my God

   I love your God.

   As I write this, Sauti Sol’s Nairobi plays on the radio, the TV has the Archbishop Milingo on The Bench; that’s the catholic priest advocating the Vatican allow Fathers to become actual fathers.  

   Which do I mute?

   It’s Easter, the one time a Christian bred individual must, at the very least, think of a man getting nailed to a cross. One must grant the Gospel fathers for a fantastic story. I say this without pun. After all, where else would one read the Beatitudes or about a prostitute washing the Messiah’s feet with her hair?

   This city’s use of the story amazes. You have taken it, and woven it into the vanities of your society.

   I mean, you praise and worship everywhere, in every way. You only need to send a text to 3469 to have me listen to Daddy Owen when I call you. Your pastors have crisp suits and Doctorate credentials. Surely, one should be able to trust the authority of a clergy with Hon Dr Bishop preceding their name; especially when they accessorize with a P.A system and arrive in a Range Rover.

   The ministries have quite creative names too. It’s not the nondescript PEFA, ACK, Catholic, House of Christ I see back home. There’s Helicopter Ministries, Max Miracle, Winners Chapel, ICC, crisp names; in themselves is a promise to see God, or some kind of godly manifestation. You can imagine actually hearing the preacher ask a woman what her problem is, and hear her reply that she is deaf.

   They’re everywhere, omnipresent, just as God’s supposed to be. They’re on street corners, shacks, tents, dancehalls and even in Jevanjee where people are supposed to spread jackets on the grass and dream. Come to think of it, Muliro Gardens in Kakamega could use some preachers. They should  just have them punch the air, sweat and repeat the phrase “bwana anakuona.”  

   Speaking of “bwana,” there’s something I can’t quite understand; please, indulge me.

   I wonder why Pilate’s soldiers needed Judas to identify a man who had walked on water, turned it into wine and raised the dead. I mean, people were literally trying to touch the man’s robes for healing everywhere he went. And yet an eventual suicidal pocketed 30 silver pieces to betray him with a kiss. Was it a classic case of civil servants feigning incompetence to hire an expatriate and get a kickback?

    That’s the Christ praised on television by boys fascinated with throwing their hands at the camera in music videos, and girls who pout their lips on close up shots. The lyrics, of course, sound like ‘God’ has substituted ‘sweetie’ in a song about unconditional love. 

    So there I was, in rubbers shoes, walking into a church with terrace seating. On the double doors were pasted posters with “God’s Agent: 0712345678” printed in the m-pesa design. There could have been metal detectors at the door –no coins allowed.  The grandeur of the structure awed; marble pillars, high ceiling, mahogany pews, stained glass windows, air conditioning and an alter gilded and flowered exquisitely.  The alter floor had red carpet. There was a glass lectern with the church logo.

    Paraphrased, the religious hustle is better here. I can see why so many people are suddenly realizing that God has chosen them to do His clarion calling, and tax collection. Back in the village people are more inclined to consulting a witchdoctor with a white chicken, and even when they pay for prayers, it’s usually with eggs, bananas and heartfelt appreciation.

    Maybe I should start my own Televangelism franchise, or do a gospel song.  Your idea of religion is a serious cash cow!