By Bamidele Johnson
Behind a house we lived at Imalefalafia, Ibadan, in the 70s was a white garment church run by a woman everyone simply called Iya Adura. On the church wall, visible through the window, was a portrait showing her beside the familiar image of Jesus. As kids, we truly believed she had gone to heaven and posed for a photo with Christ.
From what I remember, she was unmarried but had a son and a surplus of affection for children. She handed out sweets and coins like she had a divine budget line for neighbourhood PR.
I got biscuits from her just once. Just once. I almost went blind in both eyes from the speed and precision of the slaps my mother delivered when I told her where it came from. She did not shout; she did not scold. Just… Gbosa! Gbosa! Her opinion of Iya Adura’s strain of Christianity was not just dim, but pitch-black.
Iya Adura’s church was a marvel. Around it were odd little flower beds lined with white stones and wooden crosses labelled “Jah Eli” or maybe “Eli Jah”. Beneath those crosses were globs of melted wax.
There was always incense. Thick, choking clouds of it. Enough to asphyxiate a whole local government area. The smoke curled through the air like it was hunting demons.
Compared to the churches I hopped between as a child, her church was outer space. I was a bit of a church playboy at the time, through no fault of mine. I attended Methodist, Baptist, Apostolic Faith, Anglican, and briefly, CAC. Anywhere my neighbours or friends went. But even in that wild rotation, CAC stood out, mostly for their cruel commitment to marathon services and Omi Adura (holy water). I found it iffy and never drank it. Not even once. I’d rather drink muddy water.
Still, as I grew older and more curious, I paid closer attention to the white garment movement and realised that the white garment folks did not just take liberty with the Gospel, but a full-blown sabbatical. Somewhere between Genesis and Revelation, they took a detour into African Traditional Religion territory, added a splash of candle wax, a shot of coconut water and decided that was their ministry.
What do they need flickering candles for? Are they baking a cake for the Holy Ghost’s birthday. Red, blue, white like spiritual traffic lights. Yet, nowhere in my light-weight Bible study did I see Apostle Paul say, “Light seven candles and spin around three times for deliverance.” But that’s the Standard Operating Procedure.
Then there is the holy soap and perfumes. If Jesus needed a scented Asepso or ST soap bar to cast out demons, the Gospel writers clearly forgot to jot it down.
And what’s with the uniforms? Everyone in white or sometimes red and blue. Does heaven have a dress code and would not admit anyone in denim or brocade? Apparently, the Holy Spirit needs help distinguishing between the sanctified and the secular and Ankara confuses Him. This is my berserk conclusion.
I used to frequent the Bar Beach back when it was place of revelry with all-night pubs. Hedonists shared the place with white garment folks doing midnight to 3 a.m. prayer sessions, with prophets yelling into waves and the faithful in ankle-deep water. Jesus walked on water, but He did not turn the Sea of Galilee into a 3 a.m. prayer bootcamp. Are angels only available at saltwater locations during off-peak hours?
Some prophets even turn divine intervention into a bizarre shopping list brimming with “bring three pigeons, a bottle of olive oil, ₦500 recharge card, a white ram and two yards of lace” to have deliverance from spirit husband, wife, ogun idile et al. That sounds to me like they are mixing Leviticus with JAMB requirements.
The spiritual baths in rivers? Unless all the supervising prophets suffer from ED, baths involving women must have stretched into other territories there or elsewhere.
Salt, coconut, 3 a.m. baths, candles? None of these is found in the Bible and do not form part of the teachings of Christ. So how did they slip in? Who approved the spiritual syllabus?
It cannot be ordinary eye.