Lathan savoured the screams of the spiritually-starved crowd. This was his largest
crowd ever; over two million people gathered at the main-bowl, National Stadium,
Lagos for the annual Praiseathon
concert. The thirst from the crowd swept like waves on seas and he was almost
drowned by the urge to keep giving, but his time was up. He had to rest and get
ready for the International Pentecostal Leaders
Conference in Ghana.
Lathan listened
rapturously as the crowd chanted his name like the welcome of an army general who
had just recaptured all North-eastern territories held by Boko Haram. This was more than he had ever dreamed of. Two-hundred
and forty-two months ago when all he had was a lousy Yamaha table top piano with missing keys, he had only wanted to just
sing to the glory of Elion and lead thousands in worship at the Eyimba Stadium, in Aba.
Today he was standing
by a Baldwin Grand Piano in front of
a two-million-man crowd, all screaming his name. The chants welled up hills of
pride in his misplaced thoughts – he had made it. It didn’t bother him that
there was no mention of Elion in all the chants. This was Lathan Luciano’s show
now, the organizers had saved his ministration for the last slot and the performance
he just finished was worth the wait.
There was energy
everywhere, glorious sweat stung eyes, bodies glistened in ecstasy, voices were
hoarse from screaming, reverence had been paid to him and Lathan revelled in
the worship. Elion had indeed done abundantly,
above, and beyond all that Lathan could dream up in his wildest imagination.
“Thank you Lagos!”
Lathan’s voice boomed over the crowd as he retreated backstage, down the ramp
and into the green room. He needed to take a shower.
“Call for you,” Majek,
his manager, held the phone at Lathan.
“I just got off
stage, man.” Lathan brushed the phone aside as he pulled off his t-shirt. When
he started out as a choirmaster, he had sworn to simplicity, just so he wouldn’t
give the notion that his ministry was about materialism. Twelve years down the
line, that principle held strong, but what he ignored in fashion, he made up
for in estates. Lathan had properties in all highbrow residences across the
federation.
“It’s the PFN
president.” Majek added
“I don’t care if it’s
the pope himself; I am not doing any free shows again.” Lathan slouched on the
sofa and shut his eyes. He palmed the open bottle of Vodka in an ice bucket by the sofa and took three long swigs. “I
want to be alone.”
“We need to talk--“
Majek tried to reason with him.
“Alone, MJ.”
Majek exited the
green room and Lathan enjoyed the quiet in the room. But inside, he felt like
he was in Balogun Market. Too many voices
speaking at once, questions about where he was headed, demands for ambition, and
confusion as to what he was really doing with his life. This wasn’t the life he
had dreamt about. All Lathan ever wanted to do was sing to Elion’s glory. That
want died somewhere along the line, now all he longed for was to hear Lathan on
the lips of his fans, he couldn’t even remember the last time he heard Elion
speak to him.
Without warning,
Lathan’s oesophagus locked. At first it felt like it was his sitting position,
so he sat up. But that only worsened the loss of breath that enveloped him. He
grasped his throat in desperation and tried to call out to Majek, but no sound
came out. The tingling sensation from the vodka he’d just swigged worsened his
sensitivity to the tightening in his throat.
Lathan turned to check
out the content of the bottle but his vision blurred and he shut his eyes in
resignation to the persistent whispers of the nether.
To be continued...
Image Credit: Courtesy sqlauthrity.com
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