by Wole Soyinka
Tibidje’s travails took on new meaning, new urgency. His year sojourn in the Newark detention camp had pointed the way, only he had failed to see it at the time. Until that moment in the scuffed ashes of his truncated evangelism, he had also been seized by Kaduna as the divided city, requiring the pious disposition of patronage. No, this was no longer sufficient. What the world—not just the happy nation—needed was a new, all-embracing religion! In his hands, offered on a platter of piety, he had at his disposal two main contending religions, united in victimology. The call for a religion of peace, genuine peace, not one of mere spiritual rhetoric, no! It strained for material birth. Adumbrations followed swiftly. A unique space for all faiths, a site for revered seers that catered for both religions in their united peer cultures, emerging beyond controversy, neutral and accommodative. Both sides boasted—indeed, marketed—prophets, and in overabundance. When he tried out the new direction on his surviving threesome Council of Elders, it was an instant hit. Inspired, they screamed, You are truly called, Apostle Tibidje.
One main ingredient the evangelist early seized upon was…bravura! His inward eye flashed to the overflowing amphitheatres where he had stood in for the modern-day stars of television ministry. Were they greater orators, better read, or more world-savvy than he? The trouble with you, he chided his reflection in the bathroom mirror, is diffidence, that illegitimate child of memory. Go for chutzpah! All around him were indicted governors, senators, permanent secretaries, bankers, some of them even returned fugitives, strutting boldly in accustomed splendor, manipulating the judicial system, fêted and fêting as if they owned the world and could not be called to account until the judges retired, were promoted and taken off the case, witnesses had died, or files were forgotten. They milked the courts for bail and adjournments on health grounds, rivals in the performance trade, since they often entered the court gasping for breath, carried on stretchers, leaning on crutches, bandaged head to foot like walking Egyptian mummies, yet the next day were seen cavorting on the beaches of Florida, hale and hearty. Not even with any sense of a decent interval or concern for the accommodating magistrates and judges before showing their faces in public. Several were already recruiting for their next foray into new elections, bribing, openly campaigning for YoY nominations. So? Who still took the trouble to recall a few peccadilloes that had sent him on an odyssey of self-apprenticeship to lesser talent that could not muster even a fraction of his oratorical powers? As for scriptures, he knew the Bible, the Quran, the Upanishads and Bhagavad Gita backwards and forwards—well, snatches. What mattered was to be able to outquote any aspiring prelate with pertinent passages. Or manipulate the narrative to bear on whatever had been retained in the mind from Quran or Bible. He had made good use of the mini-library in Newark, memorized the powerful declarations of originals such as the legendary Father Divine, the black religious leader.
Now that—and again, for perhaps the hundredth time, Tibidje shook his head in awed admiration—that was some dude! Father Divine called down the wrath of the Lord on the judge who had the temerity to sentence him for some arcane crime called “mail fraud.” Yet the whole world knew that Divine’s crime was simply that he mobilized his fellow slave descendants to demand that they be repatriated to their continent of origin and that the government of white slaveowners pay their passage home and even pay compensation for generations of enslavement. No one could obscure that truth. And so, as his sentence was pronounced, Father Divine in turn pronounced his sentence on the judge: “You will not live to see me walk out of those prison gates a free man!”
Whew! Wow! Caramba! Blood of Jesus! Lo and behold, that judge expired while Divine was at his morning meditations in his prison cell. The journalistic horde pursued him thither, eager to receive his reaction. Divine was learning for the first time of the judge’s departure from mortal realms, but the charismatic son from the land of the blacks did not miss a beat. “I hated to do it,” he said, and resumed his orisons.
O gbeleticos! That, determined Tibidje, was the alpha and omega of the prophetic enterprise, and that shard of history stuck in his soul like the forked stick of a water diviner. If he came even halfway close to such power of a bull’s-eye, it would be more than sufficient to rank himself among the priestly immortals. Any judge who made the mistake of dusting up old files and annulling the statute of limitations would be guaranteed a like fate—he knew exactly how gloriously he would embrace the trivial martyrdom of a prison record as the price of fulfillment. It was the testamentary moment of Tibidje’s formal rebirth. He felt himself a spiritual son to the son of slaves who were forcibly taken from the very portion of earth that he, Tibidje, had returned, just like Father Divine, to reclaim. The decision was already hovering on the spiritual horizon, but now he formally made the resolution—he would adopt a slightly altered version of his hero’s name. If he ever came to trial for whatever and a misguided judge made a similar misjudgment, he would pronounce on his head a local version of Father Divine’s counterjudgment. The Apostle Davina—yes, Tibidje had finally chosen, settled for the name change—Apostle, Prophet, maybe Papa Davina, would deliver nothing less potent than his adopted father’s terrible pronouncement on the judge. The rest would follow swiftly.
The means? Time enough to cross that bridge when he came to it. Tibidje had no doubt whatsoever that Father Divine had organized a hit on the presumptuous, racist instrument of injustice. Thus he saw his preparatory mission as being no less than to ensure a capability to deliver a like riposte even from within prison walls if the prophecy took too long to fulfill itself. Not for nothing had he kept close contact with the denizens of his modest beginnings—the yahoo-yahoo boys, the Area boys, not forgetting the cultic proliferation of counterministries with outlandish names that straddled cultures as far apart as Scandinavia and the slum warriors of his own happy nation—the Icelanders, some called themselves, others Konudi, Black Axles, Dagunro, and other predators who ran parallel governments from Zamfara to Lagos, Bayelsa to Birnin Kebbi and back. The Apostle Davina felt ready to move. Papa Davina was in town, let all embrace piety.
In the name of justice, close to eleven full years had passed, after all, since Tibidje’s unfortunate beginnings in Port Harcourt. The national character had become established in the exhortation known as m’enukuo, a contraction of mu enu ku’ro—take your mouth off it! Let sleeping dogs lie, etc., etc. Even those who knew, who recognized him, would simply shake their heads and—m’enukuo. It was time to move on. But in grand style. With bravura. No looking back. In the style of the brazen state governor who beat a twenty-four-count rap of financial finagling, took off for Dubai, and lived happily ever after, almost—an idyll that was truncated only because of an unprecedented clash of ambitions within the ruling heights and the proverbial morality tale of a falling-out among thieves. It was time, the evangelist estimated, to strike out for greater glory. He would move, yes, move further south, for greater safety. This time, however, every move would take place with unprecedented spiritual panache. Strike out. Act frontally. Beard the devil on his, Davina’s, own terms. The coming relocation would reflect the nation’s current dilemma. It was time to annunciate a ministry of tolerance.
Ministry? No, no, no, that would never do. The confusion between the secular and the spiritual would be insurmountable. Who, within the nation, had not heard of a Ministry of Happiness? Was he, the Apostle Tibidje, now Papa Davina, heir to the tradition of the great Father Divine, to let himself be saddled with such banalities? Think different, Davina chided Tibidje. Think novelty. Think grandeur!
Davina went into seclusion, wrestling with a flurry of projections, each of which contained at least a dozen options. He fasted, banning lunch in entirety. The thread of life was sustained by a breakfast of four akara balls and a bowl of akamu with some local fruits, then nothing till dinnertime, when he tackled a wrap of tuwo and/or fried plantains, with some kilishi on the side. He was, fortunately, abstemious by habit an
d a teetotaler—in public—his indulgences lay in other directions. At the end of three days there came a flash, to which Tibidje was uncommonly prone. The expressway, Lagos to Ibadan, on which he had not even traveled for over a decade, provided the setting.
That artery linked the most heavily populated city on the African continent, Ibadan, to the rest of the nation. It was an increasingly rutted dual carriageway of presumably two lanes on either side, sometimes three. Or four. Sometimes five—when last traveled, which was nearly a decade before, it had become impossible to count exactly how many lanes existed on either side. He could recall it only as serial death traps which progressively became home—on both sides!—to competing spiritualities. It seemed as if a starting pistol was fired on some day and a race commenced for the strangulation of traffic on days of religious feasts—Easter, Christmas, Ramadan, Id after Id, birthdays of prophets and avatars, or simply revivalist sessions on the whim or on days dedicated to a National Day of Prayers against drought, floods, diseases, corruption, locust invasion, epidemics, collapsed buildings, fires, exploding tankers, kidnappers, paedophiles, traffic carnage, ritual killers, etc., etc. Tibidje retraced his last ride, which had taken him through the two roundabouts-cum-flyovers which turned the expressway into a ring road skirting the city of Ibadan itself. It was that final section—the second roundabout and its quarter-mile approach from Lagos, a medley of every kind of motorized contraption and disoriented vending—that now preoccupied the calculating mind of Apostle Davina. He had never given it much thought—he was merely an occasional road user—but now it struck him as a transcendental divide: one part headed towards the ancient war and trading city of Oyo, the other to the spiritual fount of the Yoruba, Ile-Ife, home of the orisa.
The notion, he now realized, had been implanted by a long-submerged sighting of a dirt-blue two-storey building with a wide board across the railings of the first-floor balcony. On that board was painted, in lurid colours, four words: The Home of Chrislam. Strategically positioned at the expressway junction, it was as if its originators were pronouncing that spot both as meeting and departure point of spirituality and worldliness. Tibidje now recalled the controversy it had stirred at the time—was it at its launching? Or was it some years later, evoked perhaps by some purity-obsessed religionist? It did not matter in the least. In that single flash, Papa Davina summarized its history in one word: Timidity! Defeatism. A laudable, indeed inspired religious advocacy, but beyond that? Stagnation. Chrislam was a calling, but where was its dwelling? That was the yawning gap, pleading to be filled! But where? Where? A hard-boiled pragmatic soul, Tibidje knew that he was not yet prepared to take on Lagos itself. More research needed to be done and, more critically, accumulation of capital! Miracles were all very well, but even if water must be struck out of stone, the stone must first be procured, and that meant money.
Papa Davina ordered his lieutenants into action.
The results confirmed his recollection. Chrislam had remained in its poky little spot in all its decades of existence. Not one extra square foot of expansion, barely a grudging coat of new paint since the building had been raised, becoming increasingly squeezed as its surrounding plots of land were developed. It had been eclipsed by even later arrivals, minor sects and branches of lesser-known spiritual advocacy. It remained uninfluenced even by an inspirational contrast—separated by just two kilometres. That contrast was situated just before the first of the two roundabouts, that is, on the southern outskirts of Ibadan. It was the vast, sprawling, ever-expanding estate of a self-styled Living God, the Guru Mahara Ji. This vast domain took off from the expressway on a manicured grassy incline, on which the guru’s name and divine order had been florally sculpted by inspired horticultural hands and landscape hairdressers. On the plateau that sheered off the rim, the beginnings of an orchard, then the living and meditation spread of buildings, hidden from profane eyes. By contrast, the site of Chrislam was—not to mince words—a slum.
That projection of contrasts, yoked in unity of spirit—yet another flash of inspiration!—decided Tibidje in his search for an overarching structural motif, a two-in-one that would mean something to all—a fairyland located in a slum, feeding off each other, bringing the world of warring faiths together in amity. He directed his scouts to commence an exploration of the suburbs of Mushin, Oshodi, Ajegunle, Alimosho, all within the bustling city of Lagos but not of it. Papa Davina’s mood was uplifted. Already he began to feel restored. The blueprint had begun to fill out. It only awaited fulfillment.
Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s…Tibidje ordered his aides into the idle precincts of land registry and company records. Lo and behold, the Spirit was again at work, and all was exactly as he had predicted. Chrislam was indeed registered as a religion, but not as real estate or business. All hesitation ended. Guru Mahara Ji had met his match. No, not as competitor; Tibidje abhorred such crude contests, was content to play his cards in conformity with the unforced dynamics of proselytisation. He applied for registration, patented the name. That choice was no more than Divine Prescience, a custom-made fit that most definitely constituted the Second Epiphany. The world’s first-ever city of ecumenical worship was on its way—Chrislamabad!
The vision was complete. Now commenced the harder part—the mission.
His journey through his West African region had toned him. Impetuousness of youth had taken several steps back. Now a solid middle-aged campaigner, he was not rushed, neither was he diffident. Tibidje believed quite simply that while “a step at a time” was a counsel that merited notice, two steps in tandem were even more meritorious. Even the yahoo-yahoo boys knew that, but they lacked any sense of coordination. They worked internet scams, then dabbled in child-snatching on the side. That was a crippling deficiency in finesse. No sense of the big picture. They were creatures of the moment and would always remain cannon fodder. He would commence with a prototype, make it a launchpad while slowly constructing the landing pad—the permanent headquarters in, where else? Lagos, here comes Papa D.!
The rest followed in logical progression. His ministry would depart from Kaduna, move, for now, just a little further south, further away from the lunatic fringe increasingly consolidated by Boko Haram. Chrislamabad was a city whose birth was too long in coming. Only question for now was, where build the prototype? That was the sole dilemma. There had to be that tryout while the foundation of the headquarters took form, shape, and magnificence. Papa Davina brought out his constant companion of a ten-year itinerancy, his most reliable direction finder—the map of West Africa. As he smoothed out the traveled scroll, his eyes roving around the contours of his native land, his instinct-saturated eye, attuned to signs and symbols towards whatever task in hand, settled on the answer. There it lay prone, quivering right before him—Lokoja! The confluence of the nation’s two major rivers!
The bombshell of sheer light exploded in his innermost soul. Christians, Muslims, as well as animists, had pursued their main occupation—trade—on the banks of the Benue for centuries, in above-average amity. The main city itself nestled snugly in the heart-shaped cusp of the two major rivers, Niger and Benue. Rivers are not known to take much interest in the plans of mere mortals; this, however, was one instance of unbridled favouritism—two historic rivers echoing the careers of two imperious spiritual streams! It was symbolism pleading to be turned into reality—the fugitive from hate came, saw, and committed. His instinct, he quietly pointed out at the first sermonizing opportunity, continued to serve him flawlessly. It meant that it was no instinct at all but direct spiritual coordination of vision and returns. He laid the foundation of his temporary church—bamboo and clapboard, plus planks from discarded canoes and fishermen’s nets—on a quite substantial sandy island in the western armpit of the two rivers, approachable only by canoes. Tibidje was reasonably schooled in his nation’s geography, but he went further than mere Nature’s landscape—the town, Lokoja, enshrined much of the nation’s history. There the
explorers Richard Lander and Mungo Park had taken turns to founder in their search for the source of the River Benue, one getting himself taken prisoner or killed, or maybe both of them—he was no longer sure of details; school was already a decades-old basket, shaken and sieved for what it had to offer, the rest discarded. Neither of the two white interlopers pretended to be on any godly mission—it was all trade agreements with illiterate chiefs—so there was nothing in their legendary passage, as individuals, for him to build upon. But the rivers! Now these were different, rich, prostrate, and available.
The River Niger and the Benue! Their robust consummation neatly bifurcated Nigeria north and south before cascading to the coast to spread its veins all over swampland and create the Delta from which all blessings flowed in the form of black gold, the spinal cord of the nation’s economic standing. Papa Davina reasoned that a fair share of that belonged to him. He had a fair mind, was equitable in human dealing, so he conceded the same right to all fellow citizens, but—and his face, whenever his mind was engaged in such thoughts, became irradiated ear to ear—he had resolved not only to have his but to deserve it. He was not that musically inclined, beyond of course the co-option of that powerful medium in the course of his trade. However, he did have one favourite singer and song, and the lyrics of that song floated around his head like a swarm of colourful butterflies at the onset of the rainy season after the long Harmattan drought when cocoons break loose and all manner of airy things came to life:
Manna’s gonna rain, don’t let the sky scare you
It’s darkness of plenty, ain’t rage before the Flood
Journey end sometime, ask the children of Zion