The Horrors of Indoctrination

Chapter 3: Descent into Delusion

Chapter 3: Descent into Delusion

From the earliest days of their childhood, Sheri and her siblings were steeped in the teachings of Heavenly Gates Church. Approximately two thousand of the church members lived within the Central province of Kenya and were predominantly from the Kikuyu tribe. A few hundred others were spread across the country and came from other tribes such as Akamba, Dhuluo, and Kisii — a small community because of the influence it had over Kiambutu village. Baba Maina was one of the church’s earliest converts. He was attracted by the powerful speeches of Isaiah Mwangi, who claimed to be a prophet.

Mwangi taught strict religious beliefs that rejected modern medicine, calling it the devil’s work. Instead, he preached that only faith and prayer could cure sickness and get rid of evil. The church’s steadfast adherence to faith healing and rejection of medical intervention shaped Sheri’s upbringing. She was raised to believe that prayer and laying on of hands could heal any sickness. Because of this belief, any discussion between physicians, pharmacists, or hospitals was greeted with disapproval and condemnation.

The Bible was a venerated book that governed every part of their life and contained the core of their beliefs. For the congregation, one verse was especially significant: “Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church to pray over them and anoint them with oil in the name of the Lord” (James 5:14, NIV).

Living by these scriptures, the Heavenly Gates Church had a special way of treating the sick. Whenever a member of the congregation got sick, the elders would be called to the sick person’s bedside and hold out their hands in prayer, calling on the name of the lord. It was an austere ritual, filled with the profound belief that the ailing person would be healed and restored to health by God’s grace.

So, when baby Sheri had fallen gravely ill with a raging fever at just six months old, Baba Maina refused to take her to the village clinic. Instead, he and Mama Maina stayed awake night after night, muttering chants and sprinkling holy water over Sheri’s tiny, listless form as she clung to life. Luckily, she got better after a few weeks and there was a lot of jubilation after their faith defeated the works of the enemy.

Years later, that strict doctrine extended to even the most mundane aspects of life for the Heavenly Gates faithful. Aside from the belief in faith healing through the laying on of hands, the church had other peculiar customs: Women, including girls like Mumbi and her sister Sheri, were expected to cover their heads and wear ankle-length printed dresses, part of Mwangi’s insistence on preserving biblical virtues of humility, obedience, and piety.

For Mumbi and her siblings, this was normal. However, as she got older, she realized how strange these ideas seemed to people who weren’t part of their group. With their heads covered in scarves and their bodies covered in long, flowing gowns, the women of the congregation would frequently draw criticism from outsiders. The traditions of the Heavenly Gates Church appeared out of date to them, remnants of an earlier time clinging incessantly to the present.

Sheri, on the other hand, had always found comfort in the flow of her faith, even in the face of outside murmurs and looks. She had made wearing ankle-length gowns and covering her head second nature; it was a concrete way to show her love for God and adherence to church doctrine. But Mumbi always had reservations from the moment she knew her own name.

Whenever Mumbi’s parents sent her to the shop, she would walk a safe distance from the wooden house, look around to make sure Mama Maina wouldn’t see her through the small cracks in the window, and after making sure the course was clear, she would remove her headscarf and stash it in the homestead’s thorned fence. She would then pick it up on her way back. She’d fold her long ankle-length gown at the waist and tuck part of it into her biker shorts so that it wasn’t as long.

For everyone else in this household, their faith was unshakable in the face of the church’s increasingly extreme beliefs. Or so it seemed. When Sheri’s leg became afflicted with that terrible, unhealing wound, they turned not to medical treatment but to ceaseless, desperate prayer. While these beliefs sounded crazy to outsiders, the members of Heavenly Gates Church remained steadfast. Perhaps it was the uniqueness of this community that kept its members together. Sheri’s family found a support system unmatched in the church. Their faith acted as a unifying factor that spanned divisions, creating strong bonds as they rejoiced in one another’s victories and came together in times of need. Whether it was a happy occasion like a baptism or a somber one like a burial, the congregation stood by each other, providing consolation, counsel, and intercessory prayers.

As for Mumbi, she desperately wanted to abandon this outdated faith, but how could she when her own father was a centerpiece in this church? He was one of the earliest members, and the story of how he joined the church was told as a bedtime story almost every night. Baba Maina took so much pride in it. “The year was 1978,” he would begin narrating. But he always left out the most important part of the story, the part where he was warned about joining Mwangi’s church.

At the time Kamau joined, he was a struggling farmer, toiling endlessly to provide for his pregnant wife and two young children. One evening, as the relentless African sun began to dip below the horizon, Kamau headed home, shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Preparing for the long journey ahead, he loosened the collar of his tattered shirt as he walked along the dirt road.

That’s when he noticed a crowd gathered near the village center, voices raised in a clamor. Intrigued, he changed his path to see what was happening. As he pushed through the crowd, he was struck by the sight of a man standing on an overturned crate, dressed in a rough, brown robe. His eyes burned with strong belief as he preached passionately to the captivated crowd. “My brothers and sisters!” the preacher’s voice boomed. “For too long we have been held back by the wickedness of the outside world! The corrupting influences of their godless technology and material obsessions have pulled us from the path of righteousness!”

A few people in the crowd shouted and cheered in agreement, raising their fists in the air. Kamau watched the mesmerizing scene with great interest. “But I, the Prophet Isaiah Mwangi, have been chosen to lead our people back into the light!” Mwangi proclaimed. “To guide you away from those poisonous vices and into pure spirituality!” Kamau felt an intense pull towards Mwangi’s powerful preaching. Up close, sweat glistened on the preacher’s brow, and his eyes seemed to glow brightly from within. As if noticing a new person in the crowd, Mwangi locked eyes with Kamau. “You, my son, I can perceive the weariness and emptiness devouring you from within. The futile struggle for survival in this tainted, material world.”

Mwangi descended from the crate and pushed his way toward Kamau. Grabbing his arm firmly with his rough hand, he said in a deep, rumbling voice, “But I can take away that empty feeling. Let me make you one of my important followers an apostle to help cultivate our people’s long-overdue reawakening.” Kamau felt special for being singled out but remained humble. “I... I am just a simple farmer. Surely, I am not worthy of such an important call?” A small smile appeared on Mwangi’s weathered face as he squeezed Kamau’s arm reassuringly. “Do not be modest. I can sense a powerful inner light within you, straining to break free and become transcendent.”

With a sweeping gesture, Mwangi addressed the entire gathering. “Come with me! Leave your poor life behind and become one of my special followers to help me purify our people’s ancient spirit! Let me raise you from being a poor worker to an honored spiritual fighter in the coming revival!” The crowd waited in silence, eager to hear Kamau’s answer. Kamau felt Mwangi’s intense belief surround him, stirring something deep inside his heart.

Finally, Kamau nodded, agreeing. “Yes… Prophet. I’ll join your church so that I may aid your noble crusade.”

Mwangi smiled proudly and embraced Kamau. Turning to the congregation, he shouted, “Our small group has grown bigger with a new member who follows the right path. A new bearer of the sacred flame that shall burn away the old and ignite our glorious rebirth!” As Mwangi moved back to the front, Kamau closed his eyes, his mind whirling with the realization that this encounter had set him on a path he couldn’t turn back from.

The chants and exaltations still rang in his ears as he walked home through dusk. Prophet Mwangi’s words had awakened something primal within him yearning for a higher purpose he had never known he possessed.

So consumed in his reflections, Kamau didn’t immediately notice the person trailing behind him on the dirt path. It wasn’t until a voice called out that he became aware of the old man.

“You are there! Young man, hold a moment.”

Kamau stopped, squinting his eyes and frowning as he looked back. The old man, bent over, gestured for him to wait.

As the figure drew closer, Kamau recognized Babu, the village elder, his deeply creased face barely visible beneath the scarf wrapped around his head.

“Babu...” Kamau said carefully. “Is everything okay? Why the headscarf?”

“Ignore the scarf,” Babu muttered.

“I couldn’t help but notice you among that mad preacher’s flock this evening. Tell me you haven’t drunk deep of his poisoned words, son.”

Kamau was taken aback. “That was no mere preacher, but the Prophet Mwangi himself, chosen by the Creator.”

“Chosen to lead our people to ruin and damnation, more like,” Babu interrupted with a scowl. “I’ve heard dark whispers about that one’s cult. The terrible rituals and deprivations he inflicts upon his followers, all in pursuit of deluded dogma.” The old man moved closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “People say that many years ago, a terrible tragedy happened at the church he used to lead. They say he made his congregation starve themselves through constant fasting. He forced them to follow extremely strict and painful religious practices.”

Babu stepped closer and fixed Kamau with a hard stare. “It ended with every single member dying in painful ways because of him. And now their suffering spirits remain forever hungry, cursed to haunt anyone who comes under Mwangi’s influence.”

Kamau felt a shiver run down his spine, even though he didn’t want to believe it.

“A-Are you kidding, Babu? That’s just a made-up story to frighten naughty kids.”

“I wish that were so, Kamau,” Babu sighed. “But I’ve seen dried-up dead bodies with my own eyes when I was younger. Their bodies were scattered around the broken church in the forest like sad sculptures. Their eyes were empty, and their ribs stuck out.”

Babu stared at Kamau. “Listen to me carefully, son. Stop listening to that smooth-talking liar before he ruins your life and the lives of those you care about. It’s not worth inviting trouble by messing with things that bring nothing but evil.”

With that, Babu turned and walked away quickly, disappearing into the gathering dusk like a ghost. Kamau stood, unsure of what to make of the old man’s story. Could there be any truth to it? Or was Babu simply trying to dissuade him from following the prophet with ghost stories? Kamau shook his head as if to clear his mind. No, those wild stories were probably just meant to scare people from following someone who truly believed. Though uneasy, he felt strongly that he should follow the prophet’s teachings, even if some people were telling spooky tales to stop him.

Kamau continued his way home, pushing open the creaky gate. As he entered the house, he felt something unsettling stir within him, but he brushed it aside. Inside, his wife Wanja looked up from feeding their youngest by the low-burning charcoal stove.

“Ah, there you are,” she smiled. “The evening meal is nearly ready.”

Kamau didn’t respond immediately. He lowered himself to the packed earth floor, lost in thought.

Wanja noticed his pensive expression and asked, “Kamau? Is something troubling you?”

Kamau paused before meeting her gaze, his eyes burning with newfound conviction. “I’ve had... a revelation today. An encounter with the true path towards deliverance and rebirth.”

Wanja frowned in confusion. Kamau took her hand in his calloused grip.

“You know how I’ve struggled to find blessing in the fickle soils, how I’ve felt adrift from purpose despite my tireless efforts to provide.”

His eyes locked on hers with intensity. “But today, I have beheld the vessel for our salvation from this tired, empty existence.”

Though Wanja tried to remain calm, she felt uneasy growing within her. “Kamau... what are you saying? You’re not making sense.”

Kamau’s gaze intensified as he released her hand and gestured broadly. “His name is Isaiah Mwangi. A true prophet sent to us by the Creator!” Wanja’s eyes widened. She tried to speak, but Kamau continued with rising passion.

“Mwangi has been chosen to lead us back from sin and material obsession! He’s a guide to spiritual awakening!” Kamau seized her shoulders. “And I’ve been chosen as one of his apostles!”

The wild look in his eyes unsettled her. Gently, but firmly, she disengaged from his grasp.

“Kamau... you can’t be serious.”

Wanja’s voice trembled with apprehension. “This Mwangi is a false prophet, a madman. What you’re describing sounds more like a doomsday cult!”

Kamau stared at her, hurt and insistent. “How can you be so blasphemous? This is our path to transcendence as a family!”

Rising to his feet, Kamau’s voice boomed, “You and the children will join me this Sunday to Mwangi’s service!”

Wanja’s throat went dry. Kamau’s eyes were wild, and she was afraid. “That mad preacher has addled your mind,” she whispered. “He’s weaving a spell of delusion for his own gain.”

Kamau roared, “Enough of your heathen doubts!” The infant startled, wailing.

“On Sunday, we shall enter Mwangi’s church as a family!” Kamau stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Wanja clutched her screaming child, tears streaming down her face. What had taken root in her husband’s mind that day? And what price would they all have to pay for his newfound ‘awakening’?