EPISODE 2: The Price of Providence
That fateful Thursday, we sat huddled on a bench outside the Pastor’s office. As the queue dwindled, my mind raced with cynical curiosity. I braced myself for the clichés: perhaps I was possessed by a ‘spirit of delay’, or maybe I’d be ordered into a forty-day fast. The latter was a terrifying prospect; I am a man who considers breakfast a sacred rite, and the thought of missing my morning waakye for days on end felt like a penance too far. Sensing my unease, Mum leaned in, her voice a soothing anchor. “My son, Pastor Derick is a powerful man of God. Just have faith, alright?”
Then, the door opened.
We were greeted by a blast of air conditioning—a crisp 16°C that felt like a sudden migration to a different continent. Mum knocked gently, and a melodic voice beckoned us in. The office was a masterclass in modern aesthetics: gleaming tiles, a sleek fridge tucked into the corner, and a gargantuan flat-screen television. It felt less like a vestry and more like a CEO’s suite.
But it was the man himself who truly stunned me. Pastor Derick looked younger than me, radiating an effortless, magnetic charisma. Is this the boy holding my mother’s devotion? I wondered. He stood, extending a hand with a radiant smile. “Hello, my beloved brother in the Lord!” As we shook hands, I noted his palm was as soft as a newborn’s—a sure sign of a life untouched by manual labour or the grit of the streets.
Mum launched into the familiar, heartbreaking litany of my failures and my “miserable” jobless state. Before she could even finish, the atmosphere shifted. Pastor Derick erupted into a thunderous volley of tongues. He uncorked a bottle of olive oil, splashing it over my head as I knelt. The prayer was vociferous, a fifteen-minute whirlwind that left my head swinging like a pendulum. I found myself chanting “Amen!” in a desperate rhythm, less out of piety and more out of reflex.
When the storm subsided, the proclamations began. First, I must surrender my life to Christ. Second, I was to stay in close contact with him so the Spirit could use me as a “vessel”. Third—and most conveniently—I was to join his congregation to “open the doors” to my prosperity. He declared me delivered and anointed. I felt no celestial shift, no bolt of lightning, yet I forced a hopeful smile for my mother’s sake. She was beaming, convinced her son had finally been “fixed”.
Then came the transaction.
Pastor Derick requested Mum purchase a small bottle of his special anointing oil for 150 Cedis. My eyes widened. I did a quick mental calculation: if everyone in that waiting room bought a bottle, the man was making a king’s ransom in a single afternoon. Mum fumbled with her purse, her face falling as she counted the notes. “Oh, Pastor Derick, I only have 120 left. The rest is our bus fare home.”
“Don’t worry, Elder Emefa,” he replied with practiced gentleness. “You can bring the balance on Sunday.” A sigh of relief escaped her as she clutched the oil like a holy relic.
By Saturday, the Pastor’s words were haunting me. If the price of a career was a Sunday in a pew, it was a price I had to pay. Sunday morning arrived, and I was up before the sun, ironing my shirt with a precision that baffled my siblings. Even my Dad looked concerned. “Is everything alright, Sam?” I nodded, though I wasn’t so sure myself.
Stepping out of the house felt like a public debut. I felt like a groom walking to his bride, flanked by the bewildered stares of neighbours. My friends—who know me only as ‘Sparrow’—jeered from the street corner in pidgin: “Hey Sparrow, where you dey go?” I ignored them, scurrying to keep pace with my mother’s brisk, holy march.
At the church, the atmosphere was electric. We were greeted by ushers—young, striking women with smiles that could light up a stadium. One led me to the very front, a seat of honour that felt entirely unearned and deeply uncomfortable. Mum took her place on the stage amongst the Elders.
The service was a sensory explosion. The praise team was magnificent, backed by musicians who knew exactly how to stir the blood. I watched the youth display dance moves that were as much art as they were worship. Pastor Derick’s sermon was a call-and-response masterclass—an hour-long dialogue that felt alien to my quiet Presbyterian roots, yet undeniably captivating.
During the announcements, I was called to stand as a new member. “Elder Emefa’s son,” they announced, triggering a roar of applause. Standing there, under the collective gaze of the congregation, I noticed something: the church was filled with beautiful women.
It was a strange epiphany. Everyone assumed I was there because I’d been “born again,” but as I sat back down, I realised my motivations were shifting. Maybe I wasn’t there for the miracle. Maybe I was there for the view.
NO BIBLE NO BREAKFAST DAILY BIBLE REFLECTIONS AND MORE 
Leave a comment