"The challenge is not in preaching a sermon, it's in living it"-Faithfulscribe
Having attended three annual conventions since letting down my fluttering religious sails to anchor in the message of my day, I find the third striking and unique.
This time, the experience, getting to the venue had a valuable lesson to offer: it was that the road to Heaven passes through hell. The forces of hell were not going to watch and cheer us along as we traveled to pick up the blessings marked for us. Spiritually influenced roadblocks and speed bumps were hurdles to overcome or be overcome by. This time, we had more than the usual to make us wonder and ponder if the pain along the way would match the gain obtainable from staying on course.
The supply of fuel, the lifeblood of the nation, got disrupted mysteriously with no one able to give a reasonable explanation. The consequence of that alongside the desperate desire for city dwellers that have had so few visits home in the course of the year created an atmosphere for exploitation. Within days, travelers witnessed fares doubling, tripling and quadrupling and at it’s peak becoming fives times larger in size.
Drivers, spotting a rare opportunity, turned the roads into a picture of chaos. Cars and buses were to be seen coming in places where they should be going and vice versa. The bottleneck beat the hardiest of them. The only way they could reach destination was to circumvent the usual routes in a way that lengthened the travel time almost unbearably. The usual two-hour journey to Ibadan stretched to a six-hour ride for us. A journey begun under the full glare of a mid day’s intense light and heat saw us arriving in the fading light of an evening Sun.
The most obvious change to the area of the ancient city where we gather annually were the freshly tarred dirt road and a huge carnal under construction.
The expansive school compound from colonial days was already alive with believers from the nation’s four cardinal points.
The food, both physical and spiritual were nourishing, refreshing and invigorating. The lodging/accommodation this time was one area that reflected the growing organizational ability of the event planners. A remarkable transition from classroom blocks with missing windows and doors to comfortable hostels akin to hotels save for the privacy.
The meetings were replete with testimonies of God’s power to change lives and situations surrounding them. From a student being saved from mental affliction, an old lady rejoicing about her salvation in her sunset years to a young man’s long search for the seemingly elusive Holy Ghost baptism being rewarded. The “specials numbers” were not in short supply. A silky voiced young man under the alias, “African Jim Reeves”, did a special rendition that caused a deep stir in the hearts of his audience. Not to be outdone by youth, a gracefully aged lady wrinkled with age, crooned away the goodness of God in her native tongue. Her song, like a fountain, gushed from the depth of her heart.
The Speakers came full and left empty. Totally drained by a spiritually hungry congregation.
When the last meeting dispersed, the feeling that it had ended too soon hung heavy like a cloud in the auditorium.
On the 27th of December, like it was on the 23rd the idle exit route got busy.
THE VENUE:IBADAN
A city ancient in years: An open museum of history, displaying structures from the nation’s cradle years. In it’s expansive schools, marks of colonialism stand well preserved. Cheap food prices give away the earthiness of the people. Food production is an endeavor that enjoys mass participation. Power supply is enviably good: coming faster than it goes.
Light traffic flows unhindered on the tarred roads twisting in and out of the city.
Citizens with innocence rarely seen on the streets of Lagos, where approaching someone to ask for directions in broad daylight, does nothing to make them less suspicious. However, on the flip side, a good command of English, so taken for granted in Lagos would raise curious eyebrows and form embarrassing silence. Broken English heard on very rare occasions would pass for shattered English In Lagos. The ancient Yoruba language is what oils the wheel of communication in this place refusing to give up on both its ruralness and civilization.
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