I should probably be writing about the steamy three-way that’s going on in the Middle East, but there are times when those of us who live in civilised nations need to avert their eyes when the more primitive nations begin banging one another, and simply let the barbarism run its course.

Turning to matters of a similarly brutal but less violent nature. The property market in Cape Town features often in the news. It’s an ongoing bloodless crime story and the victims keep piling up. If you’re looking to buy within 15km of the mountain, and you engage the services of an estate agent, you should prepare to be sodomised. Metaphorically, obviously. Unless that’s something you’re looking for. This is Cape Town, after all. The city doesn’t discriminate. Unless you’re poor. Or black. Apart from that, you’re good.

If I sound bitter, it’s only because I missed the property boom that slammed into Cape Town like a Shahed drone hitting a building full of Israeli generals. Instead of schadenfreude, though, all I have are regrets. I moved there from Durban in 1998 at a time when the city was seven women to one man. By the time I caught my breath, property prices had quadrupled. My salary stayed the same. Having befriended the kind of people who shared everything except sensible financial advice, I continued to rent with a vague idea of one day buying. I look back and laugh at that idealism, even though the laughing increasingly ended in weeping. I could’ve so easily been a multimillionaire today. So many people made a fortune out of buying and selling property at the right time in that city. It seems damnably unfair that I wasn’t among them. I keep looking around for someone to blame, but there’s never anyone there.

So when I saw that the Good Hope Centre had been snapped up for a mere R135 million, I was furious. That could’ve been mine. I always wanted a huge, ugly place I could convert into something decent. Seven thousand people can fit in there. That’s my idea of a house party. A proper bank would’ve given me a loan. The FNB bond calculator said I’d need a minimum monthly income of R338,409.65 to pay off the loan over 20 years. There was obviously something wrong with the calculator. Or more likely the bank. Honey, if I earned that kind of money, I’d be an idiot not to rent one fabulous sea-facing apartment after another and still have plenty of cash left over for cold beer and hot women until I died. It’s this kind of short-term thinking that got me where I am in the first place, but I can’t help it. It’s the only brain I have.

The Cape Town accent being what it is, many tourists have gone there under the impression that they were being directed to the Good Dope Centre. Some survived, some didn’t. It’s not the best part of town. That’s why I was surprised to hear that the building, ugly as a red-headed stepchild, hadn’t been bought by a collective of hydroponic hippies growing sativa-dominant weed with a 38% THC content.

This hideous structure, prime property in the heart of Cape Town, has been purloined by the Spirit Revelation Ecclesia. This news will either gladden your heart or make your eyes narrow. It takes a lot to gladden my heart these days, so I went to their website.

“We are a tribe of life, the tribe of Enoch. We are the Lion Nation; we roar and groan in the Spirit. We are the battle ex of God, the Ecclescia, the military of Mount Zion.”

At first I thought they were talking about that old British fascist, Enoch Powell, but turns out this is Enoch, Noah’s great grandfather. He was written out of the bible for doing something weird, probably for living for 365 years. Imagine having a relative hanging around for generations. You’d also want to kill him.

As for the Lion Nation roaring and groaning in the Spirit? I don’t know, man. I’ve been in that part of the city late at night and the only roaring you’ll hear is Cape Town’s anthem, “Jou ma se poes”, the breaking of bottles, a gunshot or two, a bit of screaming, and the sound of police sirens two days later.

A man who calls himself Pastor John Anosike is in charge of this alleged church. “The Bondservant of Christ, John the 3rd, is sent by God in these end times to reveal the Son of God. Though his ministry may seem unusual from a human perspective, he has been divinely commissioned to train, war in the spirit, prepare, and clear the realms for the coming of the Lord.”

Maybe it’s just me, but the “may seem unusual from a human perspective” is a bit of red flag. Isn’t this something an alien might say as he slips a probe into your rectum? To be fair, this is not an altogether uncommon practice in parts of Cape Town.

“From the tender age of six, John the 3rd was set apart and prepared by God for this time.

Empowered by the Spirit, he moves in realms beyond human comprehension, carrying the weight of prophetic insight and spiritual authority. His mission is to awaken, equip, and lead the saints into their divine positioning for the unfolding of God’s final plan.”

Fair enough. Before I got expelled from the Boy Scouts, I learnt the motto. Be Prepared. I thought it meant I should know how to make a fire if I got trapped in the Drakensberg. Or make a knot to keep my girlfriend from escaping. I didn’t ever think I should be preparing to be a part of God’s final plan. Even at that young age, I didn’t believe in plans. Or God. Still don’t.

Pastor John and his wife Ola Anosike are the senior pastors. They seem like lovely people. Some of my best friends are Nigerian. Well, they could be if they stopped trying to rip me off.

Wife Ola “seamlessly blends spiritual leadership with financial wisdom”. A valuable skill to have, to be sure.

Then there’s 14-year-old Phronesis Anosike. She leads the “Youth Warriors, tackling deep biblical mysteries and affirming their powerful role in God’s plan”. I might not qualify to be a Youth Warrior, but I’m open to hearing more about these biblical mysteries. Teenagers know stuff.

The last born is described as a mini minister. Sunesis Anosike is 13 years old. She is “known for her deep revelations and visions, she encourages young believers through prayer and her YouTube channel, guiding them to spiritual growth and holiness.” When I was her age, I was stealing my mother’s car and masturbating like a chimpanzee.

If you’re worried about how you can contribute, the website makes it clear that there are multiple ways to help, all of which involve bank accounts. “Your giving is used to spread the Gospel of incorruption and immortality to nations around the world. Partnering with the man of God is essential in establishing the kingdom of Jesus Christ. He has been sent by God to build the City of Sons for the saints, ushering in the glory of these latter days.”

Look. I’m not going to be standing outside the Good Hope Centre when the doors open, grabbing people by the throat and shouting that they need to wake up. But that building could’ve been put to far better use. A homeless shelter. Housing for the homeless. A grow room for psilocybin for the depressed. Maybe even a library, ha ha.