A colleague told me this tall story not too long ago. I wouldn’t know whether it was real or not or if it was one of those after-dinner jokes. I leave it to you to make your own inference.
My friend, who is a priest, and I were travelling on the Lagos-Ibadan express road when we came across a team of four policemen at a checkpoint.
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The oldest member of the team approached the priest who was at the driver’s seat and asked for the vehicle’s particulars.
From his countenance, the priest knew that he wanted ‘something’ from him. As a man of God, he was not prepared to play their game, so he brought out his papers and handed them to him. The policeman was furious; looked at the papers and then at the priest and remarked expectantly, “Oga na paper we go chop?” The priest retorted in annoyance, “No be you ask for my papers?” “Okay if that na be the thing you want, make I look at them,” said the policeman, confident he would find something wrong in the heap.
I watched with keen interest from the passenger’s seat beside the priest as he went slowly through the bunch of papers. It didn’t appear he was focusing on anything in particular! The eye contact was just not appropriate. I think he has some eye problems,” I said to myself.
His face also looked quite familiar. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I knew him and very well too. I had had the privilege of examining and treating him on a number of occasions. This is no time to squeal, I cautioned myself. He would be very uncomfortable if he should know.
The policeman was now becoming more agitated and asked the ‘stubborn’ pastor, “Open your bonnet.” He beckoned to one of his men to come over. “Sergeant, check the engine number on the vehicle licence against what is on the engine block,” he commanded.
I was wondering how they were going to do this since it was getting rather dark. I was disappointed when he brought a torch from his pocket and pointed it at the engine block. “This is a stolen car!” he yelled like thunder, I bolted out of the car to join them at the front of the car.
“I am a Catholic Priest. Are you accusing me of theft?” my friend asked, seriously agitated. “The number on the engine block is different from that on the vehicle licence!” He Shouted the police sergeant again. “Let me see,” I volunteered to help solve the riddle. The number was DHB 12489WT ZE on the engine block and OHB 12489WT ZE on the vehicle licence.
I called out to the senior officer who started it all, “Oga don’t you realise that the error must have occurred at the licensing office?” He ignored me and faced my friend, “You say you be pastor or wetin?” He continued, “You get Bible for your car?” “Yes,” said my friend, wondering where all this was leading to.
“The priest went to the back seat and brought out his Bible. “Pastor, make you put on the inner light and read to me Matthew 5:25, 26 if you are indeed a pastor.” The priest opened the passage but he couldn’t find his reading glasses, so I volunteered to read.
It read, “Settle matters quickly with your adversary who is taking you to court. Do it while you are still with him on the way, or he may hand you over to a judge, and the judge may hand you over to the officer, and you may be thrown into prison. I tell you the truth; you will not get out until you have paid the last kobo.”
“The priest was speechless! Before he could recover, I pulled out a N100 naira note from my wallet and gave it to the policeman. “Mr Dunmoye, I’ll see you at the clinic next week,” I said. Just then he looked at me for the first time and shouted, “My doctor!” Before he could recover from the shock we had driven off. “So you know him? The priest asked. “He is my patient,” I replied. “He is my parishioner,” said the priest. “So you take his confessions?” I asked. “Yes I do,” he replied.
We both knew that was the end of our conversation. I had taken the Hippocratic Oath not to divulge my patients’ medical secrets even after death. My friend too, as a Catholic priest, cannot disclose any information gained during confessions, even under the threat of death.
and then