Free Where Women are Kings by Christie Watson

came knocking, and would take down the note from her door that said,
One hour, one pound, per child
. I waved at her a few times but she was hardly ever on the balcony and kept the children inside with the curtains closed and television on loud. The flat on the other side was quieter and always smelt of burning plantain, sweet and fiery at the same time. Men went in and out, and hung around the doorway. Bad-looking men. Those kinds of men would have been arrested in Lagos, simply for looking the way they did – shifty-eyed and furtive, like they’d committed a crime. Akpan told me to stay away from that doorway as bad people lived there, but, son of mine, I had a brain in my head and could see for myself. I made the sign of the cross whenever I walked quickly past. But they didn’t bother us, and so we didn’t bother them. Our flat was desperate for decoration; the carpet had lived many generations and the pattern was difficult to see, but cleanliness is next to Godliness, as you know, and so I did my best, keeping the surfaces clean, filling the air with the smell of jollof rice. I had Akpan buy plenty of bleach and small wipes in a yellow packet that removed the smell of the mouse, for a few minutes at least. We were not rich, and it was not a palace, but those first few months of living in Deptford were magical, filled with brightness. We lived in our own little cloud. Akpan would return from his work and we’d sit on the balcony and look out acrossLondon, while I fried some plantain and listened to his stories. He liked to tell me about his childhood and the games he played, the school he loved where he was president of the chess society. We heard of a church, Deliverance Church, which was at the end of Deptford High Street, next to the stalls selling coats and bathroom products, bin bags and trainers, and was run by Bishop Fortune, a Nigerian man from Jos.
    The church was beautiful, the pulpit filled with gospel singers, the floors clean enough to eat off, the Nigerian congregation pressed into their neatest clothes. When we first met him, Akpan shook Bishop’s hand so enthusiastically I thought he was hurting the poor Bishop, but he simply laughed. ‘Welcome! Welcome!’ he said. ‘I’m Bishop Fortune Oladipo Jerusalem Pilgrim at your service, sir! If our Muslim brothers and sisters can have their Mecca, then why can we not?’
    Akpan had laughed and lit up like a star. He’d taken home a card, given to him by the Bishop, and Blu-tacked it to the wall above our bed:
    Bishop Fortune Oladipo J.P. (The Doctor of Souls).
Owner and Manager of Deliverance Church,
41 Hill Street, Deptford –
where the Devil is
NOT WELCOME.
    Fighting Evil with God-Given Powers

by Bishop Fortune Oladipo
is for sale at £4.99 from Evangelical Book Shop,
London SE5 7RY
    We attended that church all the time, Elijah. We were so impressed by the four-wheel-drive cars parked outside, theflash of the Rolex watches coming from the men in the congregation. The Bishop impressed us the most: he wore a different silk suit every time we saw him, and had a reputation for exorcising evil spirits.
    ‘He has a private jet,’ one of the congregation, a smart man, whispered during the Sunday sermon. He always wore a waistcoat, and Akpan always nodded to him. ‘He uses it to fly back to Nigeria whenever he feels like it.’
    It didn’t surprise me at all, Elijah. My own Uncle Pastor was a miracle maker, and so he was, by then, a famous man, and also very rich. He owned four television sets as big as wheelbarrows, a fleet of Mercedes, and had his suits imported directly from Italy. It was Uncle Pastor who’d paid for our large house and school uniforms, as Baba’s mechanic’s salary was barely enough to cover Mummy’s cooking pots, and my grandparents were too old to work. Uncle Pastor performed miracles at Guaranteed Success Ministries. His sermons were a concert of the greatest music ever played. The Holy Ghost Night Programme at Guaranteed