I am so horrible a dancer that I don’t normally define my dancing as ‘dancing’ (if at all it qualifies to be termed as such) but rather as a ‘moving’. While others go to clubs to sing and dance to hip-hop songs or or others attend weddings to sing and dance or even others sing and dance to circumcision songs, I go to church to sing and ‘move’.
So I pass by this church this Sunday and hear of a pastor praying hard. Whether he was praying or crying, I can’t tell as instead of pausing to take a breathe after commas, this nigger produced a certain sound that resembled that of someone with a hiccup. He thus literally sounded like a baby who has spent several hours crying and exhausted and the loudest ‘cry’ he can afford is that of a hiccup.
I
busied myself with my journey cursing the pastor. My curses were
however short-lived and upto now I am sure they didn’t go anywhere
beyond my nose as I remembered one day I also cried in church like a
hungry breast-feeding baby-girl!
It
was one of those long weekends and so this Sunday I was
feeling a ‘thirst’ for the word of Holy word. I happened by then
to have this ardent church-going neighbour and so I approached and
asked if I could join him. He said I would be a blessing if I could
attend at least one service with him. With that, followed him.
This
church happens to be located along Haile Selassie avenue and
associated with one lady-politician – (sorry, but that’s all I
can say about that, lest my ass be sued). It was around eleven I the
morning and we arrived when the first service was jusst ending. (And
by the way this happened to be my first and last time attending
churches that hold more than one service). It was however announced
that after the main service, all the youths were invited to an
extended meeting in another hall adjacent to where this first service
was being held.
My
neighbour and I reckoned that since we both had time on our side to
spare and we had both missed the first service and we were both
having a ‘thirst’ for the Holy word and we were both youths, we
would both attend this extended service-of-the-youths.
It
was an interesting service at the beginning as guys sand and others,
who knew how to dance, danced to Solomon Mkubwa’s Mungu Wetu
Mwenye Nguvu. As folks were worshiping heartily, I was singing in
a low voice and ‘moving’ slowly. [I was singing and ‘moving’
and not singing and ‘dancing’ like the others]. After the
touching and inspiring singing and dancing (and ‘moving’), there
came the time for what the pastor called the ‘anointing time’. We
we still singing this worship song as the man of God randomly
signaled each one of us to move forward, one after the other, for the
anointing.
I
noticed that each of those who were picked and prayed for and
anointed by the pastor didn’t stand there for long. Many instantly
collapsed after that anointing oil was poured on their forehead,
falling on the hands of the somehow ‘always-ready’ ushers. Still
there were those who, whilst being dragged aside, were talking [or
was it whining] in a language only known to them and their gods. I
was alarmed and I started shivering at this spectacle.
I at
first decided to move out before being picked by this seemingly
notorious pastor but it happens that the stupid me had sat on one of
those front seats and it became almost impossible to retreat then. I
told myself that, like a man, I would face whatever was brought my
way and I will not cry and collapse like a feeble woman. I decided,
however, to take refuge by pretending to be in a deep prayer as I
slowly sang – and moved – to Mungu Mwenye Nguvu (with my
eyes closed). I was too engaged with God not to notice the pastor
signaling me to move forward so as to be prayed for and anointed. It
took an extra effort from the one beside me who pinched me painfully
on the hip that I moved forward to the pastor.
He
held me close to his chest, like some toddler being breast-fed by its
maid, and prayed. I was immobile but was staring deeply into his
face. Worried, he hugged me tight and placed his right leg between my
thighs, and we were looking like some homosexuals getting ready. I
didn’t falter a bit. Scared of my becoming a hard nut to crack, he
pushed me hard by my chest to see if I could fall onto the waiting
arms of the ushers. I stared deeper into his face but still never
moved an inch.
Frustrated
and exhausted and disappointed, this pastor appeared to have had
enough of this villager and I could see that written all over his
face. He ordered for another bottle of the anointing oil. You know
that oil they smear on your forehead during that ritual? That day I
can swear I used like three bottles! I pitied the pastor and the
tired ushers behind me, who were patiently waiting for this rock of
Gibraltar to sink down onto their arms.
I
couldn’t see the pastor letting me go, walling back to my seat, and
be content with having ‘lost’. He wanted to see me collapsing and
being dragged aside and wailing in unknown tongue like the others.
That way he would have been the winner. I knew the only way I could
save myself and the pastor and the ushers and the onlookers more
agony was to do what was expected of me – wail.
As
he rubbed that oil on my face and pushed me lightly by my shoulder, I
covered my face with the palms of my hands and collapsed on those
lady-ushers behind me. (By the way I fell on them so heavily that
sometimes I think if they had let me hit the floor, I would have been
died then). I highly suspected that they knew I was faking it and so
to convince them of my seriousness, I resolved to ‘speaking in
tongues’ like the others. I knew that among this gathering there
was none who could understand Kalenjin and that’s where I found
solace.
In a
strange voice I swore, ‘murenchu, murenchu neni tonyonii wolye
besyaake. Motowekishei matiny! Then
I wailed and bleated like a sheep as the ushers dragged me to a wall
and made me lie there like the a drunk man by the roadside. I was
very conscious to hear the pastor shout “Hallelujah Kanisa!” then
he told them how he has just seen a miracle that very moment. I
knew that the miracle the
pastor was talking about was me. So this
fool of a pastor thinks
he has
won by me forcing
me to fake a cry? Balderdash!
As
I lied there, I peeped through my fingers to check if my friend was
still there. He had, for
obvious reasons, disappeared
a long time ago. I courageously stood from that wall and walked out
from that room – still swearing never to go back… “murenchu,
murenchu neni tonyonii wolye besyaake. Motowekishei
matiny!”
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