Chapter 13 – The Prophet with the Plastic Mic
You'd think after the landlord's thunderous warning, things would calm down. But no, my dear reader. This compound has a PhD in drama and a master's degree in foolishness.
It started on a Wednesday morning.
I was brushing my teeth by the corridor when I heard a voice, loud and proud, shout:
"REPENT OR YOU WILL COLLECT! HOLY GHOST FIRE WILL LOCATE YOUR ENEMIES!"
I nearly swallowed my toothbrush.
I leaned over the balcony — and there he was. A man in white kaftan, oversized sandals, and a plastic microphone that wasn't connected to anything. He stood right in front of our gate like he was at Redemption Camp.
"Who is that?" Femi asked, joining me with sleepy eyes.
"Looks like one of those road prophets," I whispered. "But what's he doing here?"
Aunty Sade came outside, eyes wide. "Ah! It's Prophet Elisha! He's the one I met at Mountain of Intervention. I invited him!"
I nearly choked. "Invited him? Here?"
"Yes o," she said, adjusting her head tie. "Since we're doing silent warfare, he came to help us with whisper deliverance. He doesn't shout. He projects spiritually!"
Meanwhile, Prophet Elisha was now moving from window to window, tapping them with his plastic mic and declaring, "Every witch in this house, I give you holy backhand! Receive SLAP of deliverance!"
Children from the neighbouring compound gathered to watch like it was a Netflix special. Mama Chika brought popcorn. I'm not joking. She actually brought popcorn.
Mama Dorcas stepped out and sprinkled water on the ground. "This place must be cleansed."
"Why are you sprinkling water?" I asked.
She held up a sachet. "Pure water. Times are hard. But the spirit understands."
Femi pulled me aside. "Temi, if the landlord hears this—"
As if on cue, the gate creaked. And there he was.
Our landlord.
Again.
Wearing his house slippers, his face looking like someone had just told him pepper was now N3,000 per kilo.
He looked at the crowd. Then at Prophet Elisha. Then at the popcorn.
"I SAID NO NOISE!" he shouted.
Prophet Elisha raised his plastic mic like Thor's hammer. "Ah! But sir, I'm not making noise. I'm transmitting spiritually."
"Transmit yourself out of my compound!" the landlord thundered.
Chaos.
Mama Dorcas started praying in tongues.
Aunty Sade tried to shield Prophet Elisha with her wrapper.
Mama Chika threw her popcorn in frustration. "Ah ah! Just when it was getting sweet!"
Femi and I ran back inside like soldiers dodging bullets.
The landlord eventually dragged Prophet Elisha to the gate himself and locked it with three padlocks — I counted.
As peace returned (briefly), I turned to Femi. "How many more lives do you think this compound has?"
He looked at me and sighed. "We've passed cat level. This compound has spiritual battery backup."
That night, I heard whispering again.
Not loud prayers this time. No. This one was different.
"Enemy of progress, fall down and roll like tyre!"
I opened the window slowly and saw Mama Dorcas crouching in the backyard with a rechargeable torch, whispering like a secret agent.
She caught me staring and whispered, "Don't worry. This one is between me and the spirits."
I closed the window and locked it twice.
One thing was clear — silent warfare was somehow louder than the noisy one.
To be continued...
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