Pain oozed out of Pastor Job's body. His muscles were on fire. His joints pulsated with liquid discomfort. His bones ached. His head throbbed with acute migraine. His eyes watered. A madman played a steel band inside his skull. A blacksmith hammered the anvil in his stomach. A lunatic screamed endlessly in his ears. A noisy grinder cracked in his lungs.
Pastor Job had always considered himself a brave man, but twenty minutes inside Underground and he was weeping like a baby. He had never experienced so much pain in his life as he was going through now. Neither had he imagined that pain could be so real you could touch it. Some pains had a harsh, brittle and stinging feel, especially when a calloused palm slapped you in the face. But the touch of other kinds of pain left the pastor wet and stinking: wet with his urine and stinking with his own excreta.
Pastor Job had always a considered himself a man. Now, he knew that he was a mere girl. Twenty minutes inside Underground and he was sobbing worse than a young widow. True, U.G. Bassey had told him that “Underground pain is more colourful than the rainbow”. But nothing in his imagination prepared him for the myriad of horrors he was now going through. The first slap he received exploded red stars in his skull. The second slap brought yellow stars. The third slap shot green stars into his brain. By the time the Bashers had finished slapping him around, stars the colours of the rainbow were crashing inside his skull. It was a miracle that none of his teeth fell out.
As soon as P.C Awesu opened the door to Underground, the pastor's escorts literally kicked him into the spacious but dimly lit room. The door was immediately locked from without. Pastor Job was still trying to orientate himself to the environment when the Bashers pounced on him. Without asking any questions, they began to beat him up. They slapped him so much he became dizzy with pain and collapsed on the slimy floor. Still, they would not leave him alone.
A basher, police term for a professional torturer, threw a bucket of cold water on him. Because he was slow to get up, another basher sprinkled some werepe on his bare buttocks. Werepe is a dark, peppery stuff with a sharp sting. When the powdery stuff touched the pastor's wet skin, he screamed and jumped up. Shadowy hands grabbed him in a vice-like grip while other hands carefully removed his dress. He was stripped down to his skin.
Stark naked, Pastor Job continued to writhe in great pain, alternatingly pleading for mercy and protesting his innocence. However, his appeal fell on deaf ears. The bashers continued to pummel him all over the body. Heavy-weight punches rammed his ribs. Hard, steel-tipped boots slammed into his private parts. Stinging jabs exploded on his head. Karate chops raked his belly. He howled. He screamed. He moaned and groaned. But his torturers did not stop until the Head Basher signalled a halt. By that time, the pastor was a mass of living pains. He could neither sit nor stand. Even lying down was impossible as pain in tidal waves swept over his whole body.
He was bleeding from the nose, the mouth, the anus and his testicles were on fire. Like Elijah under the juniper tree, he prayed fervently for death. Yes, death would be a sweet relief from this sea of agony. The bashers, however, were professionals to the core. Having been informed that the new entrant was likely to appear in court the following day, they stopped short of beating him to a coma.
The bashers dragged him into a grimy, mildew-infested bathroom. He is made to stand up while cold water mixed with Dettol was poured over him from head to toe. With the careful intensity with which they had "softened' him, the bashers bathed Pastor Job. In fact, they handled him so tenderly one would have thought they were bathing a day-old baby. They washed away all the dirt and blood on him. They even gave him some tooth paste to sweeten his breath.
Then they took him into a solitary cell containing a table and a chair. The room was poorly lit by a sickly bulb. He was made to wear his pants and sit down behind the desk. A cup of cold tea was put in front of him along with a satchel of Panadol tablets. The Head Basher then put a piece of paper and a biro beside the cup and signalled his men to retreat from the cell.
Pastor Job did not know whether to weep or to laugh. He was totally confused by the sudden transformation of the bashers from heartless torturers to gentle saints.
"Why?" he managed to say. The bashers did not respond, but filed out silently and locked the door.
Pastor Job shivered. How could human beings be so wicked, yet so silent? All through his bashing the bashers had not uttered a single word. They performed their deadly ritual like robots. They had beaten him with clinical efficiency and in total silence. They neither talked to him nor to one another.
To communicate, they used hand signals. They did their job so “feelinglessly” that Pastor Job wondered if they were human at all. It was as if their arms inflicted pain, while their real selves remained detached from the brutalities meted out by their hands. Pastor Job had looked deeply into their eyes, but no flicker of humanity warmed those dark orbs. A cold mechanical detachment suffused their faces.
Pastor Job shivered again. The pain returned with some intensity. He quickly threw some tablets of Panadol into his mouth and washed them down with the cold tea. He shut his eyes and took deep breaths to clear his throbbing head. After several such breaths, the throb in his head subsided a little. He picked up the paper left by the Head Basher. He had to hold it close to his face before he could read it.
It was a confessional statement purportedly written by him. It had been clearly and neatly typed. All that remained was for him to append his signature to the document. It read:
“I Pastor Job, male, Nigerian, 37 years old, of Christ Torch Cathedral hereby confess of my own free will and without any coercion or the use of force by the police or anybody in authority to the following crimes:
1. That on the night of 31 August, 1994, I forcefully entered the premises of Chief J Akilapa, Chairman of Lagos Island Local Government situated at 2 Acpherson Road, Ikoyi at about twelve midnight.
2. That I willfully and intentionally set ablaze the said building situated at 2 Acpherson Road, Ikoyi after forcing my way in.
3. That when I was challenged after the arson by the policeman on guard who was in uniform, I knowingly and willfully assaulted him and knocked him down to make fast my escape.
4. That since my arrest, I have been treated with utmost courtesy by the police who performed their duty without violating my fundamental human rights as enshrined in the 1979 constitution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria."
Pastor Job was dazed. He could not believe his eyes. Was it a visual illusion or a figment of his imagination? In the surreal atmosphere, the confession began to swim in his hands. So he blinked several times to clear his vision. He read the letter all over again. In disgust, he slammed it on the table. Not even death would make him sign such a damning document.
"Treated with courtesy indeed'" he murmured through his swollen lips.
Just then, the bashers stormed in. the Head Basher marched to the table and grabbed the document. He examined it and seeing that it was unsigned, he signaled his blood bounds to go for the pastor. They grabbed him by the arms, threw him into the air like a doll and as he came down, a pair of boots were planted in his tummy. Pastor Job bellowed and vomited the tea and tablets he had just swallowed.
Having recovered their “generosity” the bashers proceeded to beat their victim with rubber hoses, a system of torture which inflicts great internal damage but leave few external marks. Even though they could always claim their victim was roughened up when he resisted arrest, they knew that judges had begun to frown at such excuses.
Moreover, being a politician, this had a tendency of becoming a political war. The police hate getting involved in the cross-fire of such a political fiasco. They know how politicians often use and then dump them. They use them to achieve their nefarious ends. When things go haywire, they leave the police to carry the can. So, the bashers acted strictly according to the instruction of Sergeant Slaughter. He had ordered them to “proceed by Octave One”. Octave One is police parlance for soft torture. It was that instruction which saved Pastor Job’s life. Octave Two is guaranteed to maim a victim for life physically and mentally. Nobody had ever survived Octave Three. It means: “Terminate”.
Five minutes of the rubber hoses and Pastor Job fainted. The Head Bashers ordered his hounds to stop. Pastor Job was revived the same way as the last time he fainted. A bucket of cold water was thrown over him and a breath of Werepe was sprinkled in his crotch. Pastor Job came back to consciousness with a yell.
The bashers dragged the pastor to a dark cell. The slop pail in the cell was filled to the brim with urine and excreta. One of the bashers kicked the bucket, pouring out the noxious content. He upended the now empty bucket and Pastor Job was made to stand on it. His hands were handcuffed and fastened to the roof. The punishment is known as "Junior Crucifixion". It is often meted out to a detaining the bashers does not want to enjoy any sleep. The bashers then marched out, locking the cell behind them.
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Pastor Job was in acute pain. The werepe felt like Sulphuric acid, gradually eating his manhood away with its stinging fiery teeth. His head ached. His mouth ached. His arms, his legs, all ached terribly. Even his soul within him cried out in pain.
Eventually, the pain was reduced to a dull throb in his head. At this point, the reverend gentleman learnt one of the wonders of God's creation. His body had somehow absorbed the pain and was filtering it out. Ten minutes later, he was dosing intermittently despite his precarious situation. Just then, a scream pierced the gloomy silence.
Pastor Job jerked to full wakefulness. He looked to the left from where the scream had emanated. He saw nothing. The cell had no bulb, although light from the sickly bulb in the passage tried to pierce the gloomy cell. Instead of dispelling the shadows, the weak rays merely helped to accentuate them. So, the pastor saw nothing.
However, he began to "feel" the presence of the other inmates. He shut his eyes for a while and then looked deeply into the darkness around him. Faintly, he could discern several human forms huddled in varying stages of discomfort all over the cell. They were all trying to catch as much sleep as possible while they could. And from the letters of despair and agony boldly stencilled on their faces, Pastor Job sensed that most of them would prefer to "catch death" than sleep. Undoubtedly, these men had been to hell and back.
The sound of hard boots crunching down the corridor sent adrenalin flowing into his spine. Had his torturers come back for him;? Yes, but not for him. The cell door banged open and a basher began to call out names.
"Kondo!"
"Yes, sah"! croaked a voice to his left.
"Out!"
An emaciated figure in torn pants dragged himself out.
"Kala!"
"Yes, Sah !"
“Out'"
Another skeleton dragged itelf out. The roll call continued until all the eleven original inmates of the cell had filed out. Pastor Job was now alone in the cell. The door banged shut and was locked from outside. He could hear the other inmates being herded -into the next cell.
"Lie down!" ordered a hard, pitiless voice.
"Please, Sah! Have mercy, Sah! We go go court, Sah!" pleaded various voices.
"Shadap!" shouted the hard, pitiless voice. The same voice addressed one of the bashers.
"You! Go get bus ready to take corpses to mortuary!"
"But wev the bodies, sah!"
"Shadap! J. J. C! Go."
A pair of boots hurried away. Silence for a while, except for the inmates pleading for mercy.
Then the shots rang out. From his cell, Pastor Job could not see what happened, but he heard it all. One by one, all the eleven original inmates of his cell were illegally executed. They had never been taken to court once. Afterwards, their corpses were taken out by the Death Collectors. Officially, they were never detained by the police. All references to them in police records would be carefully wiped out. The following morning, their corpses would be displayed for the press as those of armed robbers shot in an exchange of gunfire with the police.
Cold sweat broke out of the pastor’s body. His throat went dry. His chest constricted with an inexplicable pain. He could hardly breathe. He shut his eyes to the world, but he could not shut his ears from the horror because his hands had been fastened to the ceiling. Horror most elemental grabbed the root of his soul.
Silence, graveyard silence. Silence draped in a shroud. Graveyard peace entombed the whole cell. In Pastor Job, however, a turmoil raged as he pondered the seeming uselessness of life. Was man made just to suffer pain, shame and sorrow? Is this man’s ultimate goal, a life terminated in injustice and ignominy? Ha! Life is the jagged but razor-sharp edge of a broken bottle over which a man is impaled through the belly. Life is the kolanut spittle of a perpetually grinning idiot with a drooping lower lip. Life is the mangled body of an accident victim with a crushed cranium. Life is the bullet-riddled corpse of a man condemned to death without trial. Life… a magnificent illusion… a fascinating nebulae…a nightmare… a genuine counterfeit… breaths in the harmattan wind. Life, a drunken lunatic in combat with his own shadow!
Pessimism flooded Pastor Job’s soul. His world collapsed. His reason collapsed. His faith was shaken. Life lost its meaning. All concepts blurred. In the abyss of clear shadows which his mind had become, good became evil and evil became good. In this world of smoky reality, in this twilight zone of mad sanity, justice is injustice is justice is injustice… Guilt is innocence is guilt is guilty innocence. Bad is good is bad is good is badly good. Since this world is built on evil, why should anyone try to be good? Here I am a victim of injustice. I have been plucked from my home, beaten, battered and then hanged like a criminal.
Yet, I am innocent. O what I will do to Sergeant Slaughter when I get out of this hell hole! I will pay thugs to bash his head in. I will have him beaten and battered and abused twenty times more than I have suffered...
"LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOUR AS THYSELF!"
"But, Lord, some of them are unlovable beasts!" shouted the pastor.
"LOVE THY ENEMY AND PRAY FOR THOSE WHO PERSECUTE YOU!" persisted the voice.
"How can I love Sergeant Slaughter and this wicked people, LORD? They are persecuting me because I'm a Christian."
"IF YOU CANNOT LOVE A MAN THAT YOU SEE, HOW CAN YOU LOVE GOD WHO YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN?"
"But, Lord, don't you see how-much they persecute me?"
"NO DISCIPLE IS GREATER THAN HIS MASTER. IF THE WORLD CRUCIFIED THE MASTER, THEY WILL ALSO CRUCIFY THE SERVANT."
'"Lord! I say they are persecuting me! Do you want me to die like a dog?"
"THE .REWARD OF A DISCIPLE IS ETERNAL LIFE. BUT PERSECUTION IS HIS LOT IN THE WORLD."
"But, Lord, this kind of persecution? This? This? No, Lord! No! If you don't free me now, I will backslide!"
Flashes of lightning! Thunder rumbles! Earthquake! Fire and brimstone! Sulphurous cloud, dark and purplish, a yawning grave, heavy with life. Bats, big and ominous ooze out of the open grave. Then the Serpent came, magnificent on his throne of diamond, resplendent in his garment of rubies. A crown of pearls was on his head, blazing like a fire. In his right hand he held a gold sceptre. His voice when he spoke was like the sound of quiet streams whispering dreamily through the meadow.
"THE WORLD AND ALL ITS WEALTH BELONG TO ME. BOW DOWN AND WORSHIP ME AND 1 WILL GIVE EVERYTHING TO YOU!"
The Serpent stretches his sceptre towards Pastor Job. He was captivated. Here was wealth. Here was power beyond measure! Power to rule and to reign! Power to grind the likes of Sergeant Slaughter to powder! Power! Raw! Untamed! Unfathomable! Power most absolute!
Pastor Job stretches out his right hand to grab the sceptre! But half-way through, a scripture blocked his hand.
" l Corinthians 10:13!"
Pastor Job was astonished. He withdrew his hand as if shocked by naked electricity. He wracked his brain: what does 1 Corinthians 10:13 say? Again and again, he badgered his brain until the words of that scripture flowed into his consciousness:
"Every test that you have experienced is the kind that normally comes to people. But God keeps his promise, and will not allow you to be tested beyond your power to remain firm; at the time you are put to the test, he will give you the strength to endure it, and so provide you with a way out."
"Yes, that's true!" said Pastor Job. "I had never thought that I could endure so much pain. Yes, God saved my life!"
"TAKE!" shouted the Serpent in rage. "RENOUNCE GOD, BOW TO ME AND I WILL GIVE YOU REAL POWER!"
Thunder! Lightning! Burst of Fire! Cracks of Tornado! A great effulgence! Flashes of rainbow enveloped the cell. Pastor Job was fascinated by the Serpent's sceptre. It winks at him, beckoning him onwards. Once again, he stretches out his right hand to take the proffered sceptre, Half-wav through, another scripture stung his hand like a bee.
"1 Peter 5: 8-10!"
Once again. Pastor Job thought deeply before he could bring out the scripture.
"Be alert, be on the watch! Your enemy, the Devil, roams round like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour. Be firm in your faith, resist him, because you know that your fellow-believers in all the world are going through the same sufferings. But after you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace, who calls you to share his eternal glory in union with Christ, will himself perfect you and give you firmness, strength, and a sure foundation."
By now, the Serpent was beside himself with rage. He raved and ranted like a demented fellow. He stamped his feet in frustration like a child whose favourite sweet had been snatched by a bully. In the midst of the Serpent's ranting, a hand unfurled John 8:44.
"From the very beginning he was a murderer and has never been on the side of truth, because there is no truth in him. When he tells a lie, he is only doing what is natural to him, because he is a liar and the father of all lies."
The scripture poked the Serpent's eye balls and blood gushed out. He bellowed with pain and writhed about, roaring like a wounded lion. Gone was the beautiful throne! Gone was his diamond dress! Gone, his crown of pearls and sceptre. He was de-robed. He stood naked as the ugly slimy serpent that he was. In pain and shame, he ran to the hole and was swallowed up by the cloud coming from the open grave.
Then other apparitions came up. First Pastor Job saw the Israelites marching round the wall of Jericho. On the seventh round on the seventh day, the wall of Jericho fell, not to the power of atomic bombs, but to the shout of praise to God.
Next he saw Paul and Silas entombed in that dreary cloudy dungeon. They began to sing. Earthquake! Their chains and locks were broken. Not by blowtorches, but by the power of praise.
"But what is there to praise God for in this cell?" asked Pastor Job.
"COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS!" commanded the voice.
Pastor Job slowly began to count all the blessings of God that he could remember.
"1 thank God that I was not shot in my house by Sergeant Slaughter. Instead, God used my dog to save my life. He died in my place. I thank God for keeping me alive in that teargas-filled Black Maria. I thank God for giving me the strength to endure the beating without signing that fake confession. I thank God for keeping me alive, while all other inmates of this cell have been executed without trial. 1 thank God for my coming victory because the victory of good over evil is certain. I thank God for... I just thank God and bless his holy name. Nothing, neither death nor life, nor pleasure nor pain, justice nor injustice can separate me from the love of God. I thank God for the love he has shed abroad in my heart. I thank God for the peace and joy. 1 thank God for the Holy Spirit, my teacher, my counselor, my lord, my saviour, my provider, my healer, my fortress, my everything. I thank God for allowing his name to be glorified in my situation. I thank God that all my tormentors, especially my brother Sergeant Slaughter, shall be saved through this suffering. I thank God because he is worthy to be praised..."
He began to speak in tongues and as he did, the peace of God settled on his spirit, soul and body. He fell into a sound sleep still praising God in tongues.