Partakers of His Grace: The Initiation by Osuagwu Precious Chidinma

The drumbeats charged the atmosphere with energetic rhythms, and bodies were propelled to sync in movements with every sound emanating from the wooden drums. A fire crackled in the middle of the circle formation of shirtless males whose bodies glowed with sweat. The smoke emanating from the fire travelled upwards in curls, encircling the full silver moon—an offering to Odu, the cult's deity. 

His chest heaved up and down, his heart disagreeing with every sound of this strange music, his sweaty palms and buckling knees confirming this fear rising up from within him. The biting feel of the mosquitoes was nothing compared to the fear that gripped him.

Grabbed by the arm and dragged to the middle of the circle alongside others like him, his knees hit gravel. The fire was up close and hot against his skin.

Macho appeared before him with a knife and a small wooden bowl, his face silhouetted by the night's shadow. Nat shivered as the moonlight cast its light on the knife, making it glisten in the eerie night. Macho took hold of his palm, his ambition overriding Nat's slight and natural resistance, and tore it into two with the knife. Nat winced as the blood surged upwards, covered the white line, and then trickled down to the edge of his palm and into the bowl.

"Squeeze," Macho said coldly, and Nat squeezed, the pain reaching every nerve and fibre of his being. "Good." Macho's voice again. He moved over to the next person without another word, leaving Nat's right palm burning hot.
The nightmare of an initiation continued. Macho came around again with the bowl in which they had all squeezed their blood into.

"Drink," he said. Nat gulped down saliva. He was about to drink blood, something he hadn't signed up for on his coming. He looked at the others to his right. They watched him blankly. He was sure that if he drank it, they would too. But he wasn't ready to drink blood.

He glanced up at Macho who stared down at him, his facial expressions Nat couldn't still make out. "Drink," Macho repeated. Nat looked at the extended bowl and his throbbing palm. He hadn't travelled this far to chicken out. He accepted the bowl with trembling hands and brought it to his mouth, the oily, metallic tang seeping into his taste buds. He immediately pushed the bowl towards the giver, unable to breathe. His stomach did a somersault, and he found himself gripping a handful of sand with both good and injured hands as the world turned around him…

He shot up from bed, panting. A dream it was, but a vivid repetition of his dark past. He grimaced; the flavour of blood was still in his mouth. His stomach knotted, unknotted, and rumbled, responding to the nightmare. It wasn't just a nightmare—it was real.

Nat wiped his sweaty face with the sheets and stared at the wall for a while. According to his phone, he had woken up at exactly 3 am—the time his former initiation took place. This must really mean something, he thought to himself. It was some minutes past three now, and he was afraid of going back to sleep for fear of a repeated nightmare.

He did something else; he retrieved his short King James' version Bible and turned over the pages, not sure where to read. His eyes finally rested on Colossians 1:12-13, which he read aloud: "Giving thanks unto the Father, which hath made us meet to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in light: Who hath delivered us from the power of darkness, and hath translated us into the kingdom of his dear Son." It was a passage Brother Jon liked to emphasize most times whenever he relayed his fear of the past life resurfacing to haunt him. He had found solace in it, and now he was again. He read the two verses over and over again until his eyelids grew heavy and fluttered shut.

Later in the morning, Nat found Brother Jon in his house. It was a Saturday, and he was having a rather peculiar family time with his wife and little children doing cleanup. The sitting room and adjoining dining room were covered up in foam. They welcomed him brightly, and Brother Jon took him out to the veranda.

They exchanged pleasantries again before Nat brought up the dream. As he let out every bit of it, he shuddered. When he had finished telling his dream, Brother Jon put a comforting hand on his shoulder and spoke, "What I will say now might come as shocking to you." He paused, and when Nat nodded earnestly, he continued, "Do you know that you're in a new, much different cult now?" It did come as a shock to Nat. How could he escape a cult only to fall into the hands of another cult?

"Let me explain," Brother Jon said.

"You have been initiated into this new life with Christ. Look at John fourteen verse twenty: 'At that day ye shall know that I am in my Father, and ye in me, and I in you.' Doesn't it sound like something a cult leader or deity would say?" Nat nodded.

"I need you to start seeing your new birth as an initiation into a much bigger cult. When you look at it that way, it's easier to conquer challenges that arise from initiation into the kingdom of darkness.

"The same way you were promised power once you joined that cult, this new covenant with Christ promises the same. Second Peter chapter one verse four tells us that whereby are given unto us exceeding great and precious promises: that by these we might be partakers of the divine nature.

"We have an inheritance, Nat. We are joint heirs with Christ. We have authority over principalities and powers! My goodness! We have overcome by reason of being partakers, Nat!" Brother Jon laughed. Nat smiled.

"The grace of God abounds for us, not to sin, but to command our rights as children of God," Brother Jon said with a tone of finality. Nat sighed wistfully, looking ahead of him and then at the sky.

"Thank you, my brother."

"Don't mention it. All I want you to do is go back to your place and exercise dominion. No more of these dreams! Subdue everything by the name of Jesus! For every other authority bows at the mention of that name," Brother Jon shared fervently.

"Thank you," Nat said, and Brother Jon saw him off to the end of the street, promising to remember him always in his prayers.