My mouth has stayed opened in shock for about a minute now. My legs too. They are hanging on Pastor Ladi’s shoulders and I don’t seem to be able to close either of them because I can’t believe who just opened the door.
Everything seems to have run through my mind in that one minute, like a movie, one that must never be released.
I had been Pastor Ladi’s secretary for only three months when this rubbish began; after he singled me out of the church choir to become his secretary.
The first time I saw Pastor, on TV, I knew he was a true man of God; anointed and sent by God to deliver this generation from all oppression of the devil, the one they say wears Prada.
Pastor Ladi is a fine man of God. That must be said. He is the kind of man you pray to at least have as a concubine, if he can’t be your husband. And I’m not just referring to his amazing Italian suits and distinctive haircuts that you see on TV. I have seen what you have not seen.
“Mummy is a vegetable in bed!” He yelled. I had never heard him talk about his wife this way before.
I was sure that wasn’t him talking, it had to be the demons. I knew when it was Pastor Ladi talking, like when he quickly corrected himself and said, “Sorry, I mean, she is always so boring,” and then the demons completed the sentence for him: “Sandy baby, you have to understand.” His voice was pretentiously calm.
“Anytime I see you from behind when you leave my office, something happens in my brain.”
“I’m serious Sandra!”
“But sir, you taught us that Job made a covenant with his eyes…”
“Am I Job? Tell me Sandra, did Job marry my kind of wife?” The demons. They paused and an awkward silence followed. Then he broke it.
“Sandra, please, it will remain a secret between us. Nobody has to know about this. You are simply helping your pastor in order to save his marriage, please.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Pastor Ladi? The same Pastor Ladi? This had to be the work of our adversary, the devil, mentioned in the book of First Peter Chapter five, no doubt about it.
Well, that was about six months ago now.
And yes, you can crucify me all you want for letting Pastor have his way with me, but I doubt if you would have wished to be in my shoes for one day. I wore those shoes for two full months before Pastor took them off forcefully, against my will. That too is a story for another day.
But then, he was a clearly happy man these days. Not that he wasn’t happy before, but this was different. He had become extremely bubbly and was always animated. Everybody could tell that something was different about Pastor. I could see something else.
The anointing of God has departed from him. These days, the kind of miracles that happen in church are those minor healing of headaches and stomach pains, unlike those days that cancer disappeared and tumours melted like wax. These days, Pastor almost has to push people down when he is trying to transfer the anointing to them, unlike those days when he could throw it to them from as far as the altar. What is that thing they say about having to exert force when the knife is blunt? Or maybe it’s all in my mind.
But I’ve actually seen Pastor Ladi cry once. At least he shed tears and told me how he didn’t really want to be doing this with me, how he feels guilty each time he gets home and has no interest whatsoever in making love to Mummy. Not that she cared anyway. I’m sure he must have also noticed that he now has to struggle to do certain things he could do so effortlessly before, because of the anointing. He sounded very repentant and I was already beginning to think about bracing myself. But he was soon back between my legs.
Pastor always says the right words when we fornicate. He knows exactly what to do and say at the right time. If he is not asking you a question, he is producing those encouraging sounds that tell you you’re doing something right. He knows when to touch and when to refrain from touching. I can’t say more than this, I am a born again sister.
But this in itself was what made me worried when I began to get worried. I always wondered how come he was so good in bed; how come he never needed help with anything when it came to sex and he always assured me I was his source of joy and told me a million and two extra reasons why I must never leave him. Until today.
Pastor came into the office in a hurry and stepped out in a scurry. He didn’t even remember to compliment my new hair-do as he told me to print out his flight schedule and then dashed out for the meeting he was to have with the Zonal Pastors.
When I was ready to go into his office, I took the Don Moen CD I had been playing along so I could play it on his laptop as I worked. As I opened his CD-rom, something jumped at me. A DVD. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He had probably forgotten it in his laptop.
The perfectly shaped women whose pictures were on the disc, the shape of their breasts, I knew they were sham; it had to be bust enlargement or something more ridiculous. But these were the women I and mummy were meant to compete against in pastor’s life. Mummy didn’t even stand a chance here. My feet weakened steadily.
Then it hit me how much of a fool I had been. I was simply Pastor’s cheap way of fulfilling his sexual fantasies. No wonder. This explains all the crazy styles and funny comments Pastor makes when he is behind me and I’m looking back at him, moaning. Like when he is spanking me and asking, “Who’s your daddy?!!!” and I’m thinking he is referring to the fact that we call him ‘Daddy’ and call his wife ‘Mummy’.
I became overwhelmed with guilt. I wanted immediately to stop sleeping with Pastor. After all, I’m not really his only source of joy, I am just a toy. But where do I start from? How do I tell anyone that our pastor, the highly revered Pastor Oladipupo Williams of Church Gate Sanctuary, is hooked to porn and to me?
Well, I was going to talk to him when he returned from that meeting. I would tell him that I had discovered his secret and that I wanted out of this whole thing. I cried in the mean time.
Pastor returned very late. I had fallen asleep and woken up twice on the couch in his office by the time he returned.
“Sandra!” He tapped my bum. He must have been calling me for a while as I stretched out of slumber. “Have you printed what I asked for?” he queried, making his way to his table. His voice quaked, like he had been shouting.
“Yes sir,” I said reluctantly.
“When do you want to go home today? It’s getting late, and everybody else is gone,” he began as usual. I knew what was to follow but I wasn’t having any of that today.
“I’ll leave after I have a word with you sir.” I had never really been able to throw the ‘sir’ away despite all our escapades.
“What’s that about?”
I sat up on the couch and walked towards his table. I wasn’t really sure how to go about this anymore. Do I turn this into a shouting match and walk away telling him it was all over between us? Or do I just play along for a bit and see if he would deny or own up to me?
“What is it Sandra?” His fractured voice interrupted my thoughts. He was already coming towards me. He was that way, very caring and always very concerned.
“I want to ask you a question sir.”
He lifted me and placed me on the table gently and began to fondle my breasts.
“I want us to talk, please.”
“About what? I’ve missed you.” I dodged as he tried to kiss me. It landed on my cheeks and then he kissed me down to my neck. He knew I couldn’t stand this.
“Sir…” my voice began to quiver like his. His right hand was between my legs.
He lifted my blouse with his left and tried to pull it about my head and then I helped him. My blouse hadn’t landed on the floor when I felt his hands on my breasts, setting them free from my bra. He must have learnt this from the DVD too. I wanted to push him away, but my hands went around his neck and I pulled him close and kissed him.
He laid my back on the table and released his belt. His trousers fell to his shoes, and then he lifted my legs and placed them on his shoulders.
That was when we heard the sound of the door opening.
(All characters, names and events in this story are fictional and a creation of the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to any real persons or occurrences is simply a coincidence).
‘Seun Salami is a writer and editor. He is the author of ‘The son of your father’s concubine’, a collection of short stories. You can follow him on twitter @SeunWrites