Help! I’m Tired of Religion by Pearl Adams
Chapter 7
Are You Barren? Serve God More, Exchange for Babies
The trauma of barrenness hardly attracts the kind of attention reserved for terminal diseases like cancer and HIV/AIDS. This is primarily because barren women are treated as culprits rather than victims. Is it any wonder that some of them become desperate enough to sell their souls to the devil just to be free from the reproach?
I remember the case of my uncle’s wife back in the early eighties. The woman was forced to flee her matrimonial home when her contrivance with a nurse at a clinic in my town to steal a baby became public knowledge. Her husband promptly married a mistress who had been waiting in the wings, with the full support of some aunts who had described his fleeing wife as a “man with the body of a woman.”
Although I was too young to have a full understanding of the matter, my sympathy was with my uncle’s estranged wife. My mum felt the same way, because I heard her scolding one of my aunts and warning her to stop destabilizing other people’s homes. The uncle in question went on to marry four other wives before he died in 1993, childless.
This incident had a very strong impression on me, even after I got married in 1997. However, I was certain that my ability to conceive wouldn’t be an issue; my mum had nine of us, four boys and five girls, before she clocked forty-five years. Two years after my wedding, it dawned on me that life does not always follow the paths we chart for it. I was forced to concede that I had ignored a very important denominator in my calculation, God’s supremacy over all things.
Before I could recover from the shock of knowing that pregnancy wasn’t something I could control, my in-laws were on me. Initially, the attack was subtle, but it grew in intensity as the years rolled by. I almost lost my cool on several occasions, but the grace of God and the love my husband showered on me despite their taunts. The most virulent attacks were from my sister-in-law, who happened to be the only girl of the family and a favourite of my mother-in-law.
One day, I was reclining on a chair in the family compound when she walked up to me and said, “You should be ashamed of yourself. Instead of looking for a solution to your dead womb, you are relaxing in a wicker chair and waiting for menopause to catch up with you. Let me tell you something, we won’t fold our hands and watch you waste our brother’s money. For your information, my parents are already searching for another woman for my brother. We don’t have any room for an infertile woman in my family.”
As my sister-in-law stormed into the house, I held myself in check. I knew it would be futile to make a scene in a hostile environment where even the most innocent of comments could be misconstrued. Though I was sure about my husband’s stance on the matter, I didn’t want to be the source of a conflict between him and his people. From where I sat, I saw my sister-in-law walk up to her mother and whisper something in her ear. Both of them turned in my direction and giggled. Obviously, I was the butt of their joke.
When we left their house later that day for home, I made up my mind to find a solution to my problem. A friend, Angela Dawa, once said the road to freedom passes through a valley under the control of mockers. You either wade through the shame to your destination or stagnate.
I was ready to do anything to remove the reproach of barrenness. I started my quest for a breakthrough with a resolution to become a better Christian. I had always scoffed at people with religious airs. In fact, I abhorred any kind of religious pretensions. Although my parents were of the Pentecost stock, I followed my paternal uncle to the Mount Zion Mission, an orthodox denomination, until he relocated from my hometown, Enugu, in the eastern part of Nigeria, to Kano in the far north, along with his entire family. By then, I was twenty years old and in my final year at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, so I could choose where to pitch tent spiritually.
On campus, I met a young man who introduced me to the Free Thinkers Club, a motley crowd with weird ideas about God and religion. Much as I tried to fit into their mold, I found myself defending some truths in the Bible that they said were offensive. For instance, the assertion by Jesus Christ that no one could know God except through him drew the most flak from my strange friends. Some of them argued that Jesus was apparently quoted out of context by Saint John, one of the twelve apostles.
I kept my cool the first day the issue came up for discussion, more in deference to the guy who took me to the meeting than out of timidity. It didn’t feature in subsequent meetings until two weeks after I was officially registered as a member. What really provoked me was the flippancy with which the Bible was dissected.
My thinking was, if indeed we were free thinkers; why not criticize all religions that we considered restrictive? Why target on Christianity and the Holy Bible? It was then I began to see the group in a new light. Much as I desired to pull out, I was careful not to offend my friend, because at that time I imagined myself in love with him. However, God orchestrated my freedom earlier than I thought possible.
We were discussing an incident that occurred in the campus which led to the expulsion of five students. Reports had it that the affected students, known cultists, had stabbed another student to death for converting one of their members to Christianity. The deceased was the leader of a group known as the Pentecostal Students Fellowship, a non-denominational body.
When the matter was raised at our meeting, a member known for his brashness started castigating Christians, describing them as leeches. What set me off was the irreverent manner he referred to Jesus as “that guy.” Not minding the crowd of other religious rejects, I stood up from my seat, walked up to the podium, and snatched the microphone from him.
I toyed with the idea of hitting him on the head with it, but something restrained me. I walked back to my seat, dropped the microphone on the floor, and left the hall. My boyfriend later told me that what I did took everyone by surprise; hence, they rescheduled the meeting for the next day. He tried to persuade me to give it another try, but I stood my ground.
It wasn’t until my final year that I could appreciate God’s intervention that freed me from that prison of delusion. By that time, most members of the group were either withdrawn for failing to meet the university’s academic requirements or for involvement in cultism.
My boyfriend was among the ten out of about one hundred and fifty members who graduated from the institution. Of course, our relationship deteriorated from the day I quit the group. We eventually went our separate ways.
When I left the campus after the convocation ceremony, I made up my mind not to get involved with any religious group. I was determined to follow Jesus, though; but in my own way. Simon, whom I later married, was also of the same religious persuasion; he described himself as “a moderate Christian” the first day we met. What actually cemented our relationship was the fact that we both hailed from Enugu.
While we were in courtship, there was no pressure to identify with any of the denominations in a sense that necessitated any level of commitment. We attended services, though; most often at the nearest orthodox church or what is usually referred to as first generation church. It wasn’t until my in-laws started making life unbearable for me that I considered moving over to the Pentecostal fold. I allowed myself to be persuaded to attend “special services” in some of the mega-churches, but found no fulfilment. I did everything I thought would move God’s hand in my favour. I became a worker, I did night vigils, gave sacrificial offerings and the like, but my heaven remain closed.
Angela, a childhood friend, invited me to her church several times, but it wasn’t different from others. In all, I spent four years of my life moving from one church to the other, all in the hope of pleasing God enough to open my womb. Some of the preachers made outrageous claims that infuriated me to no end. The way they carried on, it was as if Jesus died on the cross to address the basic issues of life—childlessness, hunger, loneliness, poverty, etc. Don’t get me wrong. I know God loves us enough to remove all these plagues from our lives because that’s what they are.
My argument is this: must a person become a Christian to have children, get married, and overcome poverty? How about unbelievers who don’t suffer from these plagues? Did they receive their own blessings from the devil? Of course not! The Bible tells me that every good and perfect gift comes from God. Jesus himself said that God is so good that he extends his benevolence to all, irrespective of their relationship with him. So, why do some Christians, especially Pentecostal preachers, reduce the gospel of Christ to receiving blessings from God? I take exception to this kind of postulation because Jesus said in John 17:3, “This is eternal life that they may know you and Jesus whom you sent.”
My Bible tells me that Jesus died for one purpose, to reconcile man back to God. This is the Gospel Paul and other disciples of bequeathed us. Everything that contradicts the truth is a lie. Somewhere along the line, I think out of frustration, I stopped attending church altogether.
Simon continued to move around, though, but he didn’t put any pressure on me to join him. One day, when my husband left for church, I had this strong urge to get in touch with my maternal aunt. She was a feisty lady with a wonderful sense of humour. She was also my god-mother.
She was delighted to see me, having lost contact for more than two years. Actually, I had decided to stay away from her because she constantly harangued me for marrying someone she believed was below me socially. I just didn’t understand where my aunty got her snobbishness from, since other members of her family readily made friends with people from the low-income class.
Our pleasantries over, I poured out my heart to her, hoping she would use her wealth of wisdom to find a solution to my problem. After I unburdened myself, she said casually, “How desperate are you, Gloria?” I was taken aback by the question. I looked at my aunt with incredulity. How could she ask me such a question after all I shared with her? What married woman wouldn’t be desperate after five years of marriage without an issue? I restrained myself from saying something sarcastic, and just shook my head instead.
Unfazed, my aunt shifted her chair close to mine and whispered, “Walls have ears, Gloria. I asked you the question because I want some things clarified before I introduce you to a very close friend of mine who can be of help.” When I assured her that I was ready for anything that would bring the desired result, she excused herself and went into her bedroom to pick up her shawl. She said the friend in question lived in another part of the town, and asked if I would mind hiring a taxi to take us there.
I replied that I needed to check the state of my purse, and she jokingly said, “If you can’t afford to hire a taxi, you and your husband had better to relocate to his village and engage in farming!” Both of us roared with laughter. Her hilarity lifted my spirit and we chatted excitedly all the way to her friend’s apartment on Ikoku Road, close to the Polo field in the central area of Enugu.
As the taxi stopped at the gate of the white duplex, its owner, Eugenia Simpson, waved from the balcony. I had met her during a visit to my aunt shortly before my marriage. I didn’t realize she was the friend my aunt spoke of. Before we got out of the taxi, she was already ambling down the staircase to meet us. We dismissed the cab driver and followed her into her tastefully furnished sitting room.
The only minus was the array of photographs on the wall which gave the place the ambience of a mini-museum. She and my aunt talked ten to a dozen while I pondered my fate. My silence must have gotten through to them, because my aunt suddenly turned to me and said, “Gloria needs your help, Eugenia. That man she calls her husband hasn’t been able to father a child. Is there anything we can do for my daughter, Eugenia?”
Without batting an eyelid, Eugenia said, “You know who my master is, Clara. He always delivers, but at a price. Is Gloria willing to pay the price?” The tone of her voice gave me the creeps. Suddenly, I was conscious of an evil presence, but was unsure of what it portended. I didn’t want to give the impression I was chickening out of anything, although I didn’t know what it was I was up against. I muttered that I was desperate enough to try anything.
She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Once we’ve set the ball in motion, there would be no turning back. Are you sure you are willing to make any kind of sacrifice to have your heart’s desire?” I replied that my aunt and I had already settled the matter. She seemed satisfied with my response and drew open a drawer by her side containing some pieces of papers with jagged edges.
She handed one of the papers to me with a warning that no one except my aunt should be privy to its origin. I folded the paper and put it in my bag. I knew I would have enough time to scrutinize it at my aunt’s house before I returned to my husband.
As we stood up to leave, the woman said, “I’ll be waiting for you to produce the items outlined in the paper before I take the next step. Just make sure you’re discrete about everything.” I thanked her for her concern, and she walked us to the road close to her house, where we picked another taxi to my aunt’s residence. I was eager to know the contents of the paper, but I restrained myself from bringing it out of the bag until we were in my auntie’s
living room. As I opened the paper, the horror of the things I was required to do gripped me. It was obvious that my auntie’s friend was an agent of Satan.
Apart from the warning not to divulge the contents of the paper to any soul except my aunt, I was required to sign an undertaking to serve Satan all the days of my life. Though I wasn’t a model Christian, the years I sat under godly teachers in my Sunday school class had awakened my conscience to fear God and eschew evil. I opened my mouth to tell my aunt what I thought of her friend, but something held me back. I knew I had to play along as much as I could, if I must escape the snare of the devil.
Before my aunt had the opportunity to comment on our trip, I picked up my bag and walked towards the door. She had to run to catch up with me outside. To allay her fears on my intentions regarding their demonic scheme, I told her I would return to her place the following evening to wrap up the bargain.
The moment I got into a taxi, I brought out the piece of paper and tore it into shreds. I also made up my mind to seek help from an anointed man of God as I was sure the devil would attempt to cow me into submission. I wasted no time in calling Angela on the phone, and she promised to meet me in my home. I knew she was a worker in her church, the Redeemed Ministry, Inc. I was banking on her to introduce me to her General Overseer, Stephen Uche.
Angela was already at my house when I got there. Luckily, my husband called earlier in the day to inform me that that he wouldn’t be at home until about ten o’clock at night, so I had all the time in the world to sort out my problem. After we exchanged pleasantries, I filled Angela in on the events of the day, and she said we should see her General Overseer immediately.
Angela was very pensive during the ride to the pastor’s house. It was clear she was seething with anger. Since she did the driving, I decided to keep my thoughts to myself. Shortly before we turned into the G.O’s driveway, she asked quietly, “Gloria, what on earth took you to your aunt’s house after all I shared with you about her before your wedding? I know people say blood is thicker than water.
I expected you to be more circumspect in your dealing with her, knowing her spiritual leaning. Or didn’t you believe me when I told you that your aunt’s plans would have scuttled your wedding but for the prayers of your friends and loved ones? I hope you’re now convinced about her intentions for your life. A word, they say, is enough for the wise.”
Angela’s rebuke hit me hard, but I knew she meant well. I actually didn’t agree with what she told me about my aunt before my marriage. It wasn’t really the issue of family loyalty as much as my own lack of spiritual discernment. How can you expect a blind man to appreciate colours when he couldn’t relate to them? I pleaded with Angela to forget the past, and assured her that I would try to be serious with God.
The moment we stepped into the pastor’s living room, I understood the difference between light and darkness. Where Eugenia’s home had been permeated with evil, the presence of God was clearly discernible in the G.O’s house. Angela introduced me, and excused herself to greet members of the household. Not long after, we were joined by a slim woman in a jeans skirt and loose top.
I didn’t need to be told that she was the spouse of the man of God, for she walked over to him and planted a kiss on his cheek before taking her seat with us. I stood up and curtsied to her, according to the tradition of the Yoruba, her tribe. Although I was of Igbo origin, I had resided in Yoruba land long enough to appreciate their very rich culture and their respect for the aged.
Before I could say anything, the G.O. and his wife were on their feet. He picked up a Bible from a nearby shelf and said, “Don’t worry. Angela has briefed me on the situation. We need to move fast, though, because the enemy’s already raging and he’s targeting your husband for destruction. We’ll present you before the Lord and take it from there.”
He turned to his wife and beckoned on her to ask Angela to join us. I was glad to have someone I could relate with in the room. While we were waiting for the others, the man of God excused himself and left the room. He returned shortly with a bottle of olive oil, just as his wife and Angela stepped back into the room.
As we gathered at the centre of the sitting room, the G.O. cleared his throat and said, “We won’t be on the defensive. It’s an all-out war against the devil and his agents in every way they’ve been harassing Gloria and her family. I’ll lead the prayers, but all of us should be sensitive to the Holy Spirit. Angela, lead us in praise and worship. We need to deploy all weapons at our disposal.”
The atmosphere was charged as we progressed from praise into prayers for deliverance. We sent missiles into the midst of the hordes of demons that had controlled my family for ages, as the G.O. reeled out the prayer points. It was a total rout because God spoke through the G.O.’s wife that the enemy had been dethroned in my life.
In response, we shouted praises to the Lord. It was exhilarating to be free after tolerating the torment of the devil for years. I danced, twirled around, and shouted myself hoarse. I didn’t care if I lost my voice in the process of showing my appreciation to God.
We eventually collapsed into heaps on the floor, breathless with excitement. For me, it was a most momentous experience, since I’d never engaged in such intense warfare with the devil. I looked at the G.O. and I saw a smile playing on his face. Somehow, I sensed we’d returned from our “mount of transfiguration” and were about to embrace the mundane.
As if reading my thoughts, the man of God turned to me and said, “Gloria, we’d better send you home. God needs the cooperation of your husband to bless you with the fruit of the womb. Of course, you can choose to ask for the Virgin Mary treatment if God will oblige you. Otherwise, get up girl! I don’t want us to waste the anointing for pregnancy that’s been released already.”
Angela giggled, her head turned sideways, away from the couple. I had a feeling that the G.O. wasn’t a man given to jokes of this nature. His wife confirmed it when she said, “I think we should have this kind of session often if it would help daddy loosen up.”
She held my two hands and lifted me up from the floor. I picked up my bag and thanked them for entering the war theatre with me. I had already reached the door when the G.O. called out, “Wait, Gloria.” I turned to face him knowing I was about to receive a confidence-boosting word from the Lord.
The man of God caught up with me and said, “The Lord GOD of hosts says he has given you double for your shame. Your enemies will not be destroyed. They will be around to witness the great things the Lord has released for your family. Fear not, for the battle is the Lord’s and he’s never been known to concede grounds to the devil.”
A week after the encounter with Eugenia, a black cat appeared at the back door of my house close to the kitchen. Ordinarily, I would’ve been petrified because the house is walled round, with no space for a cat to intrude. But because of fire of the Holy Spirit burning in me, I calmly addressed the intruder and decreed its destruction in the name of Jesus.
I didn’t wait to see what it did with itself. I entered the sitting room and praised the living God. I was on the floor worshipping the Lord when my service girl, Mary, ran in, panting. She said she saw a cat in the compound and that it was in pain, crying like a baby. I just smiled and assured her that God would take care of the cat.
Minutes later, I felt compelled to go out and see what had become of the cat. I saw it close to the gate, sprawled out with eyes glazed. It was stone dead. I walked back to the house singing praises to my Lord. I was also conscious that the enemy would try another stunt. I called Angela and briefed her on the situation, but she advised me against telling my husband or Mary about the origin of the cat. She said it could frighten them and open another door for the enemy to harass my household.
Sensing my perplexity, she explained that fear opens the door for Satan and his demons to operate freely. Although I didn’t get the full import of her warning, I assured her that I would keep everything to myself. She promised to inform the G.O. and his wife about the latest development, and exhorted me to be prayerful.
The next day, at about seven in the morning, while preparing breakfast for my family, I got a call from my aunt. She was obviously agitated about my not producing the items required by Eugenia. I tried to calm her down but she wouldn’t give me the opportunity to say a word.
She railed on and on, pouring invectives on Simon and his family, whom she accused of using witchcraft to block my womb. Not wanting to engage her in a shouting match, I held my peace until she exhausted herself. What hurt me most was her tirade against my husband. In fairness to him, he encouraged me to visit my aunt even on the eve of our wedding when she called him unprintable names on the telephone. I eventually found my voice and pleaded with her to leave Simon alone.
When her voice rose again, I knew I had made a mistake. This time around, she abused my mum and dad, blaming what she called my irresponsible behaviour on lack of home training. Just then, the bedroom door opened. I knew it was my husband. I cut her off minutes before Simon entered the sitting room. I whispered a silent prayer to God to stop my aunt from visiting our home to continue her battle.
I forced a smile on my face as Simon bent down to give me a peck, his left hand cupping my chin. He was all smiles as he sat down on a side stool next to me and said, “Morning sweetheart, the aroma of this meal is oppressing my stomach O! How long must I wait to stop salivating?” He reached out a hand to pick up a slice of bacon, but I chased him out of the kitchen with a knife.
He returned with a pillow with which he shielded his face and went straight for the drainer containing pieces of bacon. He picked three pieces and dashed out of the kitchen. Of course, I gave him a chase and we ended up in the spare room. He’d already started eating the stuff before I got there so I had no choice than to eat what I could salvage. It was fun and I enjoyed every bit of it.
Once we returned to the kitchen, my husband held my hands and said, “Honey, a colleague called me while you were preparing breakfast. He said the bank’s management released some promotions at the head office yesterday and that I’m a beneficiary. But mine’s with a catch.” I held my breath, a thousand thoughts fleeting through my mind. Is Simon going on transfer? I couldn’t bear the thought of that, knowing my in-laws could catch in on the situation to foist another woman on him.
As if my mind was an open book, my husband pulled me to him and said, “Sweetheart, you know I’ve covenanted before God and man to love and cherish you until death separates us. I was told that the promotion comes with my appointment as manager of a branch in one of the northern states. The colleague who gave me the information said he wasn’t too sure of the actual location. Why are you shivering? What assurance do you need that’s more than my love and fidelity all these years? Have I ever given you any reason to doubt my affection for you?”
Despite his assurances, I couldn’t stem the flow of tears from my eyes. Yes, my husband’s been faithful. I never had any cause to suspect him of playing any hanky-panky. But who can tell what he would do if confronted with serious temptation alone at his new station? Tales abound of men who entered into platonic relationships with their colleagues or other social contacts only to find themselves in the grip of the Delilahs of this world. I certainly wasn’t ready to let my husband out of my sight without a fight.
Suddenly, it dawned on me that the open door my husband was celebrating was actually a trap of the devil! It was then I gathered myself together and pulled from Simon. I needed to pray and, of course, mobilize my prayer partners. Knowing that God provided me with a Christian family for times like this lifted my spirit.
I quickly put a call through to Angela and filled her in on the situation. She promised to get in touch with the G.O. and his wife. With that settled, I went to bed that night with a light heart. I knew without any doubt that Christ had rubbished the devil once again.
My husband said nothing about the transfer until two weeks later when he arrived home with a colleague, Philip Onwuka. Apparently, they had discussed the issue at length in the car, because I heard Simon say, “Old boy, I choose to leave everything in God’s hands. If the management’s assessment is that I can’t head a branch of the bank, who am I to hold a contrary opinion?”
With bated breath, I waited for Philip’s response, but he simply shook his head, picked up a magazine from the centre table, and walked over to where I stood, close to the room divider. Actually, I had been trying to tidy up the living room when the service girl ushered in the two men.
“Hello, Gloria.”
“Hi, Philip, it’s been an age. What’ve you been eating, my dear? You look so yummy!”
Philip roared with laughter. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Good natured Gloria, sometimes it’s good to call a spade by its original name. Yes, I’ve bloated up girl. That’s what you get when you make the mistake of marrying a caterer!”
His hilarity was infectious. My husband and I enjoyed his company tremendously. We had a wonderful evening, and I was not too glad when he called it a day. As soon as Philip drove off, I took Simon’s hands in mine and led him to the balcony. I felt the tension rise in his body. He was obviously having a serious case of low self-esteem.
As I searched for words to lift up his spirit, he broke down and wept like a baby. Although I was glad that the Lord had frustrated the schemes of the devil to divide my home, I shared in my husband’s pain, and did my best to encourage him not to give up hope.
Three weeks later, God showed his mighty hands. I had been feeling queasy for about a week and couldn’t place my hands on its cause. When it persisted, I anointed myself with olive oil and stood against the devil. I thought my aunt and her evil-minded friend were back at their old trick. I guess I had become so paranoid about the devil and his wiles that every unusual occurrence around me became a platform for sending missiles into the enemy’s camp.
By the fifth week, I was compelled to seek medical attention. The doctor, a friend of my husband, ordered for series of medical test, which I reluctantly subjected myself to.
Frankly, I thought I had malaria and was expecting the doctor to prescribe the usual dose of malaprin, the accompanying blood tonic, and pain relievers. Two of the tests, the blood and urine analysis were completed the following day. I was asked to report back at the lab for an ECG and stool analysis once the results of the first two tests were ready for the doctor.
To the glory of God and the eternal shame of the devil, I didn’t go back for the two tests. The urine analysis clearly showed the majestic hands of God at work in the affairs of men. Exactly seven months and two weeks later, my son, Godswill, made his grand entry into the world.
I was still nursing him at ten months when the Lord surprised us with another pregnancy, which brought lady Favour into our household. After a break of two years, I had my twins, Simon Jr. and his sister Janet, at age thirty-eight. A thousand tongues are not enough to praise the one who rolled away the reproach of barrenness from my life and exalted me far above principalities and powers in Christ Jesus.