Posted by By Steve Nwosu on
It was dubbed Miracle Night. But the only miracle that probably manifested that Good Friday night - and much of the next day - was that the Christ Embassy folks turned an eight-minute smooth ride past the Redemption Avenue (along Lagos-Ibadan express way) into an eleven-hour nightmare.
It was dubbed Miracle Night. But the only miracle that probably manifested that Good Friday night - and much of the next day - was that the Christ Embassy folks turned an eight-minute smooth ride past the Redemption Avenue (along Lagos-Ibadan express way) into an eleven-hour nightmare.
Sometime around 10pm that Friday (which was actually supposed to be Good Friday, a reader, whose name I am yet to ascertain, sent me a text message. He said he had been stranded at ‘Redeem' (a generic name for that portion of the Lagos-Ibadan expressway where churches now run over themselves in the craze for acquisition of expansive crusade grounds) since 5pm.
He was not alone. My cousin who was coming back from Nsukka also got to the same place a little before then. It was not until a little after 6am the next day that my cousin got home. He had spent some 13 hours in that traffic hell.
About 40 minutes later, a second text came from the unknown reader informing me that he finally squeezed past that spot at about 5.30am. He too had done almost 12 hours there.
When my cousin pressed the door bell that Saturday morning, I also got up to prepare for my own journey to the East. As I headed towards the old tollgate I was sure that whatever traffic bottleneck there was the previous night would have eased off. But I was wrong. I also got stuck at the crusade ground area. The only movement was of those who had decided to brace it and trek back to Ojota. There was pandemonium everywhere.
After two and a half hours and not moving more than 30 metres, we finally got enough space to reverse and head back to Lagos and take the long route through Ikorodu to Ijebu. By the time we got back onto the expressway at Ijebu Ode, it was almost 1pm - six hours wasted. I am told that the organisers of these crusades measure the success of the programme by the volume of spill-over to the expressway and the intensity of the resultant traffic jam. I am beginning to believe it.
Yes, it has always being a hellish experience driving through that portion of the express road each time the churches are having a programme there but the Redeem Church and even the Deeper Life people have always had a way of managing the situation - even if we still have to burn two to three hours there.
However, unlike what obtains with the other churches which would direct attendees to the many parking lots that serve the crusade ground, the organisers of the event of this Easter appeared to have simply allowed their members, and guests, to park their vehicles on the express road, effectively killing off traffic.
The disheartening aspect of it all is that even the car parks are hardly full. Everybody just refuses to park there for the fear that some other worshippers would park behind him and prevent him from driving out whenever he wants to leave.
It might appear a genuine reason but the pertinent question to ask is: Is it not better that crusade attendees block and delay themselves than for them to spill unto the main road and delay the rest of us who did not elect to attend any crusade when we hit that highway?
But must we continue to live with this injustice, simply because we fear that one nitwit would brand us devil's apostles if we complained? Why must one be forced to worship with Christ Embassy if he is a Muslim or, like myself, who has made a vow with God to die a Catholic? Must we flaunt our faith on the highway before God hears us? Does worshipping God mean disregarding the laws of the land? I thought order was the first law in heaven?
I would have suggested we deploy LASTMA to tow vehicles and make good money there but I suspect much of the place falls under Ogun State. Well, since the road is a Federal road, I guess the onus is on both the FRSC and the ministry of works to bring some sanity there.
In saner climes, 13 and a half hours approximate to two full days of work, can anyone calculate how much man hours lost every month simply because some Christians want to make a show of worshipping God? This is simply criminal.
If we are too scared of addressing this problem for fear of sparking a religious war, one day, very soon, some motorists, judging by the anger I saw at that place last Saturday, would get irritated enough to do something on their own. And it would be more serious than anything that the authorities think they are avoiding now.
The problem, I suspect, is that nobody, for fear of being branded anti-Christ, is willing to call the churches to order. It is the same problem that manifests on a small scale in the Danfos and Molues of Lagos where semi-illiterate, dusty-buttocked pastors force commuters to listen to their warped interpretation of a bible they can hardly read.
Daily, all manner of religious groups force us against our will and get away with it. And if you make bold to challenge them, the same people whose right you seek to protect would be the same people that would make a fool of you. If you are a Muslim taking on Christians (or vice versa), it soon becomes branded as persecution. And if you also belong to the faith of the people you're trying to call to order, then you must be an occultist.
I have myself being a victim of this blackmail in the name of God. It was sometime in the mid-90s.
After working through the night and the early hours of that particular morning, I had boarded an Iyana Ipaja-bound Molue to go freshen up at my Ikotun apartment before dashing to another assignment somewhere in Victoria Island.
I know inside the Molue is not exactly the best place to expect to catch some rest - what with the admixture of sweat and body odour, the blaring horns, the medicine sellers, the beggars, the mobile preachers and, of course, the drivers' weird brand of noise which he calls Fuji music.
But if you are regular Molue person, however, you'd have gotten used to the noise - so much so that you can always sleep, even if everyone is shouting at his loudest. That was exactly what I wanted to do that morning. Moreover, if you were as tired as I was that morning, you'd probably have dozed off, even inside a sawmill.
But this particular day, one scruffy looking preacherman who sat in the roll of seats directly behind mine was bent on denying me that sleep. No sooner had the bus taken off than he shot up - obviously to beat any intending drug seller (or even rival bus preacher) to the first shot.
As he preached, prayed, sang and shared tracts, I refused to partake of everything, using my hand to cover the ear that was closest to him, and concentrating on my effort to catch some sleep for the about 40 or so minutes it would take the bus to make the Ikeja to Iyana Ipaja trip. My disgust was not only the unwanted noise, but that the ‘god' that called him into this job did not bother to give him the gift of tongue - language and grammar - to convey his message. Or maybe, that God intended for him to win souls in his village, using his mother tongue, but more pressing commercial considerations had pushed him to Lagos.
But, I guess my disinterest attracted his attention. He tapped my back as I hunched behind the seat in front of me. 'My brother, why are you blocking your ears from the word of God?", he asked. 'There is nothing that is bothering you that my God can't solve..."
I had had enough of him and I snapped. But of course he seemed to have most of other passengers behind. Soon, I began to hear side talks about how some people who are in secret cults hate to hear the word of God. One woman who was sitting beside the preacher, and behind me, probably fancying herself as a defender of the faithful, took it upon herself to position her clapping hands directly above the back of my bowed head. I guess it was to discomfort the devils in me which wanted the preacher to stop preaching the word of God.
Thankfully, the woman had to get down before the Molue's final destination. But as she heaved her bulky frame through the sea of seats and sweaty bodies, she made insinuations about esu (devil) and all the ‘olori buruku' people who would not sit in their house with their bad luck. Of course, she made sure that I heard every word of what she had to say.
But that was not enough. As she finally dragged herself to the ground - with excess flesh flabbing in all directions - she urged the preacher to pray some more so that the bad luck that some people were ‘carrying about' does not put other innocent commuters at risk.
Needless to say, there was no point exchanging words with her. So, I said nothing and allowed her have her fill. But I said a silent prayer for whatever man that had the misfortune of having this trouble on two legs as wife. I also praised the patient God whose war she claims to be fighting.