Reborn by Victor Dennis Amah

 

 CHAPTER ONE
At around three-thirty in the morning my slumber was cut short, I was forced to my feet and hurried into the darkness. I followed without question, for all I knew it was a dream. I was both asleep and aware, within and without, conscious and unconscious. We left town to the outskirts on a bicycle, tied it to a tree and continued on foot into the forest, forcing our way through, crossing streams and climbing hills. I was carried when I couldn't continue. Then we arrived at a place, where large trees had grown in a circle—high up into the sky. A house was in the middle of this circle, built with clay bricks. Hung on each tree was a lantern that burned with blue and yellow flames, one red—one blue—another red—followed by another lantern burning blue. We stood outside the circle—and found ourselves inside the house, in the audience of an old man sitting on a wooden stool, bare chested, eyes closed and mumbling words in the native tongue. The room was so small I still can't fathom how we could all fit inside. Clay pots, candles and sculptures of the faces of deities defined the paranormal ambience of the place. The crow of a cock, was the only sound incessantly piercing the silence, before it was muffled in his mouth and its head bitten off. With the head of the cock still in his mouth and the rest of it jerking and spurting blood, he encircled me, uttering incantations—letting the blood gush over me. The old man was my father.

I was not at the very least proud of my origins and where I came from. Sometimes I prayed to be rid of it all, to wake up and find that it's all gone, that I might be reborn, a different person, a different name, a different reality. I had a vision—a vision of the trajectory of my life, estranged from the misfortune of everything I was born into. I knew deep inside me that I was born for more, a destiny that abode in the heavens and began when I touched the skies, something better than what I had in the present. My father had taken over a shrine in his father's stead and I was to follow. I ran away to escape my fate, one that had been sealed for generations. Abdicating the position to chase a reality—my reality—a dream that was so real to me I was always in shock to wake up in the same place I slept the night before. On a blessed dawn, having filled my heart with stars and constellations, I decided to reach for them, I ran and never looked back. I prayed to gods I neither knew nor believed in, to give me a chance—a shot at life, I begged them to propel me—If I could only ascend to touch the sky—my life would begin—and if it did, it would never end.
I left town to go to the city, where I stayed a while until certain men from my father came in search of me. I left for new lands the next day before sunrise, in a truck, glad to have shared the cargo box with livestock. My rebirth was complete—at least I thought so.
The weeks and months after my supposed escape were unpalatable. My father paid me visits—regular visits—everyday in fact, so much that I dreaded sleep. He would fill me with enchanting words, reminding me the futility of my pursuit for an illusion, that my destiny was back home and not in the skies, in the shrine and not in the heavens. Through the starving nights my vision sustained me, through the cold, the stars were my blankets. They kept me alive, until I began to lose them, slowly but steadily my spirit began to yield, I lost faith and then my vision. I began to die—a painful death it was—the stars were well within my reach once, and then all of a sudden, they were so far away I could never reach them—they deserted me—not finding me worthy anymore.
One evening there was a knock on my frail door, a disturbance that made me turn in my grave, one I loathed so much for depriving me of a much needed rest for the first time in what felt like eternity. Veronica—she invited me to a conference—I said no—but she pressed, saying Olatunde was going to be speaking. I loved him—no—I actually needed him. He was the only one that somehow knew the words to say and how to say them to alleviate my suffering. He was a clinical psychologist. I remember saying to myself for the last time—take this pill for the last time.
At the end of that day, once again, I had a reason to live—to hope—to dream—to believe—to continue on my ascent to heaven. That was the first night my father didn't visit, the first night I slept, the day my rebirth truly began.

CHAPTER TWO
My first encounter with Mr Irene Greatman was at a conference I was forced to attend. He had been invited at the last minute to replace the very speaker I came to listen to. I was disappointed, less with him and more with the organisers for not informing us earlier, waiting until the last segment.
“We're sorry to announce…”
No you're not!
“... taking that segment today is Mr Iren Greatman”
I don't care!
Uneasy, I desperately wanted to leave. The hall was packed to capacity, a thousand seats. I was seated in front—a misfortune—a great misfortune because I couldn't vacate my seat all the way to the back with over two-thousand eyes peering at me. I gave up my escape to endure this “Iren Greatman,” and to my further disappointment it was the shortest session, so short I had to ask if that was all. I was among the last to leave, even so, disappointingly because I couldn't meet him in person, it was a night of many disappointments. Smiling with such grace, he shook many hands in adieu, staring into a dozen pair of eyes, one word at a time. I stood from a distance in admiration and wonder, charmed by this Greatman, what you would call loving someone at first sight. I clung to him—and there was nothing I wanted more than to know him. And by divinely orchestrated coincidence he looked in my direction—looked at me—nodded, sending a smile across and turned away before I could even respond.
No one knew where he lived, but someone knew where he worshiped. I traveled there on a sunday, staying through the second service to the last, only to add to my list of disappointments. A week later I went earlier to catch the first service, sat at the rear of the auditorium, eyes wide open, scanning through the crowd. I began to lose faith after thirty minutes of nothing, but it was right then, that someone took to the podium, and he was him. After the benediction people flocked around him, the old and young alike, either to be the focus of his charming eyes or in salutations. Children defiling protocols, pressed fixedly through the crowd toward him, pulling at his trouser expectantly, until he was theirs. He stooped to listen as they whispered in his ears, nodding in agreement, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the highest denomination, the kids now even more elated, sandwiched him in warm embrace.
Soon after, a young man came up behind me.
“Good day sir, Mr Greatman wants to meet in the bookstore” he whispered.
In that meeting, there was no surprise on his face to my own surprise—no curiosity, only a strange yet warm enthusiasm like he had been anticipating our meeting.
We didn't talk long, not upto a minute even, there was only one question asked and no answer given.
“What seekest thou?”
That question kept my mind occupied for day's. I tried but couldn't reach him after our first meeting. I went to the church every Sunday after, but he was never in attendance, and whenever I asked around.
“He's alright—” was the evasive response.
And then exactly twenty-seven days later, there was a knock on my door—then my closed window. I didn't answer until I heard his voice.
I started towards the door and forced the broken thing open. With my permission he came in hoping to sit and talk, but changed his mind after inspecting the room.
“Know what—get ready—I will, wait for you outside, that alright?”
“Yes Sir–”
“Ten minutes?”
“Yes sir”

We were driven to a bookstore where Greatman and I were led upstairs by the owner who seemed to be very fond of him. It was a restricted area, stocked with new collections from around the world.
That evening in the store, behind closed doors I became the repository, privy to secrets that weren't secrets at all, only that no one had cared to find out and no one—surprisingly—not until myself, was worthy of such information. We took a long journey back to his yesteryears, one that had to end somewhere, even though I didn't want it to.

CHAPTER THREE
Iren Greatman was once Liam Shagbaor until he wasn't. The lone child of his parents, he lost his mother at age nine and was orphaned two weeks after. His uncle's robbed him of his inheritance, and he had to endure them as wards for a while until he couldn't.
“I took flight into destiny…” he said “I was only twelve you see, but I knew I had a place at the table of gods. The world was mine, I only needed to reach for it”
He begged alms on the streets, stole when it was desperate and joined the homeless under the bridge. And then, by a stroke of luck, a greyed man took him in and cared for him.
“I had a mat to sleep on, food to eat and a roof over me, the literal definition of luxury compared to my days under the bridge you see, the old man did me well. But a child no matter how brave and  fierce is still a child, naive, ignorant and vulnerable”
The greyed man always had visitors, none of which were women, only men and adolescent boys. Some slept over into the morning and others left late into the night after muffled cries. Especially the boys.
“I didn't suspect anything wrong with an old man helping juveniles with food and a place to spend the night you see, but one night, unexpectedly I met with a strange sight”
Iren Greatman, who was at the time  Liam Shagbaor, had returned from an errand, and through a slightly opened door he saw a young boy, fairly thirteen years of age bent over the bed and a naked man behind him.
“I didn't understand it” he said, “I made no sense of it you see, but that image never left me, I still see it.”
This continued for a while until he turned thirteen. A small party was thrown, with only men and boys in attendance to celebrate his first birthday with his new family.
“It was the closest to happiness I had been, since I lost my parents. There was a lot of drinking that day, I think the plan was to get me drunk for the first time—to make me a man. But you see—all the men instead of shaking my teenage hand or embracing me, smacked my bum with broad smiles to say happy birthday.”
That night Liam’s status was elevated; he was no longer to sleep on the mat in the living area but would share the master's bed.
“I cried—not for the pain—I was tainted—marred and destroyed.”
Liams destiny was lost, first robbed of his inheritance and then his godly status. He was impure for greatness, impure for his dreams, impure to believe he still had a place among gods.
As I listened to him reveal himself I began to love him, with every word it grew stronger and stronger until, involuntarily, I dropped a tear and quickly wiped it off.
“Are you alright Tolu?” He asked.
I nodded.
He stood up and walked to a window.
“Don't feel sorry for me, I'm not trying to make you emotional. I see that you're running from something—toward another—like I once was. I was helped you see, I can help you.”
That night I was invited into the life of Liam Shagbaor who in all totality had nothing in similitude to Iren Greatman. A complete metamorphosis so seamless you could never trace Greatman to Liam unless Greatman wished it. We continued through the night until he had to let me go.
“I was once again out in the world alone and homeless, then one night as I traversed Ardo street by the corner of which was a stadium, begging the privilege for my supper—you see—I strayed into the stadium where a crusade was ongoing. Now I believe it was my destiny calling and insisting on me. The preacher—” he said closing his eyes, “spoke about destiny—purpose and vision with so much passion that at just thirteen years of age—I stretched out my hand—into the air to catch those words.”
He stretched out his hand as though he was back in that moment, opened his eyes and looked at me.
“He—the preacher—he then said something that changed my life forever you see. The very words that birthed Iren Greatman…” His eyes began to glow. “‘WE’RE PARTAKERS OF HIS GRACE—YOU ARE DESTINED FOR GREAT—NESS’ GREAT—MAN”
That night right there in that stadium, Liam Shagbaor was buried and Iren Greatman was born.
He answered a knock on the door and in came the owner of the store with a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread on a tray.
“Tolu—though tainted and marred I partook—that night—of a greater nature you see—the nature of God himself. He cleansed me—washed me—restored me and erased the filth of my past. He gave me a shot—He propelled me to the heights of my vision and dreams. All that you've seen and believed can be your reality here and now if you would partake of His grace through his promises”
“Promises?” I inquired.
“Yes Tolu. Anyone who calls upon the name of the Lord Jesus shall be saved. And to such he gives the right to be called the son of God. And if a son, then joint heir of his Fathers estate.”
That chapter of my life was closed with saved.
He poured us wine and gave me a piece of bread. We drank the blood and ate the body of Christ. My initiation was complete. my past was gone. my ascent in a promise was written and certain. I once was Tolu the son of a man, now—Tolu the son of God.
Irene Greatman was an edifice, my ladder to the star's.