The night Elder Donkor killed the girl, he was thinking about promotion.
Not salvation.
Not humility.
Not God.
Promotion.
It was October 1977, just after two in the morning, and the Madina road lay black and empty beneath a sky swollen with rain. Elder Samuel Donkor drove his old Peugeot through the darkness with one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting proudly on his Bible.
He had just returned from an all-night service.
A powerful service.
A service people would talk about for weeks.
Women had rolled on the cement floor under the force of deliverance. Men had screamed in voices that were not their own. A young carpenter had vomited black water into an enamel basin after Elder Donkor laid hands on him and shouted:
“Come out, in the name of Jesus!”
And they had come out.
Or at least, the people believed they had.
That was enough.
At the end of the service, the district pastor himself had gripped Donkor’s hand and said:
“Elder, the hand of God is heavy upon you.”
Heavy.
That word stayed with him.
Soon they would have no choice. Head office would hear. The district would hear. The whole area would hear. Elder Samuel Donkor was not one of those ordinary elders who arranged plastic chairs and counted offering coins.
No.
He was made for higher things.
He was made for the pulpit.
He was made to command crowds.
He was made to become district pastor.
Rain began to strike the windscreen.
At first it came gently.
Then the sky opened.
The wipers dragged slowly across the glass.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Donkor blinked hard.
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