The Great Convert

The fangs of a tiger and the mouth of a mosquito are capable of the same harm.

—Igbo proverb

In many of his sermons, Fr. Paul talked about the process of sanctification. He would stand on the altar, his arms half-concealed in his flowing white robe with yellow stripes, and his steps lissom as he moved about the altar, speaking and gesticulating while the congregation sat in silence as if hypnotized. Although it is now nine years past, the memory of these things is so sharp in my mind that I can still vividly recall the exact words he often used: “It is a process, a divine process akin to that of childbearing. Christ tears down the once imperforate veil of sin with the tempered force of his divine presence. And this,” he would say with great assurance, letting his eyes dart from row to row, “is the way of sanctification; of transformation.”

His own transformation began one Sunday morning in March 1984, when a band of armed robbers stormed our church during a service. Mass was going on and Fr. Paul was about to bless the sacrament, his hands raised over the bowl containing the Holy Communion, when the service was interrupted by a blast of gunshots. Within a breath, armed men entered the cathedral from all the entrances, screaming: “All of you get down. Get down! Down!” There was an immediate response as the congregation of over two hundred people flattened on the paved floor. One of the men pointed his gun to the roof again and, after a thunderous roar, I saw a bullet perforate one of the blades of the ceiling fan. From where I lay on my back near the front seat of the auditorium, I watched the hole in the now dented fan blade swirl like a revolving eye. Although the entire congregation had lain on the floor, Fr. Paul did not. He stood firmly behind the wooden podium, his hands on the Bible half-opened in front of him. As he would tell me later, although he’d found himself trembling, he’d felt as though two long nails had been driven through his feet into the firm ground, rendering him immobile. This defiance surprised the bandits.

“Father,” one of the men called from behind a scarified black mask. “The great Blackson greets you in the name of the Lord.”

“Bless you, my friend. What brings you to the house of the Lord?” Fr. Paul said in a voice that betrayed no fear whatsoever.

The robber glanced back to his men in amazement. Two of them stood by the door of the church, their eyes scanning the streets, while the other two were scattered across the congregation, pointing their guns at the people now lying flat on the ground.

“I have come to visit,” Blackson said.

“Why then did you come with guns to the house of God?”

This sent the gang members laughing, but Blackson chewed them out.

“Quiet!” he cried. “Father, here, has asked an innocent question and I don’t think it’s funny.”

“Father, we have simply come to steal, to grab our share of the new parish building funds collected just before we arrived,” he said, turning to Fr. Paul.

At that, Fr. Paul’s voice broke into laughter, sending pellets of fear into my nerves where I lay, for accounts of how vicious armed robbers could be were well-known in Akure at the time. Just the previous year, a particularly evil group had attacked the house of a member of our church, taken his money and shot him.

“Permit me, Blackson, it was my turn to laugh,” Fr. Paul said.

A heart-slicing silence followed this remark, for every ear that heard those words had been shaken by Fr. Paul’s seemingly suicidal courage. A strong bout of sorrow seized me and my fear swelled to the point of tears when, in reply to Fr. Paul’s laughter and words, one of the robbers said: “Blacky, should we blast his skull?”

“No!” Blackson barked. “You all keep out of this, you hear me? Keep...