Sunday. 2009. The man of God is relentlessly battling with the Devil. Saints are blabbering indecipherable words. Many ‘Amens’ are cutting the ‘Holy Spirit’ suffocated air. Some are walking. Others are standing. And others on knees. This or that saint is threatening the devil with Christ’s blood. Voices thin, thick, and hoarse are making the church sound like water in a fall. Infants grasps breasts in the presence of God. Inexorable.
The devil pray too. After hours of a tumultuous fight, the devil bow out. Ashamed. Defeated.”Hallelujah?” the man of God bleat at the pulpit. “Amen!” Saints cackle from their seats. Gabeca, a tall, dark, and scary man, rubs sweat dropping from his face with a white kerchief. White to mean purity. Saints installed him as their pastor because of his face. Very scary. Enough to scare the devil.
“God is here, Amen!” Gabeca chirp. “Amen!” Saints respond. He scans the church. Waves in the air. “Hallelujah!” He greets again. “God has done a lot for us. I want us to take a step of faith, come in front and tell us what God has done for you, Amen?” He bleats again. A man, tall, thin and chocolate stand from the congregation. Drag his feet and stand at the pulpit. He clasp the microphone and ejaculate his mottled teeth. “Hallelujah?” He greets. “If you can see me, please wave in the air,” he instructs.
Today, he’s donned in a black trouser, a white shirt, and a red tie. The trouser is belted at the ribcage. The baggy shirt is like a sock in the day of no wind. Mr Ng’ang’a or ‘Church mouse’ is known for his frustrating ability. Villagers claim he doesn’t pay when you work for him. “Amen!” He greets. “Last month, God saw me through, I’ve secured a promotion,” he says showing his bleached teeth. “When you come at my place of work, you’ll not find me there,” he says and the saints clap.
Mr. Ng’ang’a is an experienced coffin marker. He has been so useful in the village. I can’t tell why he’s admired by many yet a coffin cost the price of a motorbike. “God has given me a new hustle. I now work with funeral services vans. From a coffin maker to a carrier of corpse. “Ucio ti Ngai!” (Is that not God) He shout. “Ni Ngai mã!” Saints bleat.
Church mouse’s God, devastate me biggie. What kind of God is that? Really God? What kind of a promotion is that? I develop a beef with Mr. Ng’ang’a’s God. I drop church for good.
My love for tall long-necked ladies is irrefutable. These God’s creation are palatable. Their necks are a voodoo that makes me go haywire. A charm that make my heart bolt. Dreadlocks make them angelic. By God, long-necked and dreadlocked ladies make me languish with love.
Take note. I love long necks- not of hens but of ladies. One day, I’ll narrate to you why I hate hens’ necks with all of my intestines.