithful has ever been Tim's strong point.”

  16. Tremus looks after Yanif

  A small white sheet lay in front of Yanif on which he had placed a number of hand-carved figures of people and animals. He wore a new t-shirt with a picture of New York on it that Martha and Lyndsay had sent to mark his last year at St Peter’s. Around him other merchants hustled passers-by trying to sell the fresh beans, carrots and melons that they had stacked in neat piles on rough cloths in front of them on the ground.

  “How much did you get?” asked Eshe as she returned from buying corncobs, noticing a number of figurines were missing.

  Yanif pointed to a small pile of coins lying in corner of the sheet in front of him.

  “That’s not much,” said Eshe. “You must have sold him at least seven or eight and you made…” Eshe squatted down and counted the coins in front of Yanif. “…Yanif, that man is stealing from you. He should have paid at least ten times as much. I’m going to get Tremus. Don’t sell anything while I’m gone.”

  Eshe walked across the market square towards Tremus’s workshop. Mr Atinga had passed away and Tremus had taken it over. He had expected the old man’s relatives to come and try to take back the shop, but none came. So Tremus stepped in, paying Mr Atinga’s peppercorn rent and still living in the workshop next-door.

  Eshe hustled Tremus out of the workshop and over to Yanif. “Look Tremus, Yanif has been cheated. You need to look after him in the market. He can’t sell things on his own.”

  “Kwasi and Mosi were supposed to be here,” grouched Tremus. “They must have been stuck working at the farm.”

  “You'll have to pack up Yanif if the twins aren't here,” said Eshe. “I have to go back to work.”

  “Kwasi and Mosi will have to make it up,” said Tremus as Eshe left. He helped Yanif pack the carved figures into a cardboard box while Yanif rolled the sheet into a ball.

  “How much for everything in that box?” The man with the goatee beard peered over Tremus’s shoulder into the box of figurines. Tremus recognised him as the dealer from Nairobi with the ancient convertible.

  “Eight thousand shillings,” said Tremus setting the price high. “Do you want to buy?”

  “Such a lot for such a box?” said the man in mock astonishment. He stroked his beard. “I will pay you six thousand and if I can sell them, I will buy another box at six thousand in two week's time.”

  “Who are you?” asked Tremus. “I have seen you around before, or maybe it was your car?” He flicked his head towards the car with its roof up, radio blaring parked by the side of the market.

  “Riaz,” said Riaz. “I buy things. I sell things. You know how things are.” Riaz shrugged and looked past Tremus scanning the rest of the market trying to spot other bargains.

  Tremus studied Riaz’s face trying to read the eyes behind the dark sunglasses. “How do I know that you will pay in two week's time? Why should I trust you.”

  “Ask around,” said Riaz. “It’s a deal you can take or leave. You don’t have to trust me. I can leave. Do you want to sell those things or not?” Riaz smiled and focused on Tremus over the rim of his sunglasses.

  Tremus thought a little. “OK. I will sell you this box for seven thousand. If you come back I will sell you the next box at five.”

  “So now I have to trust you?” Riaz clicked his tongue. “OK. I’ll bite. I’m a trusting soul.” Riaz held out his hand to shake to seal the deal.

  “You need to shake with Yanif. These are his. You can trust Yanif. He is the most honest man in the world. He has never lied. He will not go back on his word.”

  Riaz raised an eyebrow and shook Yanif by the hand. “I’ve never met a man who has never lied. Must be tough.”

  From his wallet he took out seven one thousand shilling notes and handed them to Yanif. Yanif grinned and flicked the notes against his hand, then passed them on to Tremus.

  Tremus picked up the box and proffered it to Riaz.

  “Bring it over to the car,” said Riaz.

  They were interrupted by a shout from across the market.“Yanif? Are you Yanif?”

  A man carrying a small boy of five or six in his arms was climbing over the low wall to the market square.

  Yanif nodded.

  “My boy needs your help,” said the man. “Mikela works with my cousin. She said you have healing powers. Please. Can you look?”

  “What is it?” asked Tremus.

  “Benjamen has not slept for four days,” said the man. He placed the boy on the floor.

  At Yanif's feet, Benjamen rolled to his side. His eyes were wide open but unfocused, the pupils like pin pricks. His legs twitched, kicking into the air at random as if pulsed by a hidden electric force. And as he lay, the boy panted and babbled strange words in a language no-one could understand.

  “We cannot afford a doctor,” said the father. “Please. Mikela said you can help.” He dropped to his knees imploring Yanif, half-begging.

  Yanif squatted next to Benjamen and took the boy's hand, stroking it, watching as Benjamen quivered on the floor. Around them a small crowd gathered and Tremus corralled the people back to give Yanif space.

  “Go on Yanif,” said Tremus. “See if you can help.”

  Yanif smiled and placed his palms over the boy's eyes, his fingers towards the ears then pressed clamping the boy's head still. Benjamen stiffened and straightened, the small of his back lifting off the floor as Yanif held him.

  “Does he know what he’s doing?” Riaz asked Tremus.

  “Yanif is a healer,” Tremus replied. “He heals everyone. You’ll see.”

  Yanif placed his hand's on Benjamen's ears and blew gently across the boy's eyes. Benjamen's eyelids fluttered in the soft breeze. Yanif adjusted h
is position and blew sharply into the boy's nose. Benjamen tensed then slumped flat against the floor like a rag doll. Yanif released the boy's head and Benjamen closed his eyes and turned and curled up fast asleep.

  From the small crowd, a smattering of claps turned into a small round of applause.

  Yanif put his finger to his lips to tell them to be quiet.

  Benjamen's father crouched next to his son and ran his hand across Benjamen's forehead, then he took the sheet from Tremus and laid it over the boy, kissing Benjamen on the temple.

  “Thank you,” whispered Benjamen's father, standing up. He shook Yanif's hand. “We have very little, but whatever we have is yours.”

  Yanif bowed acknowledging the compliment.

  “Seems like you have some magic in your fingers, Yanif,” said Riaz from the side. “Maybe you can see to my knee when I come back in two weeks' time?” He laughed and carried the box of figurines over to his car.

  17. Mr Eden

  “Come and take tea,” said Riaz, leading Tremus and Yanif to a carpet by the tea-seller’s urn two weeks later. “I have something to propose.”

  As promised Riaz had returned to the market for the second consignment of Yanif's figures.

  “Your things were popular,” said Riaz. “I'll want to buy more.”

  “So does that mean you are going to give us a better price?” asked Tremus.

  “What do you think?” Riaz raised his eyebrows. “A price is a price. I don't have to buy.”

  Tremus humphed.

  “Hey, don’t be so down,” said Riaz. He fished around in his pockets. “Here, for you Tremus.”

  Riaz took a cheap black LCD watch from his pocket and gave it to Tremus. “They say you are a man who knows about cars and I have a car that might need some work. We can help each other.”

  Tremus took the watch and smiled. He played with the buttons testing the functions out.

  “And…?” said Tremus. “You don't take other sellers for tea.”

  “And I have a proposition for you Yanif,” Riaz continued. “I have a friend, a wealthy friend, a very wealthy friend who has damaged his back. Two months in hospital, two months laid out on a bed unable to move anything but his head. Then when he got home …cazzaaa…”