CHAPTER 27 – THIS FAMILY CALLED MINE: COLOUR US UP

© Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the LIVING WORD

Setemi, Pamilerin, and I were seated in front of Aunty Favour. She had gone quiet, her eyes shut tightly after I narrated the different dreams and visions we had received.

I had called her earlier, and she told us to come to the Lighthouse immediately.

“Sisters, close your eyes and let’s pray,” she said eventually.

“Oh Lord, we thank You for this dear family. Thank You for these wonderful daughters of Zion. Thank You because it is Your desire that they live in peace. These ones have been mistreated by their father simply because they are daughters…and even in death, their father’s wealth seems to be causing them pain. Just like the daughters of Zelophehad in the Scriptures, these daughters deserve to have the life You destined for them. Oh Lord, speak to us concerning this case. Open our eyes to see the things that are hidden… in Jesus’ name.”

Suddenly, it felt like someone hit me on the head. I screamed and fell to the ground.

The falling felt like I was entering a tunnel, and I began hearing my parents’ voices…

“Don’t frustrate me! Are you blind? Do I have money? When you gave me weak girls as children, why would I have money?” my father yelled.

“Is it my fault I had girls? Is it not what you gave me that I birthed?” my mother replied.

A loud slap followed.

“So, you’re saying I’m the weak one?”

By this time, I found myself in a completely white room, surrounded by screens. Each one was showing a different video.

I turned to the first screen.

I saw my father struggling to sell his paintings in traffic. No one was buying. People mocked him.

“Oga, your painting no fine! Go find better job!”

I watched him return to the gallery, and just then, my stepmother (then still his mistress) walked in. Her stomach was slightly protruding…she was pregnant.

“Stephen… Why the long face?”

“I haven’t sold anything today.”

“Hmm… Don’t you think you should take my advice? Let us go and see a traditionalist. Your Christian prayers don’t seem to be working.”

“I’m scared of what usually comes with going to such people.”

“I hope this isn’t about what you see in African movies? Don’t believe everything you watch. Let’s just try it. If we get there and you’re not comfortable with what he says, then we’ll leave.”

My father gave her a long look before saying…

“Okay. Thank you for being so caring, unlike my wife who never even asks about how the business is going. All she cares about is money to take care of her miserable daughters.”

I shook my head in anger. That was far from the truth. My father had gaslighted my mother so much that she thought she was the problem. She believed she was too dumb to give him business advice. So, showing any form of concern about his work would’ve been out of character.

As I processed that thought, the next screen revealed more.

I saw my stepmother taking my father to a man with full white beards.

“Your hands are the problem,” the man said. “They lack colour. Wherever you paint, people don’t see colour…they see emptiness.”

“Ha!” My father exclaimed.

“But don’t worry. There is a solution. We need to paint your hands with colour.”

“Okay. That won’t be a problem. Which colours should I bring…and how much of them?” my father asked, hopeful.

“You need five colours of albinos, five colours of pregnant women, three colours of hardworking men, and two colours of children,” the man said, coldly and without remorse.

I could read the confusion on my father’s face.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Man is made of colour. The blood is the colour red. If you soak your hands in the blood of any human and use it to paint, your painting will have colours.” The man explained, emotionless.

My father was stunned. But he asked the obvious question…

“How do I get the blood of people to paint?”

“Are you asking me?” The man chuckled. “Maybe you should go and beg them for it.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Then I saw my stepmother whisper to my father, though I could hear it loud and clear in that realm…

“Sacrifice… Human sacrifice.”

I jerked back in fear.

Simultaneously, my father did too.

“Kill someone? Take their blood?” he asked, horrified.

“Listen, there’s bad luck rooted in your foundation,” the man said flatly. “If you paint from now till forever, you will never amount to anything in life. You need to steal colours from others and add it to your own colourless life.”

I gasped in horror, tears stinging my eyes.

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