The Prophet

Prophet Doctor Elijah Onesimus Mong’are took off his headphones and put them down on the desk, beside the notepad into which he’d been writing for the past fifteen minutes.

He got up to stretch his legs, taking long strides up and down the office. He was a big man — six foot four and in very good shape; his gym regimen and healthy diet showed through the expensive, well-fitting suits he wore. His tie was very slightly askew and he’d left the top button of his shirt unfastened. He went to great pains to cultivate the air of a man casually nonchalant about his appearance — the kind of man who was doing perfectly all right by himself, but who, under the subtle, gentle hand of a Proverbs 31 woman, would doubtlessly be propelled to stratospheric heights. He was also single, ‘a eunuch for the Kingdom’s sake’, he would quote with a rueful smile. More than three quarters of his congregation were women.

He counted: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven…

It was a big office. Fifteen by thirty feet, in fact, he would tell you if you asked: every inch carpeted in hand-knotted New Zealand wool. If you visited, you would let yourself in at the far end of the rectangle (‘just walk in, he’s expecting you,’ Vivian, his PA, would say, flashing you a million-watt smile). You would then walk down thirty feet of lush burgundy carpet up to a massive antique mahogany desk behind which the Prophet would be waiting with a welcoming smile, a huge bronze Christ crucified on the wall above and behind him.

Walking down the office, you would be impressed by the art on the walls: a life-size photorealistic portrait of the Prophet — signed by a prominent South African artist — and various religious scenes. If you are a refined person you would recognize a reproduction of Raphael’s Sistine Madonna, and another of Titian’s Assumption of the Virgin. You would nod silently to yourself, impressed.

He walked back to his desk and sat down. For the next ten minutes he went through the notes he had made, carefully memorizing each fact. Ever since he was a child, he’d had a remarkable memory. His favourite subjects in school were History and Geography. In Sunday School he had won six Christ Warrior trophies in a row, awarded to the kid who could recite all the year’s memory verses during the Christmas competition. He still had them in a box somewhere.

They’ll be here soon. He prophesied.

His phone rang.

‘Sister Akinyi and a Ms. Angwenyi-Mwangi are here to see you,’ Vivian’s voice floated through the handset.

‘Thanks, send them in,’ he replied.

Sister Eunice Akinyi came in first. She was his woman on the ground, his chief PR agent, his ‘go ye therefore and make disciples’. She was one of the first people he had recruited when he founded The Faithful Servant Healing and Prosperity Centre almost four years ago. Together, they had built the church from a tiny, one-room affair along Accra road — with a bar downstairs and a lodging on the floor above — into one of the largest, hippest congregations in Nairobi with a five-hundred-seater church in Karen.

She wore a long, white dress that fit like a sack and flowed down to her ankles, to dampen the contours of her body; a heavy black sweater with a large pocket (in the centre of her chest, to protect her brothers’ eyes from the temptation of her bosom); and a white headscarf on her head, because of the angels.

‘Bwana asifiwe,’ she said, smiling, walking down the room.

‘Amen,’ he answered.

Behind her, the Prophet saw Ms. Jayne Angwenyi-Mwangi for the first time. She was something of a public figure, less for her successful law practice, more for her high-profile marriage to Cabinet Secretary Enos Mwangi. She broke the internet when she announced that she would not be dropping her maiden name to take up her husband’s — #hyphen was still trending on Twitter, almost six months after the wedding. Earlier, a Google search revealed that she held a Bachelor’s degree in Law from the University of Nairobi and was an advocate of the High Court. She’d built up a reputation as a fiery human rights advocate, defending artists and activists.

She was beautiful in that dark, mischievous Kisii way. Her bleached-tip dreadlocks reached down to her shoulders, ringed through with colourful beads, bracketing a striking face. She looked around the office with vague interest; the Prophet was unable to tell how much of an impression the room had made on her. His eyes caught the pin she wore on the lapel of her grey pantsuit — a rainbow flag.

‘I’m sorry we’re late,’ Sister Akinyi said, when she came up to the desk. ‘I was held up on the way to our meeting — the traffic today was horrible.’

‘That’s OK.’ The Prophet said.

Turning to Jayne, he murmured, ‘Welcome, Sister,’ extending his hand. Her handshake was firm, and her eyes never left his.

‘Thank you, Prophet Doctor,’ she said.

‘Please, call me Elijah.’ He said, smiling.

‘I will leave you two to discuss,’ Akinyi said. She caught his eye and gave him a tiny wink as she saw herself out.

‘Please, sit down,’ the Prophet said, pulling out a chair for her. She did, with thanks, and he slithered back to his leather swivel beneath the great bronze crucifix.

‘This is a very nice office, I love the décor,’ she opened.

‘Thanks, to God be the glory.’

‘I love how you’ve used the space, it’s a pretty big place but not an inch is wasted.’ She continued, looking around, speaking in the easy, practiced tone of someone who was used to small talk, and knew its value as a precursor to real conversation.

‘Fifteen by thirty feet, praise God.’

She smirked, eyeing him cynically, and he felt a little flare of panic, afraid that he’d misspoken.

‘Why are you here, Ms. Angwenyi-Mwangi?’

They both laughed at that, the tension broken.

‘Just “Jayne” is fine, thanks.’

She took a few seconds to compose herself, then began.

‘I heard about you from my friend, Yvonne Osiema.’

Ah, yes, Yvonne. The Prophet smiled to himself. Another satisfied customer.

‘She had some really good things to say about you and your church. To be honest…Elijah, I am not happy at my current church. I don’t feel like I’m receiving the spiritual nourishment I need.’

The Prophet stroked his goatee thoughtfully.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘Is something bothering you? Is there something specific you need?’

She hung her head and sighed.

‘Yes, Elijah,’ she said. ‘I could use some divine guidance right about now!’

The Prophet chuckled.

‘It is written: “Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Let us pray.’

His voice transformed, becoming deeper and more rhythmic, pulsing with potency.

‘Lord, we come before you today, we give thanks for Your grace and bow in awe of Your mighty power. We trust that all things work for the good of those You love, and that is why You have brought us here, in this time. Use me as Your instrument, o Lord, open my eyes to the gift of prophecy with which You have blessed me, and use me to make known Your will to Your servant, who comes humbly before You. In Jeeeeeeesus’ name, AMEN.’

Jayne echoed the amen. When she looked up, she met the face of the bronze saviour bearing down on her, and she stared, mesmerized, until the Prophet’s voice snapped her out of her reverie.

‘Sister Jayne.’ he said. ‘What do you want the Lord to do for you?’

‘Where do I start? I feel like there is so much weighing on my heart.’

She was silent for a few moments.

‘I am having trouble in my marriage.’ She said.

‘Go on.’

‘My husband…is always away. I know it’s only been half a year but I feel like we’re drifting apart, somehow. I think that maybe…maybe we rushed things a little.’

The Prophet considered her a while. Then he closed his eyes and cocked his head, as if he was listening intently to some instruction. Jayne stared, fascinated. He tilted his head this side and that, as if there was an antenna on his crown and he was adjusting it, trying to catch some weak, distant signal, and Jayne almost laughed, but he looked so solemn, and serious, that she didn’t dare.

‘The Spirit of the Lord speaks to me,’ he said, opening his eyes. ‘You are pregnant.’

Her eyes grew round as those big old five-bob coins.

‘How did…oh God, what…how did you know?’

‘I told you, the Spirit speaks to me.’ The Prophet smiled. ‘You haven’t told the father yet.’

‘N-no, I…no, I haven’t.’ She was gasping for air, fanning herself. ‘G-give me a second.’

‘Take all the time you need,’ the Prophet said. He reached into a drawer and took out a bottle of water which he handed to her. She took a few sips and seemed to regain her composure.

‘What should I do?’ she asked. When she looked at him again it was with eyes shining with a suspicious awe: like she’d just seen a magic trick and was watching closely to catch the sleight of hand on the next one.

‘You must tell the father, as soon as possible, of course. You are afraid that this will strain your already-troubled marriage, but perhaps the news will give new legs to your marriage, and unite you.’

‘Yes,’ she said, slowly. ‘Yes, maybe.’

‘There’s something else,’ she continued, fidgeting uncomfortably. ‘My husband…my husband, well, he — ’

‘Yes, the Lord has told me. It is written, “be ye not unevenly yoked.”’

She stared at him, thunderstruck. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, as if to plug the leak of secrets that seemed to be oozing from her somehow.

‘However, wives are instructed to submit to their husbands, so that by their example they may come to the knowledge of the Word.’

Her brow furrowed, and she narrowed her eyes at him.

‘What do you mean, submit?’ She asked, almost hissing the last word.

‘What Peter means is that you should love your husband and respect him. For any relationship to work, there must be an abundance of mutual love, respect, and understanding. What the commandment means to say is that you, as the believer, should make the first overture. Temper your words with gentleness. Put away your pride, and be the one to initiate dialogue after an argument.’

She turned his words over in her head and gave a grudging nod.

‘I’m looking for a church where he will feel welcome,’ she said. ‘He came for a few services at our old one, but he quickly became bored with the whole thing.’

The Prophet nodded sympathetically.

‘Being a member of our church — a Faithful Servant — means much more than attending service on Sunday. It’s a way of life. We have programs for young husbands and fathers-to-be: to meet, network and share experiences and advice. Bring him around one day, and let him see for himself. No boring seminars or workshops run by old guys either — I’m sure he’d be interested in our golf club — ’

He paused.

‘Or our yacht club, depending on his interests.’

‘Yes! I think he’d love that!’ Jayne’s eyes shone with excitement.

‘Now, Jayne, we are not in the business of “stealing” members from other churches,’ the Prophet continued, chuckling, ‘but so many of these other places…no offence, but they’re stuck in the last century. We try to provide wholesome, engaging, and nourishing spiritual guidance for the man — and woman — of today.’

‘Amen!’ Jayne agreed, snapping her fingers, ‘Preach, brother!’

They laughed, glad for a break from the intensity of the conversation.

‘Yvonne was right,’ Jayne said. ‘I feel so much better already. I feel at ease talking to you, like the presence of God is in you.’

‘The Spirit that is in me is the same one that is in you.’ The Prophet replied earnestly. ‘Like unto like.’

‘Yes, Prophet, I really believe so.’

‘Is there anything else bothering you?’ he asked.

‘Yes…my mother,’ Jayne said, the smile fading from her face. ‘We just found out she is very sick.’

‘What ails her?’

‘Can’t you ask the Spirit to tell you?’ Jayne joked ruefully.

‘Do not test the Lord.’ The Prophet’s voice turned stern, his eyes flashing with admonition.

Jayne bowed her head, flinching from the rebuke.

‘I’m sorry, Prophet, I didn’t mean to…it’s just that it’s been so hard, I’m sorry…’

The Prophet let the silence float for a few seconds, then softened his expression.

‘What ails her?’ he asked again, gently.

‘She has cancer. Breast cancer. I don’t know, Prophet, we might be too late…’

She looked up at him, with desperate, pleading eyes, and in that moment, he knew.

‘I will fast,’ he said. ‘Let us see what the Lord will tell me, in His time.’

‘Amen,’ she murmured in agreement.

They sat in silence for a while.

‘How is your relationship with the Lord?’ he asked.

‘I feel closer to Him at some moments than at others. Sometimes He feels so far away.’

‘Do you have difficulty praying?’

‘Yes, Prophet, now that you mention it, sometimes I do.’

‘Do you feel like something is blocking your prayers from going through?’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what it feels like. Why is that?’ she asked.

‘Will you rob God?’

‘What?’ She asked, puzzled by the question. ‘What do you mean?’

He almost rubbed his hands in glee. There was only one book on the desk — a big, ornate, gilt-edged Bible. King James Version. The Prophet slid it toward her.

‘Malachi 3:8,’ he said.

She obeyed, opening the Bible apprehensively. It took her a much shorter time than she expected to find Malachi — in fact, the Bible seemed to open to the book almost on its own. She looked up triumphantly.

‘Read,’ the Prophet said. ‘Aloud.’

Jayne cleared her throat.

‘“Will a man rob God? Yet ye have robbed me. But ye say, wherein have we robbed thee? In tithes and offerings.”’ She looked up again.

‘Go on, all the way down to verse 12.’

‘“Ye are cursed with a curse: for ye have robbed me, even this whole nation.

“Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open unto you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.

“And I will rebuke the devourer for your sakes, and he shall not destroy the fruits of your ground; neither shall your vine cast her fruit before the time in the field, saith the Lord of hosts.’”

She looked up from the Bible, a thoughtful expression on her face.

‘I ask you again, my sister,’ the Prophet said, his voice trembling with power, with authority. ‘Will you rob God?’

#

Roxanne Wangechi sat in a corner booth of the coffee shop, checking her phone every two minutes. Sister Akinyi rushed in, twenty minutes late for their three o’clock appointment.

‘Bwana asifiwe,’ she gasped, fanning herself. ‘So sorry I’m late, traffic was so bad.’

‘It’s no biggie,’ Roxanne said cheerfully, gesturing for Akinyi to sit.

‘No, actually, let’s just go since we’re running late.’ Akinyi said. ‘The Prophet is very busy today.’

‘Oh, sure,’ Roxanne replied, signalling for the bill.

There was no traffic — ‘Sister Akinyi’ had been there long before Roxanne arrived, sitting in a corner, camouflaged in a trench coat and sunglasses. When Roxanne walked in, Akinyi spent the twenty minutes sizing her up.

Dresses OK. Cheap bag. Only orders house coffee, and stretches it out. Tsk tsk. Old-ass Samsung. You, Miss Wangechi, have been weighed on the scales and been found wanting.

She almost called to cancel, but figured she’d come all this way, and even put the sack on — under the coat — so what the heck, why not. She’d then left the café, walked to her car parked nearby, ditched the coat and glasses for the sweater with the pocket, snatched up a beaten old bag, and made her entrance.

Akinyi looked the part of ‘dada wa kanisa’ perfectly. She was, however, hiding many things, among them a Masters’ degree in Finance from Dartmouth and another name with a shadowy past mentioned in connection to a nationwide pyramid scheme. Beneath the white sack hid a delicious, flexible body, and the mouth that spoke in tongues on Sunday mornings also made the Prophet exhibit an impressive range of glossolalia most Sunday afternoons.

The bill paid, Akinyi followed Roxanne to her car. A Toyota Note, she noted with disgust. Mediocre.

‘My friend Kavengi Musyoka speaks very highly of the Prophet,’ Roxanne said cautiously, as they strapped themselves in.

‘He is a true man of God.’ Akinyi replied.

‘Kavengi says he has the gift of prophecy,’ Roxanne continued.

‘That’s why we call him “Prophet”, sister.’ Akinyi teased, and they shared a little laugh. Roxanne set the car in gear, and they were on their way, joining the not-yet-maddening afternoon traffic.

‘I hope he can help me,’ Roxanne said wearily. ‘I need God’s favour.’

Sister Akinyi took out her phone from the bag and glanced at the face. She pressed the call button twice, and it began to dial the pre-saved number. It connected on the first ring. She put the call on speaker and put the phone in the pocket of her sweater. The whole thing took maybe three seconds.

‘So, sister, what do you hope the Prophet can do for you?’ She asked.

‘So much,’ Roxanne sighed. ‘Where do I even start?’

‘Start at the beginning,’ Akinyi said, a tiny smile playing on her lips.

#

Prophet Doctor Elijah Onesimus Mong’are sat at his desk beneath the bronze Christ, listening intently into his headphones. He cranked up the volume, his face screwed up in concentration. He opened his notepad to a new page, and began to prophesy.