Believers and Hustlers
By Sylva Nze Ifedigbo
The limousine sped onto the Lekki-Ikoyi link bridge on the heels of the siren-blaring police escort van. Though a traffic build-up clogged the route toward the toll plaza, the map indicated it was the fastest route by half an hour to the Civic Centre from their Banana Island residence. Pastor Nick and his wife, Nkechi, were the only passengers in the limo. They were heading to the banquet, part of the ceremonies celebrating the commissioning of their new mega-church complex.
Nkechi sat at one end, close to the window, away from her husband, who was on the phone. A large Bible occupied the space between them. It seemed out of place there, like a piece of decoration of very little value. Looking at it now, Nkechi wondered if it had ever been read, if its pages had ever been opened for a ministration. It seemed to only serve the same purpose the rosaries on the rear-view mirror served, an identity. How else are you reminded that the car belongs to a man of God? She turned her attention away from the Bible and leaned toward the window.
Dusk settled over the sky. There were a few joggers, ears plugged with earphones, running along the pedestrian lane. A speedboat sped through the water eastwards, leaving a trail of waves. Two of its passengers were trying to take a selfie against the backdrop of the colorful lights on the cable-stayed bridge. Nkechi admired the lights, the beautiful colors they gave off, which pierced through the gathering darkness. She had read in the papers that the bridge, which connected Lekki Phase 1 and the Ikoyi district, had cost the state government close to thirty billion naira. She thought it was worth it. If nothing else, it provided moviemakers with an iconic image for their establishment shots of Lagos.
The figure “thirty billion” resonated in her mind. It had punctuated her husband’s speech earlier that day at the commissioning ceremony. Her husband had announced in his speech that the cathedral had cost that much. For a moment, she imagined what that amount of money would look like if she was to see it in cash and how many rooms it would fill if withdrawn in one thousand naira notes and stacked in a heap. Growing up in Enugu the daughter of civil servant parents, that kind of money existed only in her imagination.
As children, she and her friends never counted beyond millions. When someone was said to be a millionaire, it sounded like the peak of wealth, and she had wondered how that person slept at night, whether they had different stomachs, ones that let them eat expensive feasts. So, it had felt a bit surreal, listening to her husband declare earlier that he was a billionaire to thunderous applause from the congregation. And even though this was the life she lived now, she still hadn’t fully come to terms with it. Would she detest it one day? Regret it?
She shifted in the car seat and threw a quick glance at her husband, who was now scrolling through his tablet and mumbling. They wore coordinated outfits. She had on a chic red gown by Armani, while he wore a black suit with red detailing on the side and collar. She had chosen the style after seeing a picture of Alicia Keys and Swizz Beatz at the Grammys. Her husband, always particular about his outfits, had loved it and said it would make him look like a Rockstar. She remembered how long it had taken him to settle on the black bow tie to wear that evening, discarding several options because he didn’t think they sat well. She was pleased with his final choice, a hand-woven piece she’d bought him on one of her recent trips abroad.
“What do these people mean by my church is believed to be the biggest?” He asked without raising his face from the screen. “It is the biggest, damn it! Did they not see the certificate from the Guinness Book of World Records? What is this believing business about?” He spoke to himself in an irritated tone but loud enough for her to hear. “These people are just incompetent.”
Nkechi stayed quiet. She adjusted her frame again on the seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs at the ankle before turning her attention back to the window and the street hawkers around the Lekki Phase 1 roundabout who were running after the car. They probably hadn’t seen such a car in a while. Her husband was obsessed with reading about himself, and though he sounded like he was irritated, she knew it pleased him that he was all over the news. “And why are we not yet on CNN?” He dialed a number on his phone.
When they first met, he had seemed like someone focused on improving himself. He always had one of those How-To books in hand: How To Attract People To Yourself, How To Speak And Get A Standing Ovation. When he spoke, he could easily reel out whole paragraphs from books by Norman Vincent Peale and Stephen Covey. After they got married, he included titles on parenting, being the perfect Christian husband, and building an unbreakable marriage. Then, he found TD Jakes, and it was like he got possessed by a spirit that multiplied all the other tendencies he already had by many folds.
Even now, as she listened to him ask someone on the phone when his special interview with CNN would air, Nkechi remembered the day they met, almost twelve years ago. She had just finished her final year undergraduate exams in Nsukka, and her coursemates had organized a party to celebrate. She wasn’t typically a party person but had gone along because she didn’t want the five thousand naira she’d contributed to go to waste. At least she would have some pepper soup and drinks. So, while her colleagues danced, she had remained seated in a corner of the lounge, sipping from a bottle of malt and cheering those who danced.
A young man had come to sit beside her. His mild but inviting perfume–she would later learn it was Tom Ford–first caught her attention before his smile. She knew at once that he wasn’t one of them, an undergraduate. The perfect cut of his shirt, the glistering chain of his wristwatch, and the confident air that hung around him like a halo told her so. He also claimed to be not much of a dancer, which she would later find untrue. They had talked for the rest of the party, sitting side by side, their knees touching, his hand straying to hers often. He was the kind who could talk on end, and before the evening ended, she knew he had gone to the Yaba College of Technology and worked with a Big Four firm in Lagos as an auditor. He was in Enugu on an official assignment and had come down to Nsukka to see an old friend doing his master’s program. This friend, a friend to one of Nkechi’s coursemates, dragged him to the party.
Nkechi fell in love with him, the kind of love that made her run away from home in Enugu to Lagos just to be with him in those idle months post-graduation. And when she was posted to Rivers State for her Nation Youth service, she promptly redeployed to Lagos to be with him. And when her parents hesitated to give their consent to their marriage because he was a Yoruba boy and they couldn’t stand the idea of their Ada getting married to an “ofe mmanu,” she called their bluff and followed Nick to the registry in Ikoyi.
“Pastor Bode said Doctor Panam confirmed at the last minute. He’ll be performing tonight,” Nick said, looking briefly in her direction then back at his tablet.
Again, she did not respond. They weren’t talking. Or, more appropriately, she was not talking to him. Six weeks had passed since she vacated their room. When they first moved into their mansion in Banana Island, she complained that the house was too big and she did not need a room to herself. Her parents slept in the same room, she said, and the idea of husbands and wives staying in separate rooms was bad for marriages. The room had been set up, all the same, furnished like an alternate master bedroom. Following their quarrel, she’d been grateful to move into it. She suspected he was having an affair and confronted him with her evidence one night after their bedtime prayers, and in the heat of the argument, he’d smacked her across the face.
The head butler had returned a pack, which contained two unused condoms from one of his jackets in a pile being sent for laundry.
“What was she doing searching my jacket pockets?” he asked, flustered and obviously more embarrassed that he had been caught than at the fact that he was cheating.
“That’s not the point, Nick,” she retorted. “What were condoms doing in your jacket? You sure didn’t buy them to use with me!”
That was when he’d swung his hand at her. “Do not talk to me like that. I am your husband.”
The slap had sent her storming out of the room, slamming the door behind her. It was shock at first, then anger and disgust. She stayed away from their room. Initially, she thought it would be for a few days and hoped that her absence would extract some remorse from him, but he continued to act like he didn’t even notice she was gone, so she gradually moved all her things into the other room.
It wasn’t the first time they’d fought. The issues began barely two years into their marriage. Initially, they had seemed benign: flashes of temper, impatient angry retorts, and unnecessary arguments. Nkechi didn’t complain about it to anyone. Arguing was expected in a marriage; all the women said so. Plus, his work was incredibly stressful at times, leaving him grumpy and distant. Then, he began to stay out late and hit her, once causing her a miscarriage. Back then, she had moved into the guest room of their two-bedroom flat in Yaba and stayed there for a month.
It had seemed then that their marriage was headed for the rocks, but he had found Bishop Jakes one day and came home to tell her he was going to start a church. He had been unusually boisterous that night, buzzing like a bee at the sight of a honeycomb. He had even stopped by her favorite suya spot on his way home to buy a wrap of ram kebab. It was the first time he had said a full sentence to her in weeks, and the way he spoke like all was well between them intrigued her in a way that erased the anger that had been lodged in her heart for weeks.
He told her he had a vision, that God had inspired him to build a place where His people would not feel like their conscience was constantly under judgment, where worshippers would not feel guilty and unworthy for being themselves. He had spoken in a matter-of-fact tone as if convincing her made his theory true. Like if she believed in what he saw, it would make his own view clearer. Most people, he said, just wanted to sleep well at night and did not want to be told about a God that condemned them. He was going to preach a new gospel to bridge that gap.
“I need you by my side on this journey, Nkay,” he had said, going down and clutching both her legs. “I need you to complete me, to be my pillar. It will be our church, mine and yours. We have equal shares in the registration documents, I promise you. Please, Nkay, let’s forget the past and begin afresh.”
And, as if delivering the punch line in a rap contest, he looked up at her and added, “And we will be rich. I mean, like bastardly rich. I promise you. I will buy you a yacht and take you to see the world.”
So, she’d stayed. Not because of the money–she hadn’t imagined he would be able to pastor a house fellowship, let alone to talk of a megachurch then–but because she thought then that her husband’s plan was a direct lifeline from God to save her marriage.
Now, the limousine slowed down as they approached Lekki Admiralty Toll Plaza. A family, probably members of their church, in a saloon car in the lane beside theirs, waved. Nkechi knew they couldn’t see the inside of the limo, but they must have seen the customized plate number as they pulled up and were waving with the hope that she and her husband were inside. Instinctively, she waved back. It was the kind of effect that her husband had now come to have on people; this celebrity life she now lived, which made her practice a smile whenever they were out in public and wave like a British royal at strangers. It made her feel powerful at times, though she knew it was him the crowds waved at–his charm, powerful messages, promises of prosperity and the absence of disease, products of the seeds he made them sow.
The limo slowed down. There was a bottleneck in front. A danfo had crashed into the back of an SUV just ahead of them, taking off the bumper, and the drivers of both vehicles were close to blows. A police officer jumped down from the escort van in front to divert traffic and create space for them to switch lanes so they could get away from the melee. The traffic was heavy. It was that time of the day when the people made the return journey home in the outskirts of the city. Nkechi saw the looks on the drivers’ faces as they reluctantly shifted to let their convoy through. She thought of how she went from the person who complained about the harassment of siren-blaring convoys to the one doing the harassment.
“It is a necessary evil,” her husband had said the first time he started using police escorts a year into his ministry. “You know how unsafe Lagos is and all the envy we’re accumulating. All these pastors, I tell you, are not happy that our flock is growing so fast. We need to take some extra care now. Remember what the good book says about faith without action.”
As the limousine drove through the toll point, Nkechi reached for her mini makeup kit and hand mirror. The Civic Centre, the venue of the banquet, was a long drive after the toll plaza, so she needed to touch up her makeup. She knew many of the women there envied her for being the lucky one to grace the spotlight with the flamboyant Pastor Nick. Many, she knew, wanted her place. She had figured long ago that being humble and meek served no purpose. She wasn’t about to roll over for them. It did not matter how she felt toward him. The condom incident had got her guards up, but she would always reinforce her status as his wife. When the limousine pulled up at the entrance of the Civic Centre, she would step out holding her husband’s hand and beaming her practiced smile for the cameras. She would lean slightly on him on the red carpet to pose as the picture-perfect couple the tabloids had crowned them to be. And when they were invited to open the dance floor, she would plant her body against his and sway her waist. She would dance hard enough to make her husband’s lover, if she was present, choke on her own bile.
Excerpt from “Believers And Hustlers” copyright © 2022 by Sylva Nze Ifedigbo. Published by Iskanchi Press.
About the book: Pastor Nicholas Adejuwon and his beautiful wife Nkechi run Rivers of Joy Church, the rave-of-the-moment Lagos megachurch. The media-savvy supercouple project the picture of a perfect family and a prosperous church. However, there are scandalous secrets hidden under the surface. When Nkechi decided to investigate her husband's rumored indiscretion, it was merely to satisfy her curiosity. What she unravels is a web of bruising secrets that run deeper than she could ever imagine, threatening her reality as she knows it. Believers and Hustlers is an exposé on the underbelly of Nigeria's Pentecostal fervor and the lives
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Sylva Nze Ifedigbo (@nzesylva) writes fiction, creative non-fiction, and socio-political commentaries. He has published a novel, My Mind Is No Longer Here (2018), a collection of stories, The Funeral Did Not End (2012), and a novella, Whispering Aloud (2007). His short stories have appeared in various publications including Prick of the Spindle, African Writer, Maple Tree Literary Supplement, Saraba, Kalahari Review, True Africa, AFREADA and Thrice Fiction Magazine. Sylva believes the calling of a writer is to study humans explicitly and document this in simple, memorable stories. He lives in Lagos, Nigeria.
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