This is a story that my father once told. The purpose of the story is not to mock any church priest or pastor or man of God, but to show how greed has crept into the church and that the lofty office no longer gets the respect it deserves. It goes thusly:
Once upon a time, there was a big crisis in our church parish. The majority of the congregation no longer trusted the parish priest. His integrity was questioned as a result of his profligacy. In addition, members were uncomfortable with the manner in which his wife wielded power. They said she was arrogant and too flamboyant, as shown by her bleached skin.
So, the congregation mandated the parochial committee to visit the zonal headquarters and request the Zonal Vicar to remove our parish priest. Although my father was a member of the parochial committee, he didn’t like this request, not because he supported the priest, but because he detested the schism and mischief in the parish.
Anyway, they went to Isolo in Lagos to see the Zonal Vicar—an old, witty septuagenarian, with a soft voice but firm resolve.
After referring to some verses in the bible, the Vicar spoke about the day the world would end. He also talked about the problems caused by man’s obsession with money. He said he was neither surprised about what was happening in our parish nor in the entire sect. What surprised him, he said, was the extent of the greed, and the resulting moral and spiritual decadence in the church.
The Vicar said that the previous week, members of one of the parishes brought a very dispiriting case to him. The parish members were preparing for their yearly harvest celebration. As expected, members contributed money to cook food for the occasion, to provide a sumptuous feast for the entire church and guests. On the eve of the harvest, the church premises bustled with activities as caterers prepared elaborate meals and people moved soft drinks in crates, and crates into drums containing ice blocks.
In the evening, when the first batch of the food was ready, two women took some portions, neatly served in two beautiful porcelain plates, to the vicarage. They also took along some soft drinks. They met the priest, who sat majestically on a sofa in the living room.
The women placed the plates on the center table.
“Open the plates,” the priest said, with a frown in his eyes, as he gazed into the dishes.
The women opened the lids of the white plates.
“And where is the cow tail?” he asked anxiously.
“Which cow tail sir?” the two women responded in quivering unison.
The women knew that cow tail was a popular delicacy. Although it is mainly soft bones, it also contains muscles, tissue and skin. For some people, the cow tail is the most flavorful part of the beef stock. A long, slow cooking makes it tender and brings out the jelly like viscous liquid. Cow tail connoisseurs enjoy this culinary delicacy when prepared as spicy pepper soup. The tastiness evolves when the teeth crush the soft, bony meat into fine particles. The released juice swims on the tongue and tickles the palate. From there, it’s a smooth journey through the throat.
As the frightened women stood in front of the angry priest, they thought they had given him enough food; a full plate of jollof rice, and another plate filled to the brim with assorted parts of cow—fleshy thigh, tripe, neck, liver, among others.
Besides, the two visibly embarrassed women never knew the priest liked cow tail. The women were dismayed that the man didn’t even say thank you for what they brought and didn’t appreciate the painstaking efforts they had put into preparing the meal.
“This food is incomplete without the cow tail,” the priest said gloomily, pointing to the plates as the aroma of curry seasoning wafted through the room.
The women left. They told the chairwoman of the harvest committee what happened and the priest’s query about the cow tail. The chairwoman was furious. With a stern look, she dragged her heavy frame toward the vicarage. Everyone’s eyes followed her direction, and people wondered what she was up to. They knew her as a tough, firm woman—a character trait she developed through her military training. She was a senior soldier.
She swaggered into the sitting room and met the priest.
“Sir, I was told you wanted cow tail,” she asked with pretentious calmness, as she hid her two hands behind her back.
“Yes, oh yes,” said the priest dryly, reclining and readjusting himself on the sofa.
While he responded, the chairwoman flung a cow tail from behind. She swiped the priest’s cheeks with the cow tail from the right to the left, then from left to right.
“And this is your cow tail, and this is your cow tail,” the chairwoman said angrily.
The priest was stunned. He couldn’t speak or didn’t want to speak because something grayish, the size of a cashew nut had fallen from his mouth. It was a tooth.