AFRICA AND RELIGIOUS

 

Kenny

Kenny lay on his bed, the weight of the challenge an African man faces pressing down on him. He used Nigeria as a painful case study. He looked around his cramped single room, a stark contrast to the dreams he once held. A bed pushed against the wall, a simple center table – nothing to boast about. The aroma of his cooking wafted from behind the door, and the shared public bathroom with fifteen other tenants was a daily reminder of his struggles. It felt as though his aspirations, once so vibrant, had shattered. Everything he'd learned in university, a degree in Biochemistry, now felt like a cruel joke. The weight of not being able to support his aging parents, as he'd envisioned during his final year, was a constant ache.

He remembered the day he visited the recruitment office. He'd submitted his credentials, brimming with hope. The HR officer greeted him with a pleasant smile. "Good morning, Mr. Kenny."

"Good morning, ma'am," he'd replied, confidence radiating from him.

"After reviewing your credentials, I'm glad to inform you that you are qualified for the job, but..."

"Thank you very much!" Kenny had exclaimed, a genuine smile spreading across his face. He felt a surge of relief. He was about to thank her again, but she was looking at him without emotion. Kenny had to come back to his senses. "You said, 'but'?"

"Yes," the lady asked without any emotion, her gaze unwavering. "Who sent you?"

"I don't understand," he'd said, bewildered.

"Who sent you to my office?"

"No one," he'd replied, a frown creasing his brow. "I heard there was a vacancy, and so I applied."

"Sorry. You can't have the job."

"But why?"

"You don't have the necessary connection."

"What connection?"

"Please get out of my office before I call security," the woman had said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Kenny shook his head, snapping back to reality. The memory was a painful reminder of the harsh realities he and so many others faced in Nigeria, and indeed, across Africa.

Nigeria, often called the giant of Africa, sometimes feels more like its baby. Despite impressive certificates, securing a good job often hinges on connections. The elite exploit the poverty they create, and recently, religious bodies have begun exploiting the people in ways that defy understanding.

This is the backdrop for the story of a husband and wife, both professors at the university. Their love story spanned 25 years, filled with the joy of four adult children. Their home was a haven of laughter and affection. But this idyllic life shattered one Sunday. The husband visited a particular spiritual church, while the wife attended a different one.

During the service, the pastor singled out the husband, declaring, "I have a prophecy for you: your wife intends to harm you." The man, bewildered, succumbed to the pastor's influence.

Simultaneously, in another church, the pastor addressed the wife, stating, "I have a prophecy for you: your husband is the source of your troubles." The wife, equally shocked, rushed home, mirroring her husband's haste. They converged at their gate, immediately erupting into a fight. They disregarded 25 years of shared joy, all triggered by a single Sunday's prophecy. Their home shattered, and they separated.

If pastors can deceive even a professor, what hope is there for the uneducated who attend church weekly, donating their hard-earned money? They labor under harsh conditions to earn a living, yet a man in a suit with a microphone and a Bible can exploit them with misinterpreted verses, enriching himself while they become poorer. This is a significant challenge for Africans regarding religion.

Nigeria gained independence on October 1, 1960. However, it still struggles with a stable power supply, adequate roads, and a functional healthcare system. The government prioritizes personal gain, imposing oppressive taxes on citizens whose earnings barely reach a dollar.

On Sundays, massive churches overflow with thousands of members, eager to worship and be misled into parting with their money through offerings and tithes. They give willingly, believing they will receive divine favor, unaware that they are being swindled.

Kenny questions how a graduate can resort to learning a trade from someone uneducated after spending five years in university. Tears of frustration stream down his face as he contemplates his survival, let alone marriage and children, when he can barely feed himself.

Kenny wiped his eyes, the weight of Africa's problems heavy on his heart. He saw religion and superstition as the root of the issue, deeply ingrained in the people's beliefs. In Africa, poverty was often blamed on spiritual attacks, a broken-down car on envious village people. Politicians, understanding this, exploited religion to control the masses. Those who saw through the charade faced harassment from security forces loyal only to the powerful.

A pastor, selling protective stickers to the poor while employing armed police for his own safety, was a stark example of the hypocrisy. Kenny sighed, his own struggles mirroring the larger issues. He needed a connection, a way to secure a job, knowing Nigerian politicians often preferred to keep people dependent. He considered starting a business but dismissed the idea, recognizing his own limitations. He turned his thoughts to how to approach an influential figure, hoping for a lifeline.

Suddenly, there was a knock on his door, which brought him out of his thoughts. "Who is that?" he asked, not even moving to the door.

"We're Kingdom witnesses," the voice from the other side of the door said.

"Kingdom witnesses? No idea who you are," Kenny said. "I have committed no crime to bring any witness to my home."

"We're Jehovah's Witnesses," the voice said.

"Oh, it's you people, eh?" Kenny questioned.

"Yes," the voice answered. "Please come out. Let us reach the word of God to you."

"Is this a brothel?" Kenny asked.

"No!" the voice replied.

"Is this a bar?" Kenny asked again.

"No!" the voice answered.

"Is this a smoking joint?" he asked.

"No!" the voice exclaimed.

"So why not go to people who need salvation instead of troubling me?" he questioned.

"Everyone needs salvation," the voice replied.

"Including you?" Kenny shot back.

"I have been saved," the voice replied.

"And who told you I haven't been saved?" Kenny asked.

"You haven't been baptized," the voice said.

Kenny chuckled, and internally, he enjoyed the distraction from his thoughts. "What if I told you I have been baptized?"

"That doesn't count if it wasn't done by us in the Kingdom Hall," the voice answered.

"Wait! I'm coming," Kenny said, groping under his bed for his machete. As he grabbed it and drew it out, it scraped on the floor.

The person on the other side of the door heard the scrape of steel on the hard floor and came to a conclusion, taking off like the speed of light.

Kenny opened the door with a roar. "YOU'RE LUCKY, OR YOU WILL BE MISSING A LIMB, AND WE SHALL SEE HOW YOU WILL BE SAVED, YOU IDIOT!" he shouted.

Kenny stormed back to his room, unleashing a string of curses at the fleeing witness. Pastors fleecing their flocks of hard-earned cash was bad enough—now these pests were shattering the neighborhood's peace. He fumed.

Flopping onto his bed, he pondered how religion had stunted Africa's growth. Nigeria, once a golden land brimming with opportunities for graduates and entrepreneurs, had become a curse for the talented. Someone graduates in 2000 and hunts for a job into the 2020s—in a resource-rich nation plagued by leaders who squander wealth on luxury cars, foreign mansions, and even buried fortunes that rot underground or fade into oblivion.

Clergymen cozy up to politicians, thundering from the pulpit: "Pray for your leaders, so they may do right and ease your suffering!" Kenny snarled. How can I pray for thieves who hoard everything while I starve? Who prays for me? Governors and senators budget billions for cars—CARS!—he roared inwardly. What stops them from piping clean water? From building affordable housing? From paving roads or fostering businesses? Nothing!

His outburst echoed, and a knock rattled the door. "Kenny? You okay?"

He rose silently, opened the door with a dejected shrug, and waved his neighbor inside. Oshimen perched on the bed—there were no chairs—and Kenny cut straight to it. "What do you think of pastors in Nigeria?"

"Thieves and conmen," Oshimen shot back without hesitation.

"Exactly," Kenny said, a sad smile cracking his face. "And the politicians?"

Oshimen laughed bitterly. "Kenny, my man, don't ruin my mood talking about Nigeria's biggest crooks. If they weren't thriving, I'd be in a proper office with my biochemistry degree. Instead, I hawk liquid soap while an illiterate politician without a WAEC certificate rolls in billions and the latest rides."

"Don't be angry, bro," Kenny replied. "It's just... all my efforts, wasted."

"Yeah," Oshimen said, shaking his head and brushing away a tear. "Religion and politics have gutted this nation. Yet people flock to churches and rallies every Sunday, blind to the rot. A once-great country, now the world's punchline—its leaders less patriotic than you or me."

Kenny jabbed a finger between them. "Have you read Chinua Achebe's There Was a Country?"

Oshimen shook his head. "No."

"That book chronicles Nigeria's promise before these vultures took over. Our real enemies aren't outsiders—they're within."

"Yeah," Oshimen mumbled.

"Read it when you can. Too many ignore history, and look where it's left us."

"Thanks, bro," Oshimen said, rising. "You reignite that fire in me."

"Don't worry—one day this rage will erupt, for the greater good," Kenny replied, gripping his shoulder firmly as he saw him out.