Book Snippets | Diary Of A Church Boy | By Ace Moloi (Part 1)

Written By Ace Moloi

NO SOONER HAD my mother made friends in heaven than I deserted the church for a new kid on the block. Generally, our home church haemorrhaged members as a form of protest against the new pastor from Lesotho. The branch has since died a slow death, murdered by the arrogance of leadership.

The charisma in the new church won my heart effortlessly as if my childhood Christianity was a scam. The music in my new worship home was performed by a live band, something really fascinating for a kid who grew up in a church which read hymns so melancholically you would think the whole membership was mourning Christianity, or prophesying the imminent demise of the church.

Believers here dressed as if to audition for roles as bridesmaids for the day Christ returns to wed the Church. They exuded confidence like people who truly believed they were joint heirs with Christ.
The pastor, who was from Mozambique, preached with vigour like he contributed a sentence in the Bible, moving around the church, gesturing confidently. The speakers, which took his message to every corner of a sinner’s conscience, bolstered the sound of his voice with authority. His shiny hairstyle displayed the anointing upon his head. I was drawn to him fully. I thought he was amazing.
This church published its own newsletter, STOP SUFFERING! which volunteers distributed around town, disrupting the pamphleteering monopoly enjoyed by the likes of Dr. Mama from Ghana who had the powers of a whale that could swallow a straying husband from the Tarshish of his adultery back to the Niniveh of his wife’s sweet bosoms.

The newsletter content was from members of the church who had a good story to tell about what the LORD has done for them. The once ill witnessed of God’s healing powers when they went on the pilgrimage to Mount Sinai. The poor said they were rich following their tithing consistency. The unemployed asserted they found jobs after the pastor sprinkled anointing oil on their CVs. Everyone stopped suffering!

I was here as a patient of suffering, too. Of asthma. And it had to stop. Here every disease manifested. Every demon was interrogated.
How many are you?
Who sent you?
What is your agenda?

In the midst of the praying I felt dizzy like a child who had been circling in one place. There was nauseating chaos in my stomach, as if my liver was turning upside down. I burped like I was about to vomit the liver, feeling feverish as if I had overdosed on Med-Lemon. A chunk of something blocked my chest, so that my nauseated burps sounded like the demon being cast was roaring.
As this thick demon moved up closer to my throat I felt like my soul was going separate ways with my body. I am told my eyes were bigger than their sockets when I collapsed in the hands of the prayer warriors now surrounding me.

When I woke up I was in a room with men and women dressed in navy around me. I asked them what happened and they said I had just undergone a deliverance from whatever spirit was suffocating me. I went back to the church service and watched on as another demon rebelled against being forcefully removed from a body it had known as its home for years.

I stayed with this civilised church. Breaking the hearts of elders in my home church who were seeing a future pastor in me, a candidate to save them from the new, imposed pastor. To discourage me from going to the church, they claimed there was a snake from which the pastor derived his healing powers. It was reported that the snake was fed a soup of human blood and flesh.
Since most of the church’s miracles were about deliverance from witchcraft, people manufactured stories about it. I was told my new home was a cult. Soon, I heard, it would be demanded of me to sacrifice something as maintenance for my deliverance. Though I registered these remarks in my mind, I refused to entertain them.

I had finally found a place that understood my personality and catered for my intelligence. I admired the new church’s atmosphere, plus the fact that it was based in Phuthaditjhaba, a location apt for a kid of my calling and English, perfecting my image as a rural coconut.

An excerpt from "Diary Of A Church Boy"
A Book by Ace Moloi

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