PASTORAL MISCHIEF (EPISODE 3)

EPISODE 3: The Gospel According to ‘Goro’ Boys My mother’s grand design was simple: proximity to Pastor Derick would lead to a spiritual osmosis. She insisted I visit him fortnightly for “counselling”, but the man of God clearly saw a different kind of potential in me. He didn’t see a scholar of Economics; he saw…

Jean-Paul Agidi

Mar 16, 2022

3–5 minutes

EPISODE 3: The Gospel According to ‘Goro’ Boys

My mother’s grand design was simple: proximity to Pastor Derick would lead to a spiritual osmosis. She insisted I visit him fortnightly for “counselling”, but the man of God clearly saw a different kind of potential in me. He didn’t see a scholar of Economics; he saw a reliable errand boy.

I didn’t mind the demotion. In fact, I leaned into the “humble servant” persona with an Oscar-worthy performance. It helped that I possessed a secret weapon: I could drive. Back at university, a wealthy, benevolent roommate had taught me the ropes in his car. As for the legalities, I’d bypassed the bureaucratic nightmare of the DVLA by employing the services of the ‘Goro Boys’—those street-side fixers who ensure your licence arrives in record time, provided your wallet is sufficiently heavy.

Once Pastor Derick realised I was mobile, I became his unofficial chauffeur. I was upgraded from a jobless graduate to the custodian of his luxury vehicle. I drove his wife to the market, navigated him to high-profile religious conferences, and in return, he would occasionally slip me some cash. For a man who usually had to beg his mother for airtime, this felt like a promotion to the board of directors.

The highlight was a three-day revival in Kumasi. We were put up in a hotel—a luxury I had never experienced. While Pastor Derick was presumably locked away in a high-stakes wrestling match with the heavens, I was in a high-stakes wrestling match with the breakfast buffet. I ate like a refugee who had just won the lottery, piling my plate until my stomach protested that it couldn’t house a single extra grain of rice. My afternoons were spent in a blur of DSTV football matches and the hotel pool, living the life of a leisure-class socialite.

The evenings, however, were pure theatre. I watched from the wings as Pastor Derick performed signs and wonders, exorcising demons from frantic congregants to the soundtrack of Ghana’s most famous gospel stars. On the final night, during the “Anointing Service”, he smeared olive oil across my forehead to bless my job hunt. I stood there, smelling like a Greek salad, feeling more like an adventurer than a devotee. The five-hour drive back to Accra was a test of faith; the Pastor slept like a contented babe while I battled the “nodding demon” at the steering wheel. We made it alive, which I suppose was a miracle in itself.

Soon, the “persuasion” moved to the next level. Mum suggested—with the subtle pressure only an African mother can exert—that I join the Worship Committee. Before I could even weigh the pros and cons, Pastor Derick called to inform me that my name had already been added to the roster.

This was my stage.

When it was my turn to read the Scriptures, I didn’t just read; I performed. I wore my sharpest tuxedo and bathed in a scent so strong it could be detected in the back row. I cultivated a “Transatlantic” accent—a bizarre hybrid of a BBC newsreader and an American televangelist—designed to suggest I had just stepped off a flight from Heathrow or JFK.

The results were instantaneous. The “pretty ladies” I had been eyeing were suddenly queuing up.

“Brother Sam, your reading was spectacular! Could I have some private lessons?” “Have you lived in the States? Your flair is so rare!” My ego inflated like a hot-air balloon. I wasn’t just a reader; I was a celebrity.

Yet, beneath the tuxedo, the old Samuel was still very much in charge. I had downloaded a football app that gave me live scores, and another for sports betting. During the most solemn moments of the service, while I appeared to be scrolling through a digital Bible, I was actually checking the handicap on a Chelsea match or engaging in a heated WhatsApp debate about Neymar’s hamstrings.

My neighbourhood friends, of course, smelled a rat. I had stopped loitering with them, replaced by my new “holy” schedule. One of them, using the local parlance, finally asked the question on everyone’s mind: “Charley, Sammy, is it that you’ve found a girl in that church who’s making you so regular, or what?”

I just laughed. But he wasn’t far off. I had been appointed as the “Reading Rehearsal Master,” which gave me a legitimate excuse to spend hours in close proximity to the church’s most eligible bachelorettes. I watched them compete for my attention, their eyes pleading for a “private tutorial.”

I felt elated. For the first time in years, I wasn’t the jobless graduate at the back of the room. I was the man at the front, holding the book, and everyone—especially the ladies—was hanging on my every “Americanised” word.