Naijasinglegirl: All I needed...was a husband

‘Release my future husband’

I went for a walk one evening when I caught sight of a poster with that inscription.

It was a campaign for a prayer house.
Whoever was behind it must have thought of me.
It seemed an encounter with the prophet was just what Naijasinglegirl needed to take her relationship to the next level.

The venue was a remote village in Abia State.
I copied out the address and made plans to attend.

I arrived at the prayer house on a Friday evening. The ‘Release my future husband’ programme was scheduled to run on Saturday and Sunday.

I stood with my hand luggage at the entrance of the rusty looking building, reluctant to get inside until one ratchet looking dog emerged from the bush and chased me in.

My joy knew no bounds when a tall, light skinned and handsome guy in a flowing kaftan strode into the building.
He looked like a Igbo angel.
I became lovestruck!

I kept staring at him until the caretaker dragged me to my lodge.

I couldn’t wait to see him again.

The next day, I ransacked my clothes, looking for the perfect outfit to stun him.
I eventually decided to go natural for him. (I heard the Igbos like that a lot)
I settled for a flare gown, no make up, packed my hair in two and wore a flat sandals.
The congregation was ninety percent adults and ten percent kids.
My prince charming was seated at the middle row when I confidently walked in to meet him.

As I made to seat beside him, the prophet’s wife who doubled as the head usher told me to follow her.
This woman took me right to the front, by the prophet’s altar where a mat was spread out for kids/babies.

“Sit here!” she ordered me.
I started pleading with her that life is not all about big boobs, that I’m an adult in spite of my baby’s face, hairstyle and dressing.
My argument had distracted everyone.

“SILENCE!!!”

The prophet screamed while he rang his bell three times.
I had no choice but to obey the powerful looking prophet as I settled on the mat with “the real kids”

The embarrassment was more than I could take.
As soon as the service was over, I walked out angrily with intentions never to return for the next day service.

Then I saw him again.
The humiliation I felt suddenly disappeared.
I swore I was going to get him the next day.

The following day I paid extra attention to my appearance.

I threw on a body hug red gown.
No colour in my makeup bag was spared!
No way I was going to be mistaken as a kid.
I vowed to show them ‘shege’.

 

The prophet was standing by the entrance of the building when I causally walked in.
“Nne bia” he beckoned at me.

“You mean you are here for a husband too?” He spoke in Igbo.

“Yes!” I replied while I walked in.

This time around, I didn’t see my prince charming so I sat at the extreme, patiently waiting for him.
My makeup made me the cynosure of all eyes.
Thirty minutes into the service, it was deliverance time.
The prophet suddenly began vibrating like a 3310 towards me.
I wanted to run away out of fear but his wife and her clique had completely encircled me…all of them were vibrating around me like a freshly beheaded chicken.

“If you can’t beat them, join them”

In order for sanity to reign, I had to respect myself and fall down under the nonexistent anointing.
My plans didn’t work as they kept on ringing a bell in my ears and reciting strange things in a bid to deliver me from a demon.
How could I blame them when my appearance depicted a demon?

I stylishly began to wipe my juju makeup. That didn’t help either.

“Tell my son to bring the holy water” the prophet commanded.

I opened my eyes slightly only to realize his son was my Igbo angel.

He had joined them to betray me.
“Sprinkle it on her!” he instructed his son.
“Don’t do this to me, don’t do this, I love you” I spoke in whisper but my pleas seemed to anger his son more.

“The demon is making this small girl think she needs a husband. She thinks this place is for children”
The prophet muttered between his prayers.

Each time I attempted to roll out of my circle and run away, the women increased the intensity of their vibration.

An idea came at last.

I began to “confess” to everyone.

I pleaded for forgiveness, accepted that I’m a child possessed by a demon and I promised never to do it again.

That was when the prophet declared I had been delivered. The entire congregation cheered him including his Judas son.I quickly ran out, grabbed my luggage. Minutes later, I was in a Peace Mass Transit vehicle out of Abia State.
Nothing can ever take me to a prayer house again. Ever!