The Ordeal of Desperation Part 2

A Brush with Darkness

It began as an ordinary day, but fate had something far from ordinary in store for me. A chance encounter with a cheerful caregiver in our city set the stage for a tale of intrigue, unease, and desperation.

The woman, always full of life and smiles, cared for a neighbor. She had a way of drawing people in with her boisterous greetings and genuine curiosity. I liked her. She had a warmth about her that was hard to resist.

One morning, just as I was about to get into my car, she appeared suddenly, her expression more serious than usual. "I have something to tell you," she said, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. Then came the catch: "Promise me you won’t tell anyone."

My mind raced. What could be so secretive?

She asked about my wheelchair, and I hesitated before recounting the grim story of my accident. Her demeanor shifted as I spoke. She glanced nervously around, her eyes darting back toward her house as if she feared prying eyes.

Then came her question, delivered with quiet intensity: "Do you know you can be restored?"

I nodded cautiously. She leaned closer. "Do you believe in God?"

"Yes," I replied, my voice firm.

With that, she launched into an impassioned account of her church—a place where miracles happened, where a preacher could heal even the gravest afflictions. She offered me a lifeline, or so it seemed, handing me her number, the church’s location, and a contact for another church member. I nodded politely, though doubt churned in my heart.

The days that followed were restless. I questioned everything—my faith, my desperation, my hope for healing. Had I grown so desperate that I would chase after strangers' promises? Weeks passed, but the weight of her words lingered.

One morning as i was leaving, she saw me and approached. "Have you been to the church?" she asked. Guiltily, I admitted I hadn’t. She urged me to go, her enthusiasm unwavering.

Overwhelmed and seeking clarity, I made the call. The church instructed me to arrive by 6 AM. On the appointed day, I enlisted my cousin to take me, revealing nothing about where we were headed.

The church was unsettling from the start. Men and women in white scarves moved about with an eerie calm. Something felt... off. As I sat in my wheelchair, staring at the building, I debated leaving. But desperation whispered, and I chose to stay.

Inside, the atmosphere grew heavier. The pastor’s office was on the first floor, and men carried me—chair and all—up the stairs. Once there, I was asked for a consultation fee of one thousand Kenyan shillings. Appointment fees for healing? I thought. The absurdity of it all was beginning to sink in.

The waiting area was a strange mix of hope and despair. Mothers with infants, elderly men and women, and young people filled the corridors. Outside the pastor’s office, a bodyguard—a large man with a protruding belly—stood watch. A preacher with a bodyguard? It was bewildering.

From the office came cries and shouts, punctuated by the preacher’s booming voice. Anxiety gnawed at me. I thought of leaving again, but the promise of healing anchored me to my spot.

Finally, my turn came. My heart pounded as I was wheeled inside. The pastor loomed tall and imposing, his dark skin gleaming under the light. He wore a purple and white robe, his fingers adorned with rings, and a massive cross dangled from his neck. His desk was cluttered with strange objects—figurines of lions, elephants, and rhinos—and a large, unfamiliar book i presumed was a Bible.

Fear surged within me. What have I done?

The preacher demanded my story, and I reluctantly shared it. His response was chilling. "Your accident wasn’t natural," he declared. "It was caused by spells cast by your workmates."

My breath caught. Workmates? I had none; I’d closed my office long ago. His words rang hollow, but I dared not voice my skepticism.

"Is this all witchdoctor or healer? Son of Olala, what have you gotten yourself into?"

I asked myself. 

He began to pray—loudly, violently. He shouted and screamed, his words incomprehensible. He spoke in English, Swahili and Kikuyu... Confused and scared My eyes remained wide open, scanning the room for any sign of danger. In my heart, I prayed silently to my God, pleading for protection and a quick way out.

When the ordeal finally ended, he announced that I would need two more sessions, each accompanied by additional fees. His claim was simple: my condition was severe and required further "spiritual intervention."

As I left the church, relief washed over me. I was alive, but deeply shaken. I vowed never to return and to never again place my trust in questionable promises.

My cousin and I made our hasty exit, we couldn't suppress the laughter bubbling up between us. But then, the realization dawned on him—a sharp, cutting awareness of the situation I had dragged him into. How could I have been so reckless, so blind to the consequences? Humiliation burned in my chest, yet relief coursed through me. Without a second thought, we fled, eager to leave it all behind as quickly as my wheelchair could move.

Friends, let my story be a warning. Desperation can make us vulnerable, but we must cling to the truth. God does not require money for His miracles, nor does He rely on theatrics. He is ever-present, ever-faithful, and ever-mighty. Pray without ceasing and trust in Him alone.

As for the next preacher who crossed my path; that’s a tale for another day.

Stay tuned...😅