“If you shift again, every spirit we’ve invited to cure you will vanish,” the verger says.
I writhe back to my former position, and the red flow continues. Blowflies perch on my drenched groin and stomach and thighs, scratching my skin. Prophet Elijah picks up a plastic cup and allows blood to trickle into it until it’s full from the slaughtered ram’s neck. He says another prayer and stares into the cup as if he’s noticed Jesus Christ swimming inside.
“Drink this blessed juice,” he says, extending his hand.
I nod. “Jesus Christ is the best doctor indeed.”
I sit up and guzzle half the blood, choking, as it tastes nothing like the blood that I often drink during Communion services. I almost vomit, but I hold it in my cramping stomach. He collects the cup and asks me to lie down again. This time, he cuts off the ram’s testicles entirely. As I wonder what he’s going to do with them, he dips them in the pool of blood on the ground and dumps them on my penis, now flaccid.
“I command these testicles to transfer into you right now,” he says.
“Amen!” the verger yells out.
I steel myself, awaiting the prick of a needle to stitch the testicles to the gap between my legs, but a lack of movement prevails.
The prophet bends down and holds my testicles. “Your balls will be filled with this ram’s sperm in the mighty name of Jeeeesus Christ!”
“Amen!” the verger and I scream.
“You’ll produce a child.”
“Amen!”
“You’ll never be laughed at.”
“Amen!”
“Your enemies will be put to shame.”
“Amen!”
The prophet straightens up. The verger drags the dead ram to the back of the church, through the crooked door behind the altar, holding the detached testicles in his other hand. I suppose for the next few months these men won’t need to go to Baboko Market to buy meat. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with prophets profiting when their followers are sick.
#
I think back to seven years ago, immediately after my wedding, when a medical doctor in Ilorin diagnosed me with a low sperm count and proposed a hi-tech solution I couldn’t afford. As a carpenter with a ramshackle hut by the roadside, I was in dire need of a child to carry on my name and grow up to be richer than Aliko Dangote. So, I sought an alternative remedy and came under the spell of a witch doctor. To repair my bad testicles, he served me the barbecued genitalia of a giant chimpanzee, garnished with slices of red pepper and purple onions on a paper plate. I ate them. They tasted beefy and salty.
‘What seems to be an easy path usually is the most difficult to navigate.’ ~Unknown
An interesting read!
I commend you for this beautiful piece. It was funny and entertaining, yet informative.
I like that you highlighted Tim’s negligence of a possible solution, all because of money, only to patronize a ‘holy service’ offering little or no assistance towards his aspirations. This is the stark reality of many men in Africa who believe in supernatural healing than their scientific counterpart. Running campaigns for awareness for men’s health while making provision of access to finance, will go a long way to solve these simple issues.
At the point I read that Tim had chimpanzee balls for a meal, I reclined and thought, “how many more animals to go?” Lol.
I await your next short story. Well done!
Wow! A beautifully crafted master piece. Bravo!