AMBITION 101

The dashboard said it was 01:12 and Ahmadu Bello road was unusually deserted on this wasted

Thursday. The embankment on Akin’s right featured no thugs on a hunt and there were no “hawkers” in sight. He pulled the Ferrari into the curb and got down with a bottle of Red Label in hand. The bottle was still chilled courtesy the bucket of ice that he had bought with the bottle at the club.

 Life was everything that any young man Akin’s age could dream of. He was the hottest thing on tabloids and every club across the nation had K Turton banging their floors and roofs. As high as wealth could fly, he was at his peak and had direct access to the most powerful politicians in Nigeria. Yet, this was never the plan 

Akin Turton was a church boy gone rogue. He started out in the choir, singing and evolving into rapping. He could play at least three musical instruments and majored in Music at Unilag – a journey that saw him graduating top of his class. Two years after school, he was regular at church events and ministered to numbers unheard of, but “ministrations” didn’t put him in the spotlight.

Akin Turton wanted to be famous, he wanted to ride the best cars, tour the world in private jets, own private islands “for God”. He dreamed of building a music city that would be home for all struggling gospel artistes… He had good and grand dreams… ambitions that had the gospel on the forefront… 

So when he was approached by AM records, with a deal that promised he would still do gospel music, he didn’t bother consulting God… every good and perfect gift comes from God, right? The common knowledge that AM Records was owned by drug lords didn’t bother him. Two albums down the line, K Turton went commercial and by the fourth, K Turton was raking in more cash than any artiste in the history of African Music industry has ever done – BUT… his content was sick enough to make the devil puke… 

The gifts and callings of God are without repentance… the anointing was still there, just that it was corrupted. K Turton had everything going for him but he was empty. He knew it and craved to be at the feet of the master again… but he was too big to attend a church… His street cred was too high for him to be found on his knees… 

He hopped clubs… blazed shows… changed female inspiration… but the emptiness got worse… He even tried adrenaline sports… still, sleep evaded him… when his homies were around he smiled but his tears were unfettered in their absence… this wasn’t living… this was wealth in the belly of the Cracken…

 He took a swig from the bottle and climbed the steps by the embankment. He passed a row of stalls and stepped onto the bar-beach sand… he could smell weed but there was no one in sight… He had contemplated suicide on several occasions but had never summed up enough guts to go through with it… tonight looked likely… he pulled off his shoes… jeans… t-shirt… jewelleries… and took one last swig before tossing the bottle beside the pile… He wanted to take a swim…

When his feet touched the first wave that slapped the shore…

 “Can you swim?” a voice asked… the voice sounded like a small boy’s

 K Turton turned round to find a small boy, whose face he couldn’t make out, sitting beside his pile of clothes… His first reaction was to scream… but he was too scared to even scream…

“Remember when you used to tell God you would FOREVER sing to his glory?” The Small boy continued… by now K Turton was too weak to stand… he fell on his knees… “what happened to your promises about building a music city for gospel artistes?” 

“beautiful words and ambitions” The small boy smiled and K Turton could feel the warmth despite the distance between them “but they were not as beautiful as the words that were written about you in the volume of books before you were born…” 

“I’m sorry” K Turton finally whispered as he closed his eyes in shame and tears… “I’m sorry”

“Now that you’ve had your wish” The small boy asked “is everything perfect?”

 K Turton lifted up his face to answer but there was just his pile of clothes…

THEY MATTER

Our eyes met briefly and I quickly averted mine because I couldn’t stand the waves of disgust that radiated from Temi’s eyes towards me. As I hurried past, I could feel his eyes boring my back from across the road. Was it my fault that he didn’t see any sense in becoming born again?

 Then he called my name. But I wouldn’t turn around. The animosity that had grown between us in the past two weeks, since I had found Christ was ripe enough to spark a tribal conflict. So I hastened my steps, knowing he would soon cross the road and try to snuff out the distance between us. 

Just three weeks ago, Temi was a great friend… back when we ran short cyber scams together.

Then Christ found me and Temi refused to be found. I tried introducing Christ to him, but he repeatedly asserted that this “born again crap” was a long term scam by pastors. So I let him be.

Until today, I hadn’t seen him in about a week despite the fact that we lived on the same street. You are right; I was avoiding him for my own sake. Hanging out with my past wasn’t healthy for my present. I even ceased praying for him because I felt he ridiculed my God every time we talked. 

Then I heard tired screeching, people screaming and metal crush bone. All the sounds were coming from behind me. They were very close. I hopped over the gutter to safety before turning to see what caused the commotion. 

Twenty meters from me, a danfo bus lay smoking, its fender and front windscreen thrust inwards by a cement mixer. The accident was close to a construction site. The screaming onlookers were not concerned about the state of the bus. Several hands were trying to drag a lifeless body from under the mangled danfo. The head was under the right front tire. The body wore the same clothes that Temi wore and my heart failed. 

I couldn’t breathe because my system had transitioned into involuntary shut down… As I had predicted, Temi was crossing over to meet me and had met the unplanned journey to eternity. Thank God I am born again… 

Who am I kidding? That guy just missed heaven because I wouldn’t be more persistent… because I was trying to protect my Christianity by avoiding his negative influence… Perhaps if I had spent more time in prayer for him, I would have reached Him. I was the only one who could have reached him… Who knows if he was destined to be the next Billy Graham?

Don’t bother about my name; all that matters is that someone who could have been a great vessel now wallows in eternity because I didn’t persist! Who has been placed around you that only you can reach? Time is ticking…

Don’t be so concerned about your Christianity that your neglect the ones that matter… the lost ones

GRACE LAZINESS

The Trumpet stared at its image in the glass and smiled vainly at the gold glint. It was the oldest Trumpet alive, mature and toned, waxed daily by the museum attendant before being placed in the laser secured glass box. The Trumpet thought about the days when beautiful breath would flow through it and fill orchestra pits with blasts of bliss…

 Those days when its master would caress it and tweak every button that mattered till sonorous music rippled through the hearts of royalty… those days…

“Remember those days?” The Trumpet whispered to the Flute on its right and the Flute groaned

 “Oh! God, not again” The Flute rolled its eyes and pretended to be asleep

 “Hey Flute” The Trumpet hollered loudly “Don’t you dare act asleep… show some respect for the oldest Trumpet alive”

 “Old man” The Flute screamed back and the whole museum came awake with tired moans “Age has got nothing to do with achievements… you may be the oldest, but younger Trumpets are being blown in orchestras while you gather dust in this museum” 

“Watch your tongue boy” The Trumpet tried to shout the much younger Flute down

 “Would both of you just get married and quit bickering?” A slackened Cello groaned from a dark corner

 “Better yet break up” the Trombone on the right of the Trumpet smirked

 “I am the oldest instrument in this museum and I demand some respect” The Trumpet screamed at all the instruments in the museum and received acerbic murmurs

 “Not old enough to be in any fairy tale” an unnamed instrument snickered from a high shelf and the entire museum rocked with musical laughter

 “If I were to be the Trumpet I was ten years ago” The Trumpet hollered “I would walk through this entire edifice blasting your old bums with some crazy trumpeting”

 “What happened?” The Flute whistled “have the wheels in your wheelchair left you behind?”

 The museum shook again as musical laughter butted its foundations. While all the diverse instruments from diverse origins laughed, the Trumpet thought about all the beautiful moments that it had experienced; the mouths that have kissed it… the lungs that have blown it… the fingers that have twirled it and a single tear rolled down its cheek…

 At a point in time… some distant time… this Trumpet was the most beautiful instrument alive… its master adored it… the crowd worshipped it and it could take away sorrow just by surrendering its body to whoever was skilled enough to blow it…

 What happened you ask?

 While the Trumpet was coated with gold on the outside, inside, it was just mere iron. Overtime, the moisture that had gathered on the iron led to rusting. So, instead of beautiful music… the Trumpet squeaked and eventually ended up in the Museum as the oldest Trumpet alive… 

A lot of us are like this trumpet… shiny and glossy – what everyone sees… brittle and unrefined – what we truly are…

 When we accepted Christ, we ran with zeal and did great things for God depending on grace that comes with the person of Christ… but overtime we got carried away by the carnality of humanity – the true nature of sinful man without Christ… our innate lusts got hooked on the materialism of life and we forgot our first love… Now all we talk about is what we did and thank God for his grace…

 Grace is no license for any Christian to be lethargic… Paul says He strives so as not to frustrate the grace of Christ… and Christ says that we ought to work when it’s day for night comes when no man can work…

No one is exempt… If we have received grace… let’s feed it with the Word of God and stay sharp & relevant for Christ…

SPANKING HOT

His wrist-watch ticked away… and all Gomez could do was wish that someone somewhere would somehow think of wandering into the abandoned warehouse in time to find him lying in the clotting wax of blood. His breaths were now coming in short gasps.

 Though brown skinned, Gomez knew he was paling because his lips caked and his throat felt desiccated – he didn’t need an MD to alert him that he was seconds away from dying of haemorrhage. To top it all off, he couldn’t move any limb. 

This wasn’t how Gomez thought today would turn out. He had woken up, had his devotion, cleaned up and reported to his office on Marina. He was a security guard at the Bank and was loved by the staff members and regular customers. He had won Most Friendly Staff Member four consecutive times since his resumption four months ago. 

He was busy welcoming and checking customers outside the banking hall when he heard gunshots inside. He quickly dispatched a distress call to the district’s Police Division just down Marina and rushed inside the banking hall amidst warnings from his colleague. 

The succeeding events were quite fuzzy. He entered the Banking Hall… saw a masked man point a double barrelled shotgun at a pregnant woman who was raining obscenities at the robbers… knew what would happen next… and dived in front of the woman… He blanked out.

When he came to, he was lying in this abandoned factory, his gaze quite a blur. He felt as if he was slipping between heaven and earth. He heard voices but couldn’t discern if they were angels or demons… He tried to ask who they were but he couldn’t even move his lips. This was definitely not the end… this couldn’t be it… what happened to the call that he had received? 

He thought about the songs he was about to record… He had spent over five years working menial jobs and saving money to wax an afrobeat gospel album. In those five years, he had seen God move mightily everywhere he ministered. He couldn’t die just yet… His purpose had not yet been fulfilled. 

The verse that he had been meditating on all morning surfaced in his thoughts… Psalm 103:20 - Bless the Lord, you His angels, you mighty ones who do His commandments, hearkening to the Voice of His words. The verse came so strong that he thought he saw the verse float into his visual range… Lying there, struggling with what little oxygen was left in his brain, he tried to figure out what this meant. 

Then He remembered Psalm 91 saying that God has given His angels charge over us and Gomez knew there were angels around waiting for him to give the command. The voices he heard were angels that had been given charge over him… waiting for him to proclaim God’s word concerning the situation. 

The only verse he could think of that was relevant to his weakened body was By His stripes we are healed… he continued thinking about the verse till he felt energy surge from his feet to his lips… finally, the words floated out… first it was a whisper… then he heard himself… subsequently he screamed it …By Christ’s stripes I am healed. Then everything went white… 

When his vision cleared, he was still lying on his back but saw giant surgery lights… and giant surgeons that had halos around their bodies… they donned masks but he could see their eyes - they felt like orbs of love… forceps, scalpels, gauzes, scissors, sutures and more surgical appliances were passed over his frame but he felt no pain… then he passed out

He woke once again… the blood on the floor had caked and it was dark by now but he didn’t feel drained like the last time. His vision adjusted to his surroundings and he realized that he was still at the abandoned factory. He felt alive and full of energy like he’d just guzzled two cans of energy drink plus a cup of coffee… no, better… this felt like he had an elixir running in him that could not be described with human words. 

The first question that came to his thoughts was why did I even get shot in the first place…? He was a hot Christian that prayed at least three hours daily and meditated on the word in season and out of season… 

Gomez stood up and checked himself… there was a hole in his left breast pocket and the shirt was caked with dried blood… he ripped open the shirt but found no injury on his chest… he rubbed his body all over and found no injury… this was inexplicable… unbelievable couldn’t describe what he was feeling… no word could… 

Gomez suddenly realized what had happened and why… the pregnant woman in the banking hall was not a Christian… but her baby was a great apostle sent to his generation… and Gomez was a security guard at that particular branch of that particular bank for a particular day as this…

And you say God doesn’t conduct an orchestra?