Entanglement with a Prophet Part2

Short Story
Entanglement with a Prophet
By Lawrence Kadzitche

That Sunday I arrived at the church a bit late. The church building was a multi-purpose hall that had been rented by the prophet for his prayer services. It was weird that most Pentecostal churches did not have their own churches regardless of the size of their membership. Anyway, that was their business. When I parked my BMW among the cars filling the car park, it stood out like a bright flower among weeds.

I had everything planned to the smallest detail. I entered the church at a time when there was a pause in the service, when the prophet had just finished praying and said a loud amen. At that time, I waltzed in as if I was at the catwalk, my pure snow white dress not too tight or too loose but just the right fit to show every curve of my body, my elegant shiny white high heels tapping rhythmically on the tiled floor, my buxom behind shaking as if it had a life of its own.

The church was as silent as a graveyard. All eyes turned to me, at first attracted by the pitter-pattering of my shoes. The reactions on the faces of the congregation were varied but mostly of superstitious awe. Had I told them I was a lady angel I am sure some would have believed me mostly due to the beautiful white dress I was clad in. But I paid them no heed. My attention was glued at the prophet standing behind the altar.

The charlatan was of medium height and build. His wedge shaped head gave him the cunning look of a fox. The smile on his thin lips did not extend to his eyes. His small calculating eyes warned me that he was a crook with a mind geared for quick thinking. The effect of his expensive pink shimmering suit and shoes of the same colour was to give him a look of an overdressed clown. His clean shaven face showed noticeable use of skin lighting creams.

The prophet’s eyes darted up and down my body. Breasts jutting stubbornly forward, my hips swaying majestically, I saw his threadlike mouth drop open and his tiny eyes widen. I shook my head to allow my long dark hair fall on my shoulders. I knew I had cast the spell. As I got nearer to the front, I winked one of my eyes then let my tongue briefly run over my lips. I could clearly see the prophet swallow, his face congested with confusion.

Then I broke the spell and took the seat at the front which I had bribed one of the church’s ushers to reserve for me. The prophet quickly recovered his composure and the service proceeded. But I knew I had hit my mark because now and then he would cast an eye towards me. And without seeming to do it, I deliberately now and then crossed my legs for his benefit. By the way, the maxi dress I was wearing had a cleverly concealed slit that moved all the way to the knees.

During giving time, I walked slowly towards the altar, slightly swinging my hips, a small smile on my red lips. He wasn’t aware that he was staring at me until I looked up at him and our eyes met. I wrinkled my nose at him. I saw him swallow. Men do this when they see a woman they desire. I don’t why; maybe it’s in anticipation of the ‘deed’.

I threw a thick ward of South African Rands in the offering basket, noticed with satisfaction the prophet’s look of greed, gave him another look, and then gracefully turned. I could feel his eyes burning into my back as I walked back to my seat. For his benefit, I swung my booty to the tune of the choir. When the service’s collection was announced, the church broke into a tumultuous celebration when it was announced that five million kwachas had been collected with four million kwachas being in South African Rands. Everyone obviously guessed who had made such a magnanimous offering.

I noted that the pastor had to struggle to finish the service. Try as he would, his eyes would stray to where I sat. Whenever our eyes met, I smiled conspiratorially.

After the service, he found me waiting for him outside the church. “Good afternoon, papa,” I greeted him offering my hand. “I’m not a member of this church. But your sermon was so touching that I’ve decided to join the church.”

The prophet realised he was still holding my soft hand and hastily let it go but his slack jawed gaze remained as he looked at me. “Hallelujah. Let the Lord be praised.”

“I’m sorry I’d to give Rands. I have just come back from Cape Town so I haven’t had time to change my money into Kwachas.”

“No, no it’s fine,” he said. “I travel a lot to South Africa so the Rands will come in handy.”

I noticed with satisfaction the personalisation of the church’s finances. That would make my plan very easy.

“I’d love to learn more about the teachings of your church,” I paused, lowered my head a little, and then looked up at him. “Maybe you can arrange that one of the church elders should be coming to my house to teach me.”

The phoney church minister stared at me as if he had never seen a woman. And I goaded him on by looking at him with unfettered admiration. A man like that would find the idea of sending another man to my house rather unpalatable. And with the kind of offering I had made I knew he was already thinking of how to fleece this gullible sheep of more South African currency.

“Of course I’d have preferred if you could come yourself, Papa,” I said as if reading his mind. “But you must obviously be very busy with other duties.”

“No, no, no,” he said hastily. “I… I make sure I find time to visit each and every member of the church.”

I looked as pleased as a teenager. “Then you’ll come yourself?” I asked, biting my nails and looking at him from under my eyelashes.

With his face clogged with desire, all the man of God could do was nod his head.

“Thank you, prophet. By the way, my name is Matilda. I’m new to the township,” I shook the pastor’s hand to show that I was through with him. “I’ll wait for you tomorrow afternoon.”

It was a big operation. I had rented a big fully furnished house in the location for the operation. I still had not yet changed the South African registration number of my BMW.

The pastor kept his appointment. Staring out of the window, I watched him arrive in his glittering big Mercedes Benz which he parked in front of the house. As I had hoped, he was all alone. He approached my house, a bible clasped in his hands. He looked almost comical with the pink suit and matching pink shoes. It seemed pink was his favourite colour.

I waited until he knocked on the door. As planned, I was in a bathrobe. I wanted to pretend as if I had been taking a shower.

“Welcome, pastor,” I said in a sing song voice opening the door for him. I was against the sun and squinted provocatively at him. “Sorry, I was taking a bath.”

I had wrapped the towel cleverly so that a good part of the foot of my twin towers was visible. The prophet did not fail to notice this and quickly averted his eyes. Closing the door, I led him into the house and pointed with a sweep of my hand where he was supposed to sit. I sat directly opposite him, my thighs slightly apart.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t find any elder to accompany me at short notice so I just had to come alone,” the pastor apologised doing his best not to look at my thighs.

I almost laughed. He couldn’t find any elder to accompany him? Who was he kidding? I knew his game. While he was mainly after my money, he knew a bite at my sweet cherry would make it much easier for him to achieve his goal. He knew a woman in love was easy to manipulate. But what he didn’t know was that I was also going to use the same strategy to get at his money. The name of the game was ‘eat or be eaten’.

“I’m humbled that you still thought it important to come and visit me, papa,” I said looking at him coyly from under my eye lashes while biting a finger nail shyly.

“You’re a new member of our church,” he told me. “Naturally, I’d to give your call a priority, sister.”

I rolled my eyes coquettishly. “Amen!”

“I always consider that people that come to my church are sent there by God for a special purpose,” the prophet said condescendingly.

“I totally agree with you,” I replied, thinking of my mission. “God should have sent me to you for a purpose.”

“Of that I’m sure,” the pastor agreed. “I can see you play a great role in the growth of our church. The money you gave today will go a long way in our evangelism work.”

“One moment, prophet,” I said, suddenly jumping to my feet.

I went where I had left a jug of juice and two tumblers on a tray. I slowly bent with my back to the pastor to pick up the tray. The towel that I wore was so short that it revealed my red underwear which barely hid what was underneath. From a corner of my eye I saw him shift uncomfortably in his chair. When I turned he quickly pretended to be reading his bible.

It was plainly visible that the prophet was on fire. That was what I wanted. I knew he might not be easy to seduce. But what I was banking on most was that his greed would lead him into my trap.

“Feel at home, papa,” I said. “Let me quickly change into something.”

My plan was to seduce the prophet at that very first encounter. It was going to be a savage battle. Any delay would take the initiative out my hands and place me at the mercy of the conniving crook. I had to strike before he knew what I was planning to do.

So a few moments later, I came back wearing a floral print flimsy see through dress that clung to the curves of my body. I was carrying a big expensive bible. I eased myself beside him. I did not seem to notice that the dress was clinging to my body and only covered half my thighs. My killer big shapely breasts rested heavily against the light dress.

I had him completely off track and I don’t think he even knew what he was saying. I could see his mind was wondering as he incoherently mentioned verses. He couldn’t concentrate on the subject. How could he with me rubbing my sensual body against his?

“My fault,” I said suddenly. “I should tell you about my background so that you can decide what to tell me.”

The prophet was relieved. It had been impossible for him to talk with his heart beating wildly and his breath coming unevenly.

“It’s hot,” he said irrelevantly, loosening his necktie.

“You should take off the jacket,” I said, my hands reaching out for him. As I assisted him to remove the jacket, I deliberately brushed my boobs against his chest. I could almost feel his heart beating wildly.

As if in a trance, the prophet slipped his arm around me. That was all I needed. I threw my arms around him, kneading my lips into his, my breasts on his chest and my groin pressed firmly against his crotch. I could feel his ding dong kick and my hands slid into his trousers and without further ado we found ourselves playing the horizontal tango. My performance drove the prophet out of his mind.

I knew that the prophet was mainly interested in my money. So as we lay stark naked on the couch, bodies entwined, I let it slip out dreamily that I intended to open a chain of retail shops throughout the country. Without making a promise, I hinted that profits from the business could greatly assist in his ministry.

The wretched man’s face lighted up with greed. “You’re right. And that’ll work very well if I can put you in charge of church finances.”

Three weeks later, the prophet announced in church that God had visited him in a dream and commanded him to make me the church’s treasurer. With the hefty amounts of money that I had been contributing each Sunday, the church members found this a logical decision from God. After all, isn’t it dangerous to trust large sums of money to a poor man?

Greed, like love, blinds. Now the prophet was at a great disadvantage. He was both madly in love with me and also consumed with greed to con me out of my money. I pretended not to notice his evil designs and continued to pump in huge sums of money into the church coffers to gain his confidence. With a little nudging, he made me an alternate signatory of the church’s main bank account.

I suggested to him that instead of keeping the money idle in the church’s account, we should invest it in my businesses. “You can use the profits for your personal expenses,” I told him.

He fell for the idea and emptied the church’s money into my business. We did all this without any of the church leaders knowing. The good thing was that he and myself were the only signatories to the bank accounts. In addition, no one knew how much money the church had.

It wasn’t enough to disposes the crooked prophet of only his money. I needed to leave him with nothing the way he had left Joanna. I now focussed on his personal accounts.

“Darling, I’ve ordered goods from China,” I told him while running my hand on his hairy chest in a hotel room at the lake. “I need fifty million for customs duty; can you borrow me?”

“I only have twenty million in my account. But I’ll borrow the thirty million and use my house and vehicles as collateral.”

I sat on his chest and allowed him to cup my boobs. “Thanks, honey. You’re an angel.”

Within two weeks I had the fifty million. The next Saturday, when the prophet came to my house, a nasty surprise awaited him.

“Hi, prophet,” Joanna greeted him coldly.

The prophet reacted as if he was seeing a ghost. His composure evaporated, his mouth opening and closing like that of a barking dog.

Joanna smiled. “What is wrong, papa? It’s me Joanna, your daughter in Christ.”

Sweat broke on the prophet’s face and he wiped it with the back of his hand. He licked his emaciated lips which had suddenly gone dry. His breathing came in jerky sobs.

“Are you not feeling alright, baba?”

“I…I don’t understand…” he stammered his eyes darting back and forth from me to Joanna.

Joanna’s smiled but her smile did not extend to her eyes. “You’ll understand, soon brother of Jesus.”

The confused man of God staggered to where I was sitting and he collapsed beside me like a sack of maize. His face was a mask of both fear and confusion.

“Babe, what is happening?” he croaked.

I turned to look at him squarely in the eye. “She’s the devil and has come to collect to your soul.”

That was no exaggeration. Joanna was dressed in a black gown and for effect she had on a black cape that made her look like the Grim Reaper in fiction books. What was missing was just the scythe. Her crooked long artificial finger nails, also coloured black, had an unnerving effect.

“I don’t understand…”

“Let me break it down for you, babe. Years ago, this woman came to you seeking for help. You promised her that you’ll pray for her and she’ll get a husband if she made certain sacrifices. The sacrifices were essentially contributions of insane amounts of money. She kept her end of the bargain. But what did you do? Not only did you steal all her money, but you also sent along a crooked friend of yours to pretend as if he loved her and finish off whatever little money she had left. When she came to you for assistance, you threw her to the wolves. If that is not evil, then I don’t know what else is.”

I could see fear enveloping the prophet’s face as the information sank in. “I’m sorry, that was evil of me. I was just setting up the ministry and needed a lot of money to do that. But I can set it right now.”

“But you already did, prophet.”

“I did? How?”

“All our partnerships are dissolved. The money you invested has been given back to her,” I said with satisfaction.

“What?” the question was wrung from the pit of his stomach.

“Check mate. You’ve lost everything, man of God.”

The prophet got to his knees and clasped his hands together in a begging attitude. “Please don’t this to me. How will I survive?”

“You’ve tricked countless people, ruined their lives. Do you ever ask yourself that question when you’re swindling them? Did you ask yourself that question when you were defrauding Joanna?” I asked harshly.

The prophet’s response was to whimper like a dog.

“You like to do this, you fake prophets m. You cheat people out of their money using the name of God. Now it’s your turn to feel the pain.”

“Babe, please…”

“Don’t babe me,” I retorted. “I told you all our relationships are dissolved. Now get out!”

“But what will I say to the church? What will I say to the loan sharks? I’ll lose everything.”

I smiled evilly. “You’ve already lost everything. And I’ve already taken measures to ensure that you don’t destroy any more people’s lives using the name of God or go to the police,” I said inserting a DVD into the DVD prayer. I hit the play button. The video showed the prophet fully naked making love to a woman. The woman was me but the video had been shot in a way that the only person who could be identified was the prophet. “If you go to the police or continue to lie that you’re a prophet, I will send the video on social media and that will seal your fate. Find another trade; you’re done masquerading a man of God.”

Josphat Gwayi, the fake man of God wanted to say something but knew it would be useless. He was finished as a man of the cloth. I had put paid to his lucrative business as a prophet.

When he left, he had the bent back and unsteady walk of an old man. He was now not even as poor as a church mouse. At least a mouse had a church to shelter in. Without his church, he was poorer than a church mouse.

End.