Perhaps the biggest lesson I learned on Sunday was: never take the recommendation of everyone.

A mixture of curiosity and uncertainty on which church to crawl forced me to ask the security guard at my residence which church he attends.

Bubbling with enthusiasm, he told me and went on to invite me to the church. I willingly accepted after he reeled off stories of the deliverance and miracles done by his prophet. Honestly, I was curious to witness ‘deliverance.’

“Church dey start by nine or nine thirty,” he said.

That Sunday morning, the security man was decked out in conspicuous gold and silver chains paired off with a white polo shirt and jeans as we set out for service at his church.

We arrived at the Radiant Army Deliverance Ministry International located at Aguda-County, Ogba, Lagos at about 9:20am.

The church, to me, appeared like a ‘wannabe’ trying so desperately to ditch its ‘local champion’ reputation for a ‘high end,’ ‘new school’ one.

From what I could see however, the church was failing miserably in that, leaving it with an obnoxious and pretentious atmosphere.

Seeing the altar immediately reminded me of the throne rooms in Disney cartoon movies with its mishmash of several colors even though colors white and gold glaringly stood out.

To the left of the Disney-like altar were two overly large throne chairs painted in white with ‘The Throne of Glory’ shamelessly inscribed on them in golden colour.

At this point, I knew I had made a mistake.

Twenty minutes after we got to the church, a man took to the pulpit to lead the opening prayer that lasted for a whole fifteen minutes.

Once done, he handed the microphone over to another man, who led the congregation in another thirteen minutes of prayers before he burst into a song in conclusion.

Praying and clapping appeared to be a simultaneous effort as the church at once erupted in a flurry of claps as soon as the prayer points were called out by the prayer leading man.

I still don’t understand the concept of shouting and making noise all in the name of praying.

At first the choir appeared to be confused, with the drummer –the only instrument at the time- drumming too loudly and the female singers with the microphone unsure about how to use it.

Quite honestly, the drummer wasn’t that bad. He dealt out daring beats but he forgot the simple fact that ‘less is often more’ as he drummed on, drowning out the gangan drums and other instruments.

To their credit, however, the choir sang better as the forty minutes singing session progressed. Sadly, a woman sitting two seats away from me continuously blew into a black whistle, making the most hideous noise and exacerbating my headache.

As the singing and dancing continued, a red rug was rolled out from the door to the altar.

Soon after, shouts erupted in the church, hankies were waved high in the air, people who could jump; did so, and others waved their hands in the air as they shouted.

The Prophet has arrived.

At the head of the entourage were two female military officers, followed by about ten women dressed fashionably in light colored Ankara blouses paired off with black leggings.

Then came the Prophet, another small crowd of men behind him.

And as the Prophet walked to the altar, his steps firm and confident, he waved to the cheering crowd, his face plastered with a smug over-confident smile. At a point, he blew a kiss to the frenzied mass of people before sitting on his oversized ‘throne of glory’

It took another fifteen minutes for the service to begin as groups in the church, dressed in different uniforms, took turns to kneel before the Prophet in greeting, their faced reflecting adulation.

I left the church soon thereafter. I had wasted two hours of my Sunday morning fuming and asking myself; where does religious zealotry begin and where does it end?