The Ordeal of Desperation Part 3

Trouble and I—inseparable companions.

If the devil is a roaring lion, then surely his persistence is unmatched. My life feels like a scene lifted straight from a West African drama, filled with twists, absurdities, and encounters that defy reason. And this? This was yet another chapter starring a false Evangelist spinning lies in the guise of divine wisdom.

It began on a radiant Saturday morning, the kind where everything seems to promise peace and joy. As always, we had scheduled a Bible study in our village. My father, eager to enrich the gathering, announced he had invited a preacher recommended by a friend to join us.

By the time the session began, the house was bursting at the seams—uncles, aunts, cousins, and a slew of other relatives packed into every available space, all ready to hear a word from heaven. The "man of God" arrived, clad in a brownish suit, knocking confidently at the door. He was ushered in with the reverence one might reserve for royalty. After a brief prayer, breakfast was offered, but he declined with a dramatic and resounding "No."

He was tall, his dark complexion striking, but it was his eyes—piercing, bloodshot, and unsettling—that commanded attention. His voice, rough and husky, carried a weight that made the air seem heavier. Sitting on the sofa with his legs spread wide, he exuded dominance, his eyes darting from one person to another as though scanning souls. Something about him felt...off. My instincts urged me to observe.

After the usual songs and prayers, the moment arrived for him to deliver his message. Rising with an air of authority, he scanned the room before speaking in a soft, measured tone. But it was a calm before the storm.

Oh, how I wish I had known what was coming.

Like a storm gathering force, his tone escalated from gentle to thunderous in seconds. He bellowed scripture in a voice so grating it seemed designed to test the resilience of our eardrums. His intensity was unnerving; it felt as though he was waging a battle rather than preaching a message. Sleep was not an option in that house—not under his watch.

And then it happened. "Is this the young man who had an accident?" he asked, his gaze locking onto me. Caught off guard, I nodded hesitantly.

He approached me, his piercing eyes never wavering. I wanted to shrink back, but the crowded room left no room for escape. Everyone watched with bated breath.

"Such accidents are never ordinary," he declared, his voice heavy with ominous intent. The room seemed to hold its breath. Without warning, his hands gripped my head, and he launched into a frenzied prayer. He shouted and screamed as though trying to summon heaven itself—or perhaps scare it away. My mind raced, a storm of anger and confusion. Should I swat his hands away? Shout at him to stop? Punch him? But no—I held back. If I resisted, wouldn’t he claim the devil was within me? So I clenched my fists and whispered a prayer of my own.

The house was silent but for his booming voice. Shock was etched on every face. Nobody moved. Nobody dared intervene.

When the ordeal finally ended, he declared with dramatic flair, "In three days, your eyes will be opened, and you shall see."

I blinked, dumbfounded. See? Was I blind?

Just as I thought the madness had ended, he knelt, grabbed my leg, and began smacking it with his Bible. Each thud felt like an affront, not to mention utterly absurd. The discomfort in the room was palpable. My relatives exchanged uneasy glances but seemed paralyzed, unsure how to address the bizarre display.

According to him, I should have felt "healing heat" radiating through my legs—a sign of divine intervention. Instead, all I felt was the simmering urge to punch him square in the face.

With no miracle in sight, the "prophet" concluded his performance, offered a final prayer, and left as dramatically as he had arrived. My father, visibly embarrassed, apologized profusely for inviting such a man and vowed never to make such a mistake again.

Three days came and went. My sight remained unchanged, as did my skepticism of self-proclaimed prophets.

Friends, let this be a lesson: place your trust solely in God. Do not let desperation lead you into the clutches of charlatans masquerading as messengers of heaven. They are no more than wolves in sheep’s clothing, preying on the vulnerable.

As the Scriptures remind us in 2 Corinthians 2:14-17, we triumph in Christ and are called to speak God’s word with sincerity. Let us cling to Him, the true source of our hope and salvation.

My story isn't over. One more to go...

Blessings and discernment to all.