Track Down

By Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi

Neither give place to the devil. (Eph 4:27)

You accepted Christ without repentance. Thats why you could keep cult materials in the drawer and the Bible on the desk. Your former cult members call you DeBoss; your church members call you Pastor.

The Queen roared. Her voice rumbled as in a dark cave. Soon, a croaky voice came on. Hes still our man, though a traitor.

Many Christians believe the devil exists only on the pages of the Bible. Many collect items associated with the devil or Satan worship; call them Artifacts. Many more believe their earlier romance with the devil is over. Forget it! The enemy never gives up. He searches for a way to recapture his former captive: an opening through sin, or a link through his patented items.

Track Down provides insight into how the Devil latches on to peoples ignorancenot sin this timeto frustrate deserters who take up arms against his kingdom by preaching Christ.

This is not about Satanism or demonism, but real life spiritual experience that beclouds the intellect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Nov 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781449765804

Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi

CELESTINE S. IKWUAMAESI is an architect, pastor, intercessor, and author of four Christian books including Ushering In His Presence—a manual for Christian ushers. With his wife, Glad, he pastors Saving Word Church in Lagos, Nigeria. He publishes free teaching magazine, The Saving Word, and evangelical tracts. Since accepting Christ at a Full Gospel Businessmen’s Fellowship meeting in November 1987, Celestine has been active in Christian leadership both in the Full Gospel and the local church. Praying for Christians with strange spiritual problems, he gained insight into the way the enemy works in the life of people.

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1-[phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4497-6581-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-6579-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-6580-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012916548

WestBow Press rev. date: 11/27/2012

Contents

 1

 2

 3

 4

 5

 6

 7

 8

 9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

To Sol Stein,

my virtual writing instructor,

who showed me how to tell

and told me how to show.

 1

Gbenga blinked at the strange room. He felt under the pillow and took his watch: ten minutes past one—five minutes after he put off the bedside lamp. He tried to recall the dream but could not at first. Then the picture began to brighten slowly like a new day: A tall handsome man had stood close to his bed and smiled at him. The man looked like a haloed picture of a saint—dazzling white. His blue eyes glowed with deep pity. After staring at Gbenga awhile, he said, My name’s Jesus Christ. I’ve come to set you free from bondage. Right away, Gbenga heard a clatter of chains on the floor. He felt light, fetters off his ankles, his wrists, and his neck. An unusual peace enfolded him. The man’s penetrating stare did not waver until he sat close to him, the right hand around his neck. I know what you’ve been through. I’m here to restore your mind. Gbenga stared at him, too frozen to say a word. Soon, the man stood, pulled him up, and embraced him; Gbenga felt a soothing wave of mild current through his body. Sudden strength surged through his body. What should I do?

Follow me, the man said. I’ll send you my servants, listen to them.

But for occasional groan of a patient, or voices of nurses on night shift, the entire hospital was asleep. Gbenga looked around the room: Yaba Psychiatric Hospital, Lagos was written on the bedcover, the pillow, the backrest of a lone chair in the room, and the side drawer. Am I delirious? He kept looking around until his eyes caught a chart on the bed rail.

Name of patient: Gbenga Coker.

Age: 28.

Sex: Male.

Date of admission: January 7, 1979.

Then the medication; his mouth dropped. Back to the letterings. He shivered at the fact of being a mental patient. He ran down his timeline but couldn’t trace how or when he got into the hospital. He dashed to the closet, yanked open the door. A pair of his usual party dress about two years earlier hung on the rail. He grabbed one, put it close to his nose, and drew away from the moldy odor. Tears began to creep out until his entire body shook the bed. His world swirled with wild images, flashes, stars, sparks—images that could flood a troubled mind. At this point, the face in the dream appeared again, smiling. The convulsion stopped, the strange peace returned. The gentle voice whispered again, Don’t weep, I’m with you.

Flat on the bed early that morning, Gbenga tried again to grasp what came over him. Soon, he had a strange urge to read something—magazine, newspaper, or just something. He recalled a copy of the Bible left in the ward by the Gideon. Opening a page, his eyes fell on the word Jesus. Fresh memory of the dream welled up; he plunged into the pages. Soon, a nurse opened the door gently with a tray of medication perched on her left hand. Gbenga started. I don’t need it.

The nurse had stopped short at the door when she didn’t see the patient on his bed. She stepped in. Then a shock—Gbenga was reading at his desk the first time in twenty months. She backed hurriedly into the corridor, crashing with another nurse. Despite the clatter of the tray with its contents on the floor, the two women raced off in opposite directions; one to an urgent call, the other to alert Gbenga’s doctor.

Your patient refused his medication, the nurse said, panting.

Which patient?

The one in Room 207, Gbenga. I met him reading at his desk.

The doctor shot into the hallway.

What are you doing here, Dr. Yemi? Gbenga screamed as the doctor pushed into the room.

Dr. Yemi had driven into the hospital when a new patient was brought out of a police van. He looked at the tall man in cuffs. His face was familiar. He stopped for a second look: Gbenga, his classmate and a friend at the medical school. Moved by his state, he approached the Medical Director to assign him the case.

*     *     *

A prayer team from the Church of The Healing Cross had visited that Sunday afternoon and saw the room open. Gbenga sat at a desk. In the past, he would charge at them with any object that served him a weapon—a shoe, a plate, a cup, or the chair he sat on now. Despite this, the team kept a regular visit to pray for his healing and salvation. The leader of the team stayed calm. A woman in the team moved back, her purse in her armpit. Can we pray with you, sir? the leader asked as he pushed in his head cautiously.

Go ahead, please, and come in. He did a fast headcount and took an intercom. Can I have some chairs, please—four?

The nurses winked at one another. It’s true, one said excitedly. Two nurses rushed the chairs to the room. They stood, heads bowed, arms folded, but watched him closely with slightly open eyes.

The group leader prayed fervently, eyes closed. Soon, he saw, with an unusual clarity, a figure smiling at him. He knew the face because he had seen it before. He opened his Bible to chapter three of St John’s Gospel. Eyes on Gbenga. Jesus Christ came into the world to save not to condemn people; to break the chains of bondage, and set the captive free. He stopped, staring at nothing while noticeable hush came down in the room.

The woman spoke up. Jesus Christ who visited you last night directed us to tell you he’s healed you. You’re now free to follow him.

Gbenga started: The exact words I heard! Curious!

Images of the two visits kept flashing on his mind all day; they lulled him to sleep early until he woke at midnight. He snatched the Bible, looked at it curiously, and put it back. Off the bed, he slapped the reading table. No, this book can’t be a fable. Daddy was wrong! Wrong!

Gbenga began learning mysteries of life at age four, long before he could write his name. Twelve to two—except on Thursdays when his father stayed out all night—he listened to distant stories: how God created the world, hidden truths about life and death, and power of the mind over matter. Dr. Coker Augusto was set to put his bright son ahead of his peers. So, Gbenga entered the University of Lagos Medical School taller than his father’s six-foot, armed with strange ideas. A tall palm in a forest of shrubs, he drew a large following, and put into use the lessons from childhood.

The prayer team had left a copy of the Bible for him. He now had a copy under the pillow, the other in the drawer. With the one in the drawer, he read into the night, the passage the team leader had read during the visit. Peace welled up inside him. A haze appeared to sweep across his eyes gradually. About four in the morning, pictures of his campus life flashed on his mind. Pushing the Bible aside, he dropped his head on the desk. Images streamed across his eyes. He screamed, No! No! Couldn’t have lived such a wild life! Dancing naked at night, drinking blood. He jerked and dropped his head again; the pictures kept coming, more vivid, more scaring. Listen to that sound, that’s demonic. Oh, no! What a wild orgy! He sprang from the seat, sweating, shaking. He recalled his father’s weekly night out. Daddy never showed me his life in the dark. I’ll ask him when we meet.

*     *     *

Have you heard? a nurse asked the head nurse as she walked into the office Monday morning.

Heard what?

Jesus Christ visited the patient in Room 207. She nodded. True, I saw him. He doesn’t take medicine again.

The head nurse dropped her purse gently on the desk, still eyeing the nurse. You saw Jesus Christ?

No! I mean the patient, Dr. Gbenga. Go to his room now; he should be reading the Bible. I don’t think he’s slept since Sunday afternoon. Must have read all night.

I don’t doubt what God can do, but I should see him myself.

Soon the news swept through the hospital. The Christians among the staff were all smiles. Others sneered at the Christian propaganda. We give your miracle a week.

The Chief Medical Director, a Muslim, dismissed the ‘joke’. Such a clear moment is common with mental illness. When Dr. Yemi took him with other doctors to visit Gbenga, he put on a pair of dark goggles at the door. He studied the chart, peeping at Gbenga often. Watch him for a month, no medication. I know the risk but let’s see what happens.

While waiting for his discharge, Gbenga read the Bible cover to cover. But not knowing how to pray, he prayed the words of the Bible, and kept doing so, getting a clearer memory of his past. He would slip into a mood, but quickly recall the visitor’s face. A voice would remind him, "My salvation is a full package. Forget your past, I’ve taken care of it.

Focus on your future, I’ll take you through it. The statements didn’t mean much to him, and didn’t bother him, either. But he was most of the time on his knees. Lord Jesus Christ, if you would restore my life again, I’ll do as you’ve directed me."

*     *     *

Sudden fear gripped the Sanchez clan meeting. The secretary dropped his pen and turned to Dr. Coker Augusto. Sir, do you mean I should put it on record?

Yes, send the decision to our family in Brazil. Gbenga’s been delisted from the family register.

A mild rumbling followed. No one could talk. Dr. Coker was the eldest member of the clan in Lagos, and his views were binding on all. But the secretary was restless; so were others. That’s too harsh, the secretary said, calmly. Anybody can fall sick.

No! Not madness! Anything can happen to the Sanchez family except madness; it’s a shame, disgustful. Gbenga’s name should be dropped.

Gbenga’s mother could not believe her husband would take such a severe position, not against his first son, his pet boy. I believe Gbenga put into practice all the things you taught him from four, she told Dr. Coker one day.

You can’t say that, Funmi. His eyes turned red. I never taught him how not to be a man.

Heard he founded a group on campus—sort of gang—engaged in gang fights and tortures that led to deaths.

Never heard about that.

Your friend, the Provost, hushed it because of you. Didn’t want the crisis to get out of control.

I don’t believe you. Dr. Coker stared at his wife, upset. And you kept it to yourself. Why?

You sit with the Provost every Thursday night.

For more than nine months, Gbenga’s mother battled with high blood pressure. She avoided discussing him with his father, who never mentioned him again; not even discussed him with his friends. So she would steal to the hospital as often as she could.

*     *     *

Looks like the doctor’s mother, one of the senior nurses said on seeing Mrs. Funmi Coker walk toward the reception room.

She stood at the door, seeing Gbenga’s face on an open Bible. She recalled her prayers, her tears when he was under his father’s strange tutelage. She recalled how her husband watched his son cuffed and thrown roughly into a police van.

Gbenga squinted at a woman at the door. Eyes on a black ribbon on the left of her blouse, he sprang up. Where’s daddy?

His mother’s lips trembled. She tried to look away but her eyes had turned moist already. By the time she pulled a kerchief, tears had dropped on the black ribbon.

He grabbed her with such a force that both of them fell on the bed. They wept.

Died six months ago.

Mrs. Funmi Coker had stopped crying. The pain of her son’s confinement and the husband’s sudden death after thirty years of marriage had drained the tear sac. On the face, she appeared a strong woman but inside, she was a wilted rose, trampled by fate.

Gbenga stared at his mother, at the black ribbon. He recalled his father’s love, his desire to make him a man at four, and his insisting on his reading medicine. He wanted another doctor after him in the family, he mumbled. Tears kept coming, streaming down his cheeks: he meant well for me. Did daddy meet Jesus Christ before he died?

She jerked, pop-eyed, and started weeping again. You know your father.

What happened?

He came home about five in the morning, Friday. Before six, I heard him scream. I rushed to his room and saw him cowering against the wall, eyes bulging with fear. Said some persons were pursuing him, hedging him toward a blaze. I was scared. Didn’t see anyone, or fire, or feel the heat. But he was serious, and kept screaming, lashing his hands frantically as if trying to ward off his pursuers. I wanted to ask him who they were, but his strength was going down, life was leaving him. His two hands were now against the wall as if he needed a brace. I was confused. He began sliding down the wall. I wanted to hold—

Did you ask him to call the name of Jesus Christ?

"Call whose name?

So he didn’t?

She shook her heard.

So?

Eyes closed, he wailed desperately for help. I think he saw something he didn’t like, something that made him terribly afraid. I rushed to the living room and called Pa Solomon. She shook her head sadly, weeping again as a fresh image of her husband’s last minute on earth surged. He was dead before his friend arrived.

Why didn’t you call a doctor?

Told me a week earlier that I should call his friend if anything happened to him suddenly.

Gbenga dropped his head and heaved a groan, shaking his head. Daddy missed it! Daddy missed it! I wish I were there. He shot up, sank on the seat, and shot up again, restless.

 2

Chief Gomez was one of Gbenga’s good friends. Both combed the town in search of fun in their schooldays in the early seventies. Lagos was Lagos then; the nation’s oil money was flowing in the street. Soldiers had just returned from the civil war with loads of loot and cash, but didn’t have enough luxuries to spend on. So nightlife grew into wild living that changed Lagos social life. Chief Gomez, with his friend, Gbenga, kept nightlife aflame. The two kept touch until Gbenga’s confinement. Chief Gomez wished and prayed that his friend would pull through. His prayer worked. One day he told his wife, Jane, Gbenga’s been through the shadow of death, we should help him chart a fresh course of life. How do we do it? she had asked. A Friday Night will do, he’d said. Jane then remembered her close friend, Risi, whom she hadn’t met for some time. Chief Gomez called Gbenga on his intention, ending the chat with, We aren’t getting younger, are we?

Gbenga thought over the idea awhile. Lagos nightlife again? His fears grew. Chief Gomez meant well—he knew—but he feared the likely outcome. After much thought, he reasoned: the river is the right place to fish.

Chief Gomez invested in people; knew how to grow them for profit. Gifted in the art of making friends, he could charm even an avowed recluse, or sweep a beauty queen off her feet. He once met a woman and after a chat he gave her a fresh hundred-naira note. The woman’s eyes bulged: Chief Gomez’s phone number and address were on it. The woman looked at him curiously; both burst into laughter. Six months later, they were married. Jane never forgot how she met her husband.

*     *     *

Mrs. Gomez was Risi’s senior at school. But their friendship smoothed the difference more because Risi was a pet junior who called her Auntie Jane. Jane loved to flash her face and figure. So Risi, like Jane’s other friends, wasn’t surprised at her marrying a man like Chief Gomez.

At the Kingsway Stores along Broad Street that evening, Risi sighted a woman with painted eyelids from far. The woman smiled at her. Risi smiled back out of social nicety, not because she knew the face. On getting close, Jane screamed, the Reverend Perez, the same old Risi. The puzzle gave way. Both went a full-body hug. She used to call her the Reverend Perez because she had the tall lanky figure of her father—an Anglican minister. She also was as gentle as her father. Jane looked at her all over. I knew those legs would stretch. She fondled Risi’s engagement finger, winking at her. They hugged again. Risi smiled the way she used to though she was now a lawyer.

I’ve a Friday-night party at my place, Jane said. Not sure of the date yet; think over it. She didn’t expect an immediate reply, knowing that Risi would ask for her mother’s approval. She would ask questions: why night party, why attend alone.

Risi forgot the party until Jane called. You must be at this party, right?

I’ll, auntie. Risi laughed at her bossy auntie Jane. Always a senior. She got the message, all the same, and began praying away her mother’s objection.

*     *     *

Gbenga squeezed his car into a vacant lot in the foreground of Chief Gomez’s estate. Alone in the lobby, he glanced often at his watch. But the long wait gave him time to dream about the party. He felt he was looking forward to something. Two big porcelain vases on high base on both sides of an ebony door caught his eyes. Because they bore etchings of women with smiling round faces and slanting eyes, Gbenga inferred they must be from China. The budding rose plants that stuffed the vases also drew his attention. Excited, he felt their softness but quickly dropped his face because they were artificial. About glancing at his watch again, he saw the door open a crack. A pair of cautious eyes peeped through the gap. Chief’s friend! The bouncer pulled the door wider.

Gbenga saw a crowd of beaming faces, sipping red wine with floating ice cubes. Soon, he battled a waft of fries and flood of memories. But he was alert to Lagos nightlife—its bait, its deception, and its distraction.

Chief Gomez had waited for his friend with the left eye on the wristwatch, his right on the entrance door. He would leave on occasion as new guests arrived, but returned to the table to chat with Risi and a male guest. The guest appeared to have a hidden bag of jokes, making Risi’s head spin from laughter. Chief Gomez enjoyed him, too. He laughed and laughed until he saw the bouncer let in a guest in haste. That must be Gbenga!

Gbenga walked behind his host like a US president going to deliver the State of the Union address. They headed to a garden, the lagoon front, where Mrs. Gomez had set some tables for her select guests. A live band at the roomy veranda fed the garden and the banquet hall with music. But the gentle breeze from the lagoon blew the music toward the hall, leaving the garden quiet. Gbenga liked the setting.

Like an eagle, Mrs. Gomez spotted her guests from far. And like a peacock, she pranced around to stoke their friendship. On seeing Gbenga walk behind her husband, she wove her way to their table. Have we met since the Nigerian Independence? she asked Gbenga with a teasing look.

Gbenga roared with laughter as he scanned the crowd. A starry night, isn’t it? Lagos without a Friday Night is a strange city. And a Friday-night party without the Gomez—

A winter party around a shuttered hearth, Mrs. Gomez said.

All laughed.

I know the faces here except this man’s. She pointed at her husband, and then patted the unknown guest’s shoulder. And this man’s.

Mr. Williams, madam.

Mrs. Gomez curtsied with a soft handshake and threw a curious glance at her husband and Risi.

Gbenga reached across the table and introduced himself to Mr. Williams.

Soon, the band struck a popular juju tune; the crowd roared. Gbenga grabbed Risi’s hand right away. Soon others joined them, shuffling, swaying to the rhythm. Mrs. Gomez stretched her hand. You must have once won a Grammy in the art of the floor, Mr. Williams. He stood, though mindful of Chief Gomez’s shadow. Dancing with her wasn’t fun; she kept exchanging nods and smiles with other couples. Mr. Williams would also grin at those faces with timid, uneasy meekness. He wished the drudge over in a minute. A few couples from him, Gbenga and Risi snapped and swirled. One would whisper into the other’s ear. They would laugh and shake but kept the beat. Mr. Williams felt they had known each other for long. But it couldn’t be. Mrs. Gomez had greeted Gbenga as a family friend, and the way they joked confirmed that they were. Risi’s shy handshake with him implied they had just met the first time.

Mr. Williams couldn’t hide his lack of ease, often peeking at his watch.

I feel my bones crying for rest, Mrs. Gomez said.

Good dancing, ma’am! Mr. Williams said as he led her to the table. A bottle of wine had been waiting. He was about to uncork it when Mrs. Gomez whisked him to the floor. He pounced on it now, took three gulps without stops, and belched. About throwing the last glass, he saw Gbenga swirl like a tall reed in the wind. This man some needs dancing lessons, he mumbled. Strange to Friday Night.

Then a break! Dancing couples shuffled to their tables.

Good dancing, Mr. Williams said to Risi.

No! I didn’t have a chance with Gbenga.

Chief Gomez clapped excitedly. We’ll give a fair score at the next dance—Mr. Williams and me.

Soon a waiter stooped, ear close to Mr. Williams’ mouth. Over there, sir. He pointed toward the entrance. Just by the left.

Mr. Williams gulped the drink in his glass. Life’s about pursuit of happiness, he said to Gbenga. Excuse me a moment, I need room for more happiness. He ambled toward the toilet.

*     *     *

Who’s he? Gbenga asked Chief Gomez.

I don’t screen my guests, you know. The bouncer does.

Makes a good company, Risi said.

Sure, he does. Gbenga’s eyes followed Mr. Williams into the hall.

When Mr. Williams arrived at the party with some guests, Chief Gomez couldn’t outdo his amiable air. But because more guests came in at the same time, they hadn’t time to know each other. So he sat at a good place, eyes on the crowd like a bird of