The Crazy Nigerian

Dear God, Mum said to ask You instead

As a child, I had a peculiar relationship with God. At the time, God was the one I prayed to in order to get the things my parents weren't willing to buy for me. He was the one I prayed to for 'A's when I knew I hadn't studied hard enough for an examination paper. He was the Guy I prayed (and cried crocodile tears to) whenever 'NEPA' (now 'PHCN': Power Holding Company of Nigeria) cut out the electricity right before Sesame Street, my favourite kiddies show, came on TV at 5 p.m. When God didn't answer my prayer, I would sulk, cry and wonder if He was just being difficult because I usually only prayed before a meal, or because I didn't obey all the Ten Commandments, or simply because He didn't like me.

Church was a chore (and a bore). Though my parents explained its importance (giving thanks, singing songs of praise, learning the Holy Scriptures, etc.) it just seemed like two long hours of lost TV-viewing time.

Sunday school, however, was fun, because I got to hang out with other kids of my age. All I can remember now was that the Sunday school teacher would read a Bible story, ask us questions about it afterwards, and then we would later sing songs like 'Jesus Loves Me' (which I loved) and one that includes the words, 'Up, Up Jesus, Down, Down Satan' (which I've grown to dislike for reasons I shall disclose later).

Once I changed states from Lagos to Ibadan in order to begin my secondary school education, I moved into my auntie's place. There, my Christian activity was turned up . . . several notches. My aunt, cousins and I all engaged in praise worship and Bible study . . . every night. I was reading and gradually understanding the underlying messages in the Bible. I was also getting better at praying, despite initially trying to shy away from it in public. However, there was one thing I couldn't stand: being dictated to when it came to praying.

I can recall one Saturday morning in Ibadan when my cousins and I went to a retreat in a secluded forest. The visit had been organized by an enthusiastic member of my Anglican church. She usually sat at the front row in the congregation and was always the first to stand up when praise worship began. She wore the best (and the biggest) hats. Did I mention that she could speak in tongues? Strangely enough, her husband didn't share the same enthusiasm. He would sit next to her like a total stranger while his wife dramatized her helpless devotion to God. In fact, it wasn't until I had been going to that church for months that I even realized that they were married. It was no surprise to me that he didn't show up at the retreat.

My cousins, a few other invited strangers and I all gathered round in this Blair Witch Project-like forest, and I wondered if there was any significance to this setting. Couldn't we have just praised and worshipped God in a big room? Did we have to leave our houses, enter a car and drive forty minutes to a forest where unpleasant reptiles may be lurking, waiting for their next meal?

My ordeal there felt similar to a boot-camp; there were just too many orders. The church member ordered us to sing. Once we started singing, she ordered us to sing louder. Once we sang louder, she ordered us to clap our hands. It just went on and on. What happened to free will? God gave us free will, I thought, and now this lady was stealing that from me.

After singing for about half an hour, the church member commanded us to close our eyes and open our mouths to pray. Well, I tried, but each time I tried to complete a prayer point, I was distracted by the constant ranting of the church member telling us to talk to God about this and talk to God about that. I wanted to pray to God and ask Him to shut her up, just so that I could concentrate! As if that wasn't bad enough, she was also pacing up and down the place, which made me pretty uncomfortable, so I felt justified in praying with one eye open. Eventually, I had managed to pray about everything and everyone I could think of, so I fell silent and closed my eyes. The church member must have noticed, because she stopped in her tracks and, though my eyes were now fully closed, I suddenly sensed that she was within kissing distance.

She commanded me to open my mouth and pray. At first, I refused, and with good reason. You see, unfortunately for the church member, I had this bad habit of brushing my teeth after breakfast. You might be saying, 'Hey, that's not bad at all!' but the problem was that I had forgotten to brush, even after eating my sardine sandwich . . . that day of all days. The longer I refused to open my mouth, the more she shouted. She was probably on the verge of casting out some demons from me when I reluctantly parted my lips and let the church member enjoy a breath of 'fish air'. She moved so fast it seemed she had teleported herself like Mr. Davenport in Rentaghost. I, on the other hand, couldn't teleport out of that dodgy forest (I must have run out of 'psychic energy').

After this experience, I decided that prayers should be from the heart. It is your one to-one with God, and it shouldn't be forced. I also believe that you shouldn't lose focus on what is important during worship. Remember when I said I'd disclose why I disliked the 'Down, Down Satan' song? Well, the reason is that I feel it's just a chance to invite unnecessary attention to one. Say, for instance, you're in school and a six-foot-tall bully walks past you and doesn't notice you-great! But imagine if you now shouted to the bully, 'YOU ARE A GOAT!' Do you think the bully would ignore you?

I can cite a real-life instance of what happens when people invite unnecessary negative attention to themselves. Some years back in Ibadan, a so-called prophet went to the zoo in the University of Ibadan and climbed into a young lion's cage. It was in the early hours of the morning, so the fully grown cub was still fast asleep. 'Daniel' (and that was his name, apparently) was a bit of a daredevil, and he thought it would be biblical to re-enact the story of Daniel in the lion's den. After tugging at the cub's tail a few times, the prophet began to quote the scripture about how the cub could do him no harm. If it was fame this prophet was after, he got it. The local newspapers published an excellent piece on him. Sadly, by that time the prophet was in pieces. That prophet hadn't been wise. He had deliberately put himself in danger and expected God to bail him out. Do you remember, ' . . . do not put the Lord your God to the test'? (Luke 4: 12). This is the reason I have never felt it necessary to call out to Satan, even in song.

I came to realize that my understanding of God was as flawed as a child's. I had been treating Him like He was less important than my family, friends and my TV programmes. He had brought me into this world, and He could just as easily yank me out whenever He wanted. I have a healthy fear of God now. "The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom and knowledge of the Holy One, is understanding."