The Dark Streets of Lagos: Deliverance of a Kleptomaniac

Guest Post by Adeshina Lekan Exdique

 

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It was on a Sunday, typical morning when Mama and Papa discussed James’ issues. It always led to episodes of quarrels between them. Papa would complain that she had spoilt him. In return, she would churlishly reply him. Igniting an exchange of shouting words, thus making our one room apartment filled with hot air emanating from both mouths. 

”You have spoilt this boy” Papa would say anytime James was caught stealing.

She would snap back aggressively “Biko ohhh, you are the one that damaged his life” Describing his life as ‘damaged’ as if he was an object.

Hearing that always fueled Papa’s anger and the somewhat automated response would be;

“If you talk to me that way I will give you a dirty slap”

Suddenly, as though also automated, she would become infuriated. Her ‘razor mouth’ always ready to slice, dice and serve. It soiled for troubles, giving him the audacity to do whatever he wanted. 

“Slap me and see what will happen” her response sounding as though she was being charged with abnormal hormones; enough to beat up any hubby at the snap her fingers. 

The slaps always followed; Papa’s fat hand landing on her face, hitting her numerous times and consequently planting welts. 

She grabbed his white singlet. “Kill me oh and take my body to my mother in the village” she cried, writhing in pain. 

Neighbors rushed into our house to release her hand from his white singlet.  Some of them with their faces stuck to our nettings while the drama tape rolled. 

Regrettably, those actions would not make us (excluding Papa and James) attend our marathon Sunday service in the church.  

Usually, I ended up caught in the middle when their quarrel unfolded. “Tell him that there is no kerosene”, “Tell her to bring my food”, “Tell him that the DVD is faulty”, and “Tell her that she should get my clothes ironed”. 

Most times, Uncle Kayode, Papa’s friend, came around to settle them. On settling their dispute, Mama would prepare spicy chicken pepper soup that would scald our tongues.

The first time I heard the word ‘kleptomaniac’ I didn’t know the meaning. A girl said it to my face during my lunch break in school.

“Your brother is a kleptomaniac” she said as she popped her light blue chewing gum.

On getting home, I searched for the meaning. But my effort proved abortive. That made me ask Papa because he was educated and used ‘big’ words in every sentence he said.

"Kleptomaniac is a psychological and psychiatry disorder, which brings the urge to steal things. It could be termed COD, compulsive obsessive disorder" Papa lectured.

His lecture brought the thought of my brother James. He loved to wear baggy jeans like a contemporary American rapper. He would fart and sweat anytime he wanted to steal. If caught in the act, he would say ‘I just took it’ in a soft American accent.

Mama never believed he suffered from kleptomania. She believed someone had bewitched him or probably cast a spell on him from the village. For that reason, she made us to go for every vigil on the dark streets of Lagos. Papa had insisted that James should be taken to a psychologist at LUTH, but mama disagreed.

My latest memory of our incessant night vigil was at a church, popularly called Bountiful Believers Ministry (BBM). Mama had insisted that we go there because James had stolen a laptop the previous day. 

When we got there, they had already started the service. Outside the building, ‘WELCOME TO BBM, WE DON’T PING, WE HEAL. PROBLEM LAST BUST(bus) STOP’ was boldly inscribed on a sign board. The pastor was laying his hands on some of the congregations and this made them jerk back and forth. White handkerchiefs were waved in the air and a small bottle olive oil stood beside a large loud speaker.

After sometime, the pastors announced that we had to donate a miracle offering. On announcing, “ride on sir’ was aired by a man close to us. After saying that, he gulped from a tall bottle of olive oil he held in his hand and rolled on the floor.

By 2am, the prayer session was intense and this made heat engulf the building. Words of prayers popped out of every congregations, except James. He firmly gripped his blackberry phone, replied all his messages and put a smiley at the end of every message. By instinct I knew he was chatting with his dozen of girlfriends. The sound of his message tone disrupted mama’s prayer and this made her drag him to the altar so the pastor could lay hands on him.

“Mum stop this shit” he said as she dragged his neatly ironed shirt.

“me-shun-nug” mama said in her thick Igbo accent

The argument between mama and James attracted the pastor’s attention and this made him order his entourages to bring him to the ground. While he was on the floor, the pastor prayed energetically in a loud voice. From his prayers, one could infer that James was suffering from evil spirits.

‘Go go, every evil spirits, out’ he said authoritatively

After the prayers, he instructed mama to see him in his office after the church had closed.

It was 5 am, the prayer session had closed and Mama, James and I went to see the pastor. He was removing his diamond wrist watch so he could wash his hand under a small running tap when we entered his office. James wore an angry look when his eyes met with the pastor’s. And the pastor launched into conversation with mama.

‘The spirit has left him, halleluiah’ he said

Mama threw herself to the floor and thanked the pastor profusely.

On getting home, mama explained everything that had happened to papa. She explained with an unending passion, but he buried his head in the newspaper he clutched and nodded from time to time. To avoid getting caught in the middle, I ran to James room to chat him about our experience at the church. On entering, I saw him holding a diamond watch that looked like the one the pastor had worn the previous night. I asked who the owner of the watch was to clear my doubt and confirm the originality of his deliverance.

“It’s the pastor’s and I just had to take it”