The Horrors of Indoctrination

Chapter 10: Plotting Vengeance

Chapter 10: Plotting Vengeance

When Mary joined Mwangi’s church over two decades ago, she had no idea that one day she would sit in her dimly lit house planning how she’d take the old man out. In fact, it started off so harmlessly, as many descents into damnation do.

Mary was just a young, directionless mother. Her husband had left them before their son Josiah’s first birthday. Her family was just her son, whom she nicknamed Jose. With no family or money, they wandered from village to village, looking for any community that might welcome them. Being a single mother was not glamorous at all.

Mary was ashamed of it and moving from one place to another seemed like a great idea. That way, she wouldn’t have to face people from her own village with shame. She could lie to people that her husband had traveled to work, then leave before anyone got to know her any deeper. So, when the people from the Heavenly Gates Church first found them on the dusty trails in Kiambutu village, Mary felt accepted for the first time in a long time.

At first, their kind smiles and offers of a caring community where mother and child would always find compassion and spiritual support seemed like a miracle to Mary. “Our arms are open to all seekers yearning for the rebirth promised through the prophet’s teachings,” the soft-spoken elder named Kiania had told her that day. “Our community reveals the deepest spiritual realities to anyone willing to open their mind.”

Holding baby Josiah tightly, Mary looked at the calm-faced elders with hope. After months of begging and sleeping in ditches, the idea of a permanent home and support was a huge relief from their endless hardships.

“I don’t have much to offer except my willingness to obey,” she replied uncertainly. “But would you really take in a single mother and her child?”

Kiania’s warm smile didn’t fade as he acknowledged her situation with empathy. “It is our duty to help those lost and in need. The prophet’s teachings will heal your spirit and guide you to a better life.”

Mary felt a soothing comfort from his words. After so many months of pain and wandering, she had found a sanctuary and a new family. This began Mary’s gradual integration into the daily life and beliefs of Heavenly Gates’ unique community.

The chants, praise, and prayers soon became second nature, filling her with a deep sense of community and connection to Mwangi’s path to the new awakening. Yet, even as she found peace in these routines, she couldn’t ignore the increasing strangeness surrounding some of the church’s inner circles and secretive rites.

Words like “rebirth” and “cleansing” were spoken more often and made less and less sense to those outside the elders’ circles.

Also, she witnessed a few people facing the wrath of the prophet after getting fed up with the way of doing things. Still, the comforts of community and her growing son’s happiness were strong distractions from the oddities gathering within their sanctuary.

But as her son grew into a fine young man, he started to question their beliefs. Mary should have known better. After all, she was a follower of Mwangi for over a decade.

When her son started questioning the legitimacy of the prophet’s doctrine, Mary thought she had some sort of immunity against Mwangi’s over-the-top punishments. Until that fateful evening forever marked by horror and betrayal. Mary had just put food on the table after their evening prayers when a strange series of knocks sounded through their home walls.

Puzzled, she went to the door and opened it slightly... to see a few elders and several stern-faced men in robes, holding heavy chains. “Elder...” Mary began, moving to open the door wider in greeting. “This unexpected visit—” She never finished, as the men forced the door open, sending her staggering back into the house.

“Traitor...!” one elder hissed with venom, rushing in with his followers. “You’ve betrayed the same people that took you in when you had no one to turn to!”

They advanced on the stunned Mary with terrifying intent. But it was the fire in the elders’ eyes that sparked the first feelings of worry in her heart. “Your son has rejected sacred knowledge and disrupted our spiritual harmony!” The once-soothing voices had turned into harsh words that stabbed at Mary’s mind as they closed in on her. “Your son must be taken according to our laws!” Josiah rushed from the bedroom as the elders’ presence caused chaos in the living room. Mary felt her world crumbling into torn fragments. Without another word, Mwangi’s followers whisked Jose away and pushed him out into the darkness.

Later, after being subjected to terrible rituals, there, on a raised platform, she could hear her young Josiah screaming from the church. She had tried to follow in the dark, but she was too afraid to witness her son’s end. So, Mary stumbled blindly through the dark night back to her house, her vision blurred by the tears streaming down her face. The prophecies, miracles, and teachings of the Heavenly Gates Church, which she had believed in for years, were all lies hiding a horrible truth.

Prophet Mwangi and his group of twisted followers had sacrificed her only son, Josiah, in a terrible ritual to gain even more power over their followers. He said it was the only way Josiah’s sins could be forgiven. It’s what he got from trying to turn people against his teachings. Her heart felt shattered into a thousand sharp pieces that cut her with every breath. How could they do this? How could the people she trusted with her faith commit such an evil act?

A deep cry of pain came from within her as Mary collapsed against the only seat she had in her mud house. She cried until her throat was raw, and her eyes were swollen. Through her tears, she looked at her hands tough and calloused from years of hard work. Hands that hugged her son with love. Hands that had worked the soil to feed the prophet and his servants for years.

Those same hands slowly curled into tight fists as anger replaced her sorrow. The prophet and his followers would pay for their unforgivable acts. For Josiah, she would make them suffer. They had taken everything from her, so she would take everything from them.

Then, a memory from just before she joined the church returned to her. She was moving from one village to another, trying to find a home for her and Josiah. When Mwangi initiated her into his church, she was promised a family if she fed the prophet and followed his teachings. Since she had to work the ground to cater to the needs of the ever-growing group, she had traversed all through Kiambutu village and beyond.

It was time to fight fire with fire. With this knowledge, she swore to her son’s life that none of Mwangi’s accomplices would leave the village alive. She would break their hold over the villagers, just as they had broken her world and taken Josiah from her. She was up all night crying, thinking, and plotting about how to take Mwangi down.

As the sun’s first light appeared on the horizon, Mary stood and gazed through the window towards the direction of the cursed church. There was work to be done and revenge to plan. Soon, they would feel the full fury and pain of a mother’s wrath. Justice and vengeance would be served... or the village would burn.

It had been years since Josiah was brutally murdered in that dark ritual, but the memories still felt like an open wound. She could almost hear his screams echoing through time. So, when Wanja came to Mary asking about the plan, though scared of what lay ahead, she was more than ready to finally make her enemies pay their dues. The room was getting cold, and Mary started shivering. She couldn’t tell if it was fear creeping up on her or if the cold season was upon the land. But she decided to light a fire anyway, in one corner of her muddy house.

As her emotions stabilized after the deep conversation they had with Mama Maina, a creeping chill set in a sense that she had inevitably set into motion something darker than she could ever control. Drawing closer to the fire, she stared unseeingly into the flickering flames, seeing not the dancing light but the haunted eyes of her son in his final moments. The memory pierced her soul like a dagger.

Is this what Jose would have wanted his mother to sacrifice her own humanity to avenge him? But just as quickly, her anguish hardened into fresh resolve.

Those cultists took everything from her child, her sense of peace, her very life. They deserved to feel the same annihilating anguish, multiplied endlessly. And if she didn’t survive this quest for vengeance? Mary felt a reckless calm settle over her. So be it. Without Jose, her life was already a hollow shell. At least by unleashing brutality on her enemies, she could pour every bit of her wretched existence into demolishing them. Her hands trembled as she lifted the fire poker, studying it in the low light. If challenged, she would not hesitate to bring this same implement down on a skull. Her son’s death had remade her into something harder than steel, sharper than any blade.