EGRE MATTHEW
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Many years ago when I was still a bachelor, I signed off on something that nearly cost my life. We had embarked on a preaching tour as part of our training in the GOC Bible School at Igom. Many of the instructors were Americans and my father was the School Registrar. It happened that one of the local communities we entered was Southern Qunokpa, a community notorious to foreign elements and any missionary work there was altogether bound to fail. The only Christian presence – one that was highly suppressed – was an abandoned Cathedral that stood on the very banks of the dreaded Ututudingwam, or The Sea of Tears.
Ututudingwam was a place no man in his right mind came closer to. Even the most powerful medicine men in the seven clans of South Qunokpa spoke little about it for fear of retribution. Ututudingwam was feared because according to oral history, Ututudingwam was the home of Itunda, the god of war and his wife, Uukri, the sea god. It was said that 800 years ago, these two deities came together to form a united front against the batch of Europeans who made attempts to cross the river into the community. For several years, they successfully withstood the advances of the Portuguese traders since Igom could only be accessed by water.
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In a sense one might compare Ututudingwam to the Bermuda triangle. There was always something to fear about it: the white man in his innocence – granted he was innocent – sun beaten, storm beaten for days on the open sea trudges on. He endures extreme weather conditions, unsure of what fortunes or misfortunes lie on the way. He is sure of one thing though: that if by any means he arrives, he would have paved a way for the entrance of what he calls light. And so he presses on, damning the consequences for aeon years and hoping for just one more thirst of conquest, only to sail into his death on the Sea of Tears, where the furious heartbeat of African black medicine beats in distemper. And if one was foolish like the white man to come near Ututudingwam at nightfall, one could see a razor edged sword that glittered uneasily in the starlit darkness and dangled on a basket full of water and fire – and blood stained anger - suspended in the eerie stilled air.
Truth is, we had been warned not to come to Qunokpa.
‘Qunokpa is the land of the dead. You must beware of it’, they had told us. But Woodrow Jnr would have none of it. He was the School’s Missions Director.
‘The gospel is for all,’ he had maintained. ‘It is our duty to name Christ where none did. Be ready to spend and be spent for the Lord.’ And so we went.
‘There is only one God. Jehovah is His name. All other gods are false,’ we had cried repeatedly for days. We talked about Jesus and the one true church which He had established as the only means through which all, including Qunokpa, can be saved.
‘Your gods cannot save you from your sins. Neither can the Catholics. We have brought to you God’s Own Church. It is the only church founded by the Savior of the whole world – Jesus Christ – and whosoever does not identify with His Church will burn in hell fire.’ And then we burst out in songs, songs that struck the dust clad heart of a people that had known darkness all their lives, that had learned to accept lies told in infamy and pretenses. If only they knew how God loved mankind, how God loved Qunokpa.
But Qunokpa could not be loved, did not know what it meant to be loved. And so it did not take long when we were surrounded by an angry mob of young men led by an elderly man who was perhaps their chief. They wore smoked raffias that barely covered their unsavory frames which was painted on one halve with charcoal, their dark hair long and shaggy and undulating. Their broad distended dark chests shone with thick balls of transuding sweats. They carried big sticks, machetes and dane guns. There was no time to waste. Quickly we scattered in different directions. A few of us were not so lucky. If you examine my head, you will see the big scar of a deep machete cut in the region near my right ear. It was a close shave with death. All but one of us survived this onslaught, unfortunately. His name was Ogbin, the twin brother of Minister Jobam. He was a good man and gave himself for the cause. He died a martyr and a hero.
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This is beautifully written bro... Each paragraph are well connected. You are excellent! My small upvote for you.
Thanks my great teacher. I'm really humbled sir
Nicely done.
Keep it up
Thanks boss. Highly appreciated
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Your description and word choice is superb. I could picture exactly what you were describing just by reading through. You did good.
Awnnn...thank you so much.
Nice story great one. By the way, i am now following. Thanks 😊
Thanks boss. God bless you
Thanks. Hope you followed back?