false waters

by Nana T. Baffour-Awuah

Prologue / Romans 1:23

I’d always struggled with God. Or at least the version that everyone around me seemed to believe in. I could not reconcile the tender hymns they sang on Sunday with this vain and vengeful figure; a God who demanded adoration by threat of eternal damnation.

*****

Part I / 1 Corinthians 1:27

I found salvation in 2008.

It was the year of our shared nineteenth birthday, KB and I. We were on midterm break, and it was a Saturday like any other. He had just annihilated me on the basketball court and we were catching our breath back in his room, looking for an AND1 Mixtape to watch. But the sore loser that I was, nothing could quell my trash-talking.

“Oh please, we both know I let you win,” I teased.

“Sure. It had nothing to do with your weak game. Weak, my G!” he dashed back.

We did this all the time, the shit-talking. It was part of the fun.

And then I did something I still cannot explain, to this day. I called him gay. Don’t ask me why I did it, I couldn’t tell you. Chalk it up to childish ignorance, a product of the times, garden-variety Ghanaian homophobia. I still don’t know.

At first, he shrugged it off, shot back something about my pitiful beard. Tried to change the subject. But I wouldn’t drop it. Perhaps, I was just a kid being an idiot, perhaps I just couldn’t let him have the last swing. Perhaps, some darkness in me sensed blood.

“Guy, are you sure you’re not gay? That flick was a lil’ suspect, y’know,” I laughed, feigning a limp wrist. “I mean, you being gay would be pretty crazy though. Like, your pops go end you!”

He didn’t laugh. I offered a chuckle but it plummeted like an airball. Something had stiffened in the air.

KB sat on his bed. And then he shattered, his fear and secrets pouring out of him like flood from a broken faucet. He told me how he’d known it even before he knew the word. He told me how he’d always felt dirty, a hypocrite parading as a child of God. He told me how he was terrified that someone might find out. How he had tried to pray it away—his cries to God, every night, to fix him.

“I’m afraid of going to hell…I-I-I just don’t know why God would make me this way! I’ve tried everything, Dave. I’ve prayed. I’ve fasted. I’ve asked God to cast this spirit out of me.” By now he was speaking in anguished hiccups, his body giving out under the fear and shame.

I just stood there in the corner of his room, shocked. Scared too. I’d seen gay people in American TV shows, their flamboyance both amusing and discomfiting. I had heard pastors talk about the demonic spirit of homosexuality and the evils of its infection. I had overheard aunties gossip about friends’ sons who had moved abroad and been corrupted by this carnal sin—and the tragic ends this lifestyle had brought them. But none of that made any room for the KB I knew.

KB was a pastors’ kid, but he was far from a ‘PK’ stereotype. His name was Kwabena, but everyone just called him KB. He wasn’t a crifé, finger-wagging paragon of virtue like his sister, Grace. He wasn’t like his cousin Chris either, a rebellious free spirit (or a pierced, tattooed embarrassment to his family, if you asked the church community).

He was a rare breed. A true gentle giant, he was built like a tree and inhabited by a spirit so capacious and kind. His eyes seemed to harbor a perpetual twinkle, and he somehow seemed to always have the perfect words for any situation—be it a sarcastic quip that would send a room roaring, or soothing words of wisdom for a stranger going through a difficult time. School prefect, national scholar, and star athlete, he was the consummate golden boy. And the furthest thing from what I imagined a homosexual would be. Could be.

“Chalé, have you prayed about it?” I muttered. And then realizing he’d already said so, I grasped at another question, “So, what are you going to do? …Will you tell your parents?”

He inhaled deeply and let out a slow, trembling breath. KB’s parents were not just pastors, they were Pastors. They saw themselves as unflinching soldiers in the army of the Lord, and they declared as much every chance they got. They were also widely revered. From the high halls of government to the most remote villages, they were known for their powerful messages on the gospel of prosperity—and adored for being manifest examples of it. In many ways, they were as charismatic as KB. But they were not like him. From a distance, they gleamed with warmth, but if you got close enough, you’d see it seep through: an unsettling arrogance. They would never explicitly be condescending, but conversations with them would often leave you with a nagging feeling of inadequacy.

They also had uncompromising expectations for their children.

“To whom much is given, much is expected” they’d say. “It’s right there in Luke.” Which was probably why KB and Grace had such a strained relationship, each of them always competing to be more worthy than the other. KB clung to their approval like an addict, and it made him brilliant. It was not unusual to overhear other parents say, with varying degrees of seriousness, “Look at your mate, Kwabena!” An admonishment for not being like KB, effortlessly perfect.

Except the closer I got to KB, the more I realized that it was not effortless, it was agonizing. KB pushed himself relentlessly, and he never felt good enough. He’d get a perfect score on a history test and beat himself up for forgetting a detail. Or break his own high jump record and say, “Nah, I don’t think that was my best effort.” It wasn’t long before I understood that this perfectionism was not of his choosing. It was the side effect of the toxic soup of impossible expectations that his parents had been feeding him all his life.

Standing there in that room with KB, I understood why telling his parents might be the most frightful thing he could have imagined, and I was terrified for him too.

“Everything will be okay, chalé. Keep praying.”

I didn’t fully believe my words. But I didn’t know what else to say.

*****

Part II / Psalm 41:9

I kept my distance. For weeks. I was so rattled by KB’s revelation that I created a chasm where our closeness had once lived. And in that space, ugly questions festered.

Did KB like me just as a friend or had he wanted more than that? What about the times we’d had to share a bed during sleepovers? Was I imagining it or did I catch him staring at me when I was shirtless? What if people found out? Would they think I was gay too?

Even as I turned the questions over in my mind, I knew deep-down that they were absurd, and I felt ashamed for thinking them. KB was my brother. So why was I so stuck on this secret that he’d had to carry for so long? Maybe I felt betrayed because he’d hidden it from me. Or more likely, it was because we’d all propped him up on a pedestal, and that pedestal didn’t have enough room for this big truth. I didn’t know any real-life gay people, and from what I had heard, I didn’t really care about knowing them. I’d never really thought of myself as homophobic…I’d thought I just didn’t care. But for the first time, I started questioning that too. What was it in me or around me that would make me abandon my best friend—someone I loved and looked up to—after he’d just had a breakdown in front of me?

I examined the threads of my thoughts over and over again, but they all led back to the same untenable place: If God was so good and gayness was so evil, how could He condemn His golden child to this awful fate? I didn’t know what to do with this discrepant math. I had so many questions. But the only thing I couldn’t question, the only thing I knew for sure, was that KB would be there for me if the tables were turned. So, I finally called him.

“Guy, how’re you doing?”

“Hey bro, I dey! Hanging in there…been praying a lot.” I could tell his cheeriness was forced. There was an emptiness in his voice that didn’t sound like him.

“I can imagine…sorry I’ve been MIA, chalé.”

“My guy, no shaking at all. It’s okay.” There he was, so quick to offer me grace and forgiveness. I felt so much shame that it swallowed up my words. I didn’t know how to respond, so we let the silence hang awkwardly until he broke it.

“I told them two days ago…my parents.”

“How was it? What did they say?”

He was quiet. There was pain in that pause.

“They asked if I’d told anyone but I didn’t tell them I’d told you…I didn’t want them to worry about it getting out. They say God has a plan. My deliverance will be my testimony… ‘He leads me beside still waters’ so all is well.” There was so much heaviness in his optimism.

I had questions. But I just told him that I was praying for him too. That I’d call again.

*****

Part III / Leviticus 20:13

Two weeks before KB’s birthday, I got a call from Chris.

“Bro, how be?” I said tentatively, surprised at the call. Chris and I weren’t friends, largely because I didn’t want his reputation tarnishing mine. But Chris and KB had always shared a closeness that puzzled everyone. KB said people just didn’t know the real Chris. So we’d occasionally play FIFA at KB’s house, a casual acquaintanceship.

“Dave. Bro, things no good with KB.” He sounded uncharacteristically serious, different from his usually unbothered tone. “They’re telling everyone he’s in London, but he’s at home…and it’s bad. Like, really bad.”

“Wait, what do you mean?” I said evenly, trying to keep myself from panicking.

I’d heard through the church grapevine—always ripe with gossip—that KB was away on holiday. An odd turn of events, I’d thought. Doubly odd that KB hadn’t mentioned it. But I rationalized it away, assumed the best. Maybe his parents thought a change would help?

I did not expect to hear what Chris said next.

KB was wasting away. His frame was gaunt; his eyes, a harrowing red. He was a withering shadow of himself. And as it turned out, it was because God’s plan for him was a dire one. KB’s parents had connections to powerful churches in the US, churches that believed that God had called them to scorch out abominable lusts. Churches that believed in conversion therapy. And KB’s parents believed in the gospel of those churches.

Chris told me how KB hadn’t eaten in weeks. How they had taken away his phone and isolated him. They had instructed him to fast, meditate on Leviticus. And with the pocket taser they had given him, shock the sin away whenever he felt it. Sometimes, they would do the exorcising for him. His parents and the church elders would show him pictures of men and women, and then ask him which he found attractive. KB, desperate to be cured, would always tell the truth. But every time he admitted to his unchanging truth, they would make him swallow a concoction of holy water that would make his stomach revolt in agony. It was for his salvation, they said, to purge him of the perversion.

Chris said he’d tried to convince KB to run away, but he hadn’t made much progress before KB’s parents showed up and chased him out of their home with insults and curses.

I felt sick. I knew I needed to do something but I didn’t know what. KB didn’t have his phone so I couldn’t call him. Under his parents’ watch, trying to visit him would be impossible. Asking other people for help would just put KB’s business out there. I couldn’t think of anyone who could actually help, and I couldn’t trust anyone to keep a secret this big. It felt like there was nothing I could do. So, I did nothing. I figured KB would be okay, eventually. He had to be.

*****

Part IV / Matthew 23:27

A week later, KB was dead.

I saw the obituary in my Facebook feed. That can’t be right. That’s impossible. But it was right there, from the church’s official account. I started calling and texting KB’s phone. Frantically. Desperately. “Bro, pick up!” Nothing. Unanswered rings fell into dead silence, and a series of one-sided texts stared back at me. I went back to the Facebook post, watching in shock as the comments poured in.

What a shame!

Gone too soon </3

Hmm I can’t believe it…

Due! Oh KBL

Lord have mercy!

Ei! What happened?

Reverend, take heart. God knows why.

A sea of sorries and mournful emojis. I stared. I scrolled down to the comments. I scrolled back up to stare at my best friend’s face. Impossible. My head felt dense. Heavy. My heart was pounding so loudly I could feel it in my ears. My eyes burned hot, an inferno of emotion scorching the tears before they could well.

I thought back to the Saturday that KB had told me he was gay. How broken and scared he had looked; how distant and disconnected I had been. I thought about how I had avoided him for weeks while he suffered in silence. I thought about how he been so gracious with me every time I dropped the ball—with school projects, ex-girlfriends, my parents—and how he would cover for me, nudge me to be better. I thought of the questions I should have asked him that day in his room, the things I could have said that day on the phone. I thought of how I should have done something when Chris told me what was happening. I thought of how I did nothing. God. How could I have let him down so badly!

I sat there staring at my phone, stewing in sweat and regret. Thinking of how long it had been since I’d actually heard KB’s laugh, his good humor and great advice. I thought of how the corners of his mouth would crinkle with mischief before he’d crack a joke. And that was when I realized I’d never hear him crack another joke. KB was gone.

He wouldn’t be at graduation. I wouldn’t get to see him break another national record. We wouldn’t even get to celebrate our birthday together. It broke me, and I wept. I don’t know how long I sat there dazed by grief, but by the time I’d come back to myself, I noticed my phone had been heating up from the onslaught of texts and missed calls. I had already missed five calls from Chris, and there was a sixth coming through.

“David…” I had never heard him sound like that. His voice was darker and heavier than the last time we’d talked. Strained with pain and fury. “They killed him!” he barked. And I knew he was right.

Reports said they had found KB dead in his bed. The official record said food poisoning, but Chris and I knew better. They may not have meant to, but they had murdered KB. He was dead because they had tried to kill what they despised inside him.

But that’s not what they said on Facebook. Or in the newspapers. Or at the funeral service. That Sunday, his very reverend father lamented how the community had lost a son, a brother, a friend, a child of God—and for good measure—a young man who would have been a blessing to a future wife. “Gone too soon,” he said, “but resting in the bosom of the Lord, according to His will.”

And I sat there, stiff with rage as the congregation nodded in assent. Chris had refused to attend, so no one shared in my torture as these half-truths fell into my ears like hot needles. I wondered if the congregation would have felt differently if they knew KB’s full truth. I wondered what they would have said. Would they have shunned him like I had? Would they still mourn him? Would they have justified his death somehow? Would they still chalk it up to God’s will? I felt angry and powerless, and I hated them all. I hated KB’s parents for making him feel deficient his whole life. For killing him, and then using their God’s will as a cover. I hated myself for abandoning him when he needed me most. But above all, I hated KB’s God, for letting it happen, silent and complicit.

*****

Epilogue / Romans 12:2

As I watched KB’s coffin being lowered into the ground, it finally dawned on me with sobering clarity: it was all holy theater. It had always been. An elaborate fabrication woven together by fear, a few good deeds, and astonishing hypocrisy. And now that the doubts had been gouged from my heart, I could see the falsehoods clearly.

That day, as I laid my best friend to rest, I buried his God too. And I found mine.

BIO: Nana T. Baffour-Awuah (he/him) is a Ghanaian writer and editor currently based in New York. His poems, short stories, and essays have appeared in several publications, including HuffPost, African Voices, Hudson Valley Writers Guild, The Poetry Lighthouse, Roots and Ruins (Arcana Poetry Press, 2025), and Creative Stillness (Gatekeeper Press, 2026). He is working on his first book. IG: @whatnanawrote