Going to church in town

Going to church in town

Going to church in town is so different from the church back in Thurdibuoro, Nyandema, or Migori parish. Back there, the church is an occasion. It is a celebration to which unique clothes, character, and mannerisms are allocated. Bad behavior, such as breaking wind at random, is highly prohibited. Certain kinds of dressing are abhorred with venom; the congregation can send you to hell with their eyes.

The priest is viewed as a god whose presence is divine. Well brought up Children with shiny black faces, dressed in glorious robes can be seen making their way to a separate shed that serves as the Sunday school. A form two dropout who was good at CRE takes them through their readings while correcting errant elements by rebuking them with the names of their parents. For instance, “omera son of Owinyo keep quiet, or else God will not send birds to the traps of your father, iiiisi!”

Here in the city mass is very dull except for the perennial latecomer slay queen dressed in short skirt clanking blessings away with her seven-inch heels. The priest is treated as a casual partner in crime, and congregants maintain a reserved ambiance. Except for choir members, the rest sit with an air of importance, wanting to look like the royal family in Buckingham Palace.  Ill-bred children, drooling lollipop laced saliva, squeak on the aisle, always calling for the ushers’ attention. Back in the village, everyone is an usher, and one look from the chief catechist was enough to shut your mouth for the whole day. That is the only reason why I want to make quick money and retire back to Kadem, where my ancestors are still guarding the church compound, and the priest is fat healthily.