The Experience Lagos
The crowd had united in masterful worship. It was as though nothing was more important than the beautiful spiralling tongues of people's rendition of Nathaniel Bassey's Imela, as led by the Pastor Donnie McClurkin.
He had shortly before instructed everyone in the arena to turn on the flash lights of their phones, pointing it towards the heavens. Everyone did.
Drones took snap shots from several hundreds of feet above the ground, and broadcasting this to the rest of the world, this place ranked so quickly as the most beautiful place on the face of the earth at the moment.
Ifeanyi, co-pastor and wife of Pastor Paul wasn’t raising her lights to the heavens, neither was she lost in the same cloud of worship that engulfed the arena. She just stayed stuck on her sit, not worshiping or moving to the beat that filled the air.
Her eyes stayed shut. Her lips muttering scattered words of unknown tongues. Her hands struggled to rise to the heavens. Her heart was far from this worship.
Trying to rise, she staggered, almost falling, safe the aides that rushed to her sides.
"Anything the matter?" Paul asked, as he ran his right hand across her shoulder.
She said nothing, instead, shuddering by reflex. It was as though she had seen something explode. She was numb, shivering, crying. This wasn’t prayer. This was fear.
Many that surrounded her, especially those that sat within distances that saw her thought she was moved by the prayers, that she had seen some revelation of Jesus and simply juddered because she could not behold his glory.
A tap touched Paul’s shoulder. As he raised his face to see the closest security aide, he noticed security agents talking over wires. The mood around him charged, escalating. For a moment it was as though aggression beyond what could be seen materialized. Aides were almost drawing their side arms.
"There is a bomb in the areana. Here. In TBS." Kola started at Paul, whispering.
Paul noticed security agents motion aimlessly, but also implied their inability to accomplish more. It was as though they were monitored by presence more imposing. They helplessly formed a shield of protection around protectees, glancing gazes in every direction.
Looking on, Paul could tell the secret service at the moment could do nothing. They wanted to move, but it was though they had been warned against it. This was terror and nothing could be done to avert the death of the multitude. They couldn’t afford an evacuation. Any movement could provoke a detonation of nuclear weapon.
"Military grade computer encrypted locks have been placed on all gates. It is motion sensitive and the electronic encryption system seems to be key to activate some explosives. We can’t tell however, we can’t risk with ignorance." Kola continued, whispering to the hearing of Pastor Paul.
"There is really no way of escape sir," he paused, trying to frame his thoughts with the right words.
"The bomb buried in the ground is a nuclear weapon," he pressed on, revealing what a man buried in blood and wounds had shown him.
"Any motion against the gate will trigger a countdown of the nuclear weapon. Even if we had a chopper, we can’t escape the destruction as this is capable of wiping out the whole of Lagos Island with disastrous effect reaching several miles into the mainland. This is the end sir."
Paul noticed secret service agents, protectors of the nation’s vice president form a human shield around him. They spoke through wires, and consulted with aides of Pastor Paul. They revealed intelligence briefings to him. Paul could tell he was losing it.
Vice President Yemi Osinbajo turned around to Pastor Paul, wanting explanations.
"No!" Ifeanyi shouted, forcing aides to her side, and distracting both the vice president and Pastor Paul.
She juddered, convulsing from fear.
In a vision, she saw an explosion bang in a hurried trance that flashed past her. She saw it pick from the earth upon which she stood, and with several millions of people, a wild fire erupted to destroy everyone that was in the arena. She juddered, shivering from what she had just seen.
The crowd dismissed this as one influenced by the Holy Ghost, but Paul knew what what was on.
I have to act, Paul thought, taking a deep breath.
Evil is here, beneath the grounds we stand. Father what do we do? He thought, praying, pondering.
"Where is the bomb?" Paul asked, still worshiping, but fearfully combing with his sight the entire stretch of the arena.
His heart broke that he had brought over four million people to their death. He struggled to stay strong.
"Right after the barricade sir,” Kola answered, “exactly under the sound monitor set."
Paul followed his description and saw the mark.
"Take Ifeanyi to the ambulance," he ordered. He knew he was been watched but what else could be done?
-----
The time had come and Mohammed knew it. He warmed up the engine and set the keys to detonate the bomb.
"The enemy isn’t the infidels," he started at himself, “but the congregation of church leaders who sold the faith of the Christ to the evil of his foe.”
Mohammed felt the rage of vengeance judder his fingers. He clinched his fist and shut tight his eyes. His wife died to the sacrifice of an evil deity, and this was the only way to get back her soul and purge the earth of the sin of the faithful.
"This is the Lord's war and we are the Lord's resistance," he heard the words echo through the small room where he sat. He had told his congregation in a charge when they came under attack whilst in service.
"If we die here today, we see Jesus. We sit beside him in glory; he rescues our soul from the hell of corruption."
"You will surely die, your soul and spirit destroyed forever." He froze in his tracks. This was one of his most inspiring message, and even though in that service he lost over thirty five souls, the living found that message a source of encouragement and a rallying call for restraint and trust in the God of the faith.
The words repeated, this time seemingly closer. He stood and turned around.
He juddered, stammering balderdash.
That was his mother standing in white flowing gown. He saw through her, her wings, her crown and everything that enveloped her in the splendour of her essence.
"Is this what the faith teach?"--
"But you were murdered in cold blood," Mohammed interrupted, stammering as he rose to his feet. He heard his voice echo through the tiny control base.
"Isn't it written that you love those that hate you and pray for them that despitefully use you?" She asked. Mohammed still stammered words that didn't connect.
"Is that enough reason for you to kill they that persecute you?" She asked, advancing towards him.
"If you love those who love you,” she continued, “what reward will you get?"
These words slit through Mohammed as the battle hymn of the republic sifted through from the grounds above to where he stood.
He was losing it.
He felt his legs literarily tremble; it was as though his very essence disintegrated and gave in. He turned some thirty degrees away from where he was facing. This was his daughter, Zahra. She looked just as beautiful as always.
She advanced with the same brilliance her little baby face was known for. He looked on at her and could do nothing but cry. He recalled watching her lie in the bunker with her mother.
"Father, you have been deceived,” Zahra started. Her eyes locked gaze with his.
“The enemy of the church took advantage of the pain you felt, and with it intends to destroy the church. Don’t you see?" she asked, waiting on an answer. Mohammed said nothing.
“He didn’t need an enemy to destroy the church, he used the church against herself. He used you against the Lord.”
He tried hard not to believe, instead awaiting the manifestation of the Lord, the one that led him vengeance.
"Father, let this go."
Mohammed listened but refused to accept he had been wrong. He earnestly waited, invoking the Christ in all the ways that had worked before. Nothing happened, no one appeared. He had not the Christ minister to him as he had before. There was absolute silence in the realm from which he expected the Christ.
“Father, he has forsaken you,” Zahra continued.
“He revealed this very evil to the gathering of Christians above. He willed that there be a stampede, and that before the nuclear weapon destroy the gathering of faithful, there'd be infighting, and sacrilege committed against the Yahweh. This will refuse them a path to heaven. You let yourself be used by the eternal order of darkness. The leadership of the church wasn't of the star and horns. You are.”
Mohammed roared in thundering protest. He just didn’t accept that he was wrong, that he was played, that he fell victim and took the church to ransom.
“Christ and Lord,” he started, juddering at the obvious.
He called and waited and listened and yearned. He wanted to be free from the guilt that imprisoned him. He waited for a response but nothing came.
“Christ my Lord prove yourself!” He screamed at the top of his voice, panting, helpless.
A bright light shone before him and a man in robe seemingly started through it, towards him. He called his name, stretched forth his right hand to help Mohammed towards himself.
Mohammed looked at him and hid his face afterwards, for who he saw glowed in majestic splendour so much that he couldn’t behold his face.
He stretched forth both hands and Mohammed saw the hoes made by the nails on the cross of Calvary.
“Mohammed,” started the one who had appeared.
“I am the Christ, the son of the living God. You have been deceived by the enemy of the faith, by the cult of evil and darkness. If you go ahead with the detonation, you will kill over ten million innocent souls and their blood will be on your hands.”
He paused, and Mohammed looking on, saw a perfect reflection of beauty. He saw royalty mixed with humility. On his face, he saw the faces of the eagle and a man, a lion and the lamb.
“Your family is safe in the bosom of the Christ. Your killing the innocent in vengeance will not bring to life Zahra and Aisha. They are with me forever. Your killing the innocent will seal your place in eternal damnation. Quit this instance to save your soul.”
Mohammed broke down in tears. This was not the reality he wanted, this was not the truth he yearned for, and falling to the ground, he felt his essence down in the guilt of all they that had fallen by him. Everything he had seen was false, everything he had longed for and fought for, everything he had been told was the reason was nothing but lies. He fell to his face and cried.
He heard the huge reinforced steel door slowly open. Soldiers and armed police men poured in over every available space.
"Freeze!" Loud orders banged from commandos that pointed sophisticated rifle at him.
"Please Mohammed," Aisha started, “don’t do this evil and sin against God.”
He raised his gaze to where she was but saw no one. She had vanished into the glorious light that brought the Christ. Her voice ceased, so did the voice of Zahra and the voice of the Christ.
Soldiers surrounded him, but that was the most they could do.
Lying flat to the ground, he held in his hands the trigger to the nuclear weapon. The surrounding soldiers treaded carefully, warning cautiously as they hoped he gave up the trigger.
Mohammed could only cry.
-----
Ifeanyi, rested in a mobile clinic, rose her head to the hearing of the old battle hymn of the republic. She felt the church was at war, and this was its battle song.
Trying to stand and be separated from the bed, she felt the heavy weight of what she had seen pull her down. Again aides started towards her, trying to rest her back to the bed.
"Pastor," one aide started, and continuing, she said, "it’s over. We will see Jesus."--
"Not yet," Ifeanyi interrupted the aide.
At this it seemed an outburst of strength started through her veins. She stood, slightly staggering from side to side.
"We will make one last appeal for the church," Ifeanyi continued, "and if we perish, we perish."
She sighed.
"Take me to the stage," she demanded, "I have a message for Mohammed."
Arriving the stage, her gaze first locked on Donnie, and upon seeing her he cried aloud. She started towards him, made attempt for a long warm embrace, he received it and handed the microphone to her. She felt the weight of the arena rest on her shoulders.
She cleared her breath and sang Imela in her most beautiful voice. The backup picked almost immediately, following in symphonic procession as they continued in the words, "Imela, okaka, onyekeruwa..."
The entire crowd still had the lights of their smart phones turned on, faced towards the heavens. It was as though, subconsciously the arena could tell the end had come. The place was solemn. The place was worshipful. The place was beautiful.
Amidst the instrumental humm of stringed instruments and intercessory worship, she started speaking, thanking God first for the opportunity to be alive.
"I want everyone to take a moment to ask the presence of Jesus," Ifeanyi continued. "If his hands stay still, then by fire we shall pass away to stand before him tonight. Pray that he will receive us to his bosom." She paused, not caring that they might never understand why she raised that prayer. To her, this was the last chance for several millions to make peace with God. The crowd cried.
"Listen carefully," she started in the calmest way possible.
"There is no need to be afraid, there is no need to run helter skelter, we may have arrived the end of our journeys here on earth and for this we have thanked God for." She paused, and could tell the confusion almost materializing in the faces of people.
"The exits have been locked by motion sensor locks and anyone who attempts to forcefully or by any means exit this arena will not only be electrocuted, but will have commenced the countdown of the death of over ten million people."
While she still spoke, an apprehensive lady, screaming, started towards the giant gates, and almost immediately, after touching the steel handle she electrocuted with portions of her body burning and roasting. Cameras broadcasted this to the entire arena and through live TV feeds to the world.
"There is nowhere to run to. This is the end. Be of good courage."
------
Mohammed felt a loud hum sound suddenly start, and swiftly raising his face to the screens, he saw the computers had finally come on to reflect the countdown. Someone had activated it. Three hundred seconds to detonation.
This devastated him sorely, so did it devastate the soldiers who though held their rifles trained on him still didn’t know how to respond to the situation. A voice began through the speakers around him. Mohammed listened
"Mohammed, I beg you to listen." Mohammed heard Ifeanyi's voice blast across the arena.
"I understand why you are angered, why your heart is hurt and filled with hate, why your hands are trained for war and your feet spoiled for destruction. I understand. You placed confidence in the church of the south, you called upon her in a time of trouble and it seemed they turned her back on you and let you and your people perish," she paused, listening to her last words echo on the wings of tense winds.
Pastor Paul had now entered where Mohammed was, watching the once defiant break down in tears.
The clock was ticking.
"If there was a reason for you to forgive, I’d have said it. If there was justification for help not coming, for not acting swiftly to save Aisha or Zahra or Yusuf, I’d have bared it. But there is none."
Mohammed groaned.
“Yes Mohammed,” she continued, “there is none.”
"There is no excuse for failing you and for watching your family wipe away."
"Go ahead and murder us all, if you feel this is right justification for what has befallen you. When you push that trigger or let the countdown reach zero, you destroy the land and murder over twenty million people in one instance. You kill innocent women, men and children. You kill innocent Christians who never heard about this call for help and who never would have refused to send salvation if it was theirs the call to make.”
“This will kill Muslims, many of whom condemn violence of all forms. Ask yourself, would Aisha and Zahra be happy about this?"
While she still spoke Mohammed brought himself to reason. What had happened was painful and he sorely felt his heart bleed. He had lost his family and had let evil make him believe murder was the will of God and the commandment of his Christ.
"I am sorry," he muttered a little above his breath.
The countdown read forty five seconds.
Lifting his head he stretched his hands to a soldier, saying, "take my hands," he gestured.
A solder advanced towards him and retried the trigger. He stood to his feet, walking towards the computers, sitting behind one of the mega screens.
The countdown read fifteen seconds.
He looked into the keyboard and punched a set of keys. He raised his gaze to the large mega screen and watched the time freeze. The countdown had got to the three on the clock. It stopped.
He stood to his feet, heaved a deep sigh, raised both hands into the air, a signal to soldiers to come have him.
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