The expansive northern region of Kenya is a lonely place for a Christian. Churches are few and far apart. In many a dusty township with white turbaned minarets, they are non- existent. But isn’t it written that our hearts are temples? One needs not to look far for a place of worship, but within the self.
The Anglican Church congregation of Wajir church where I communed when I worked there was a small knit family that knew each other by name. Every other time, our Reverend would be the brother’s keeper and visit a congregant who had skipped church for some time.
At this point, some may wonder how I attend church, seeing that I am avid defender of African culture. To me, belief systems are related. Those who believe in one God and worship by kneeling in a mosque, a church, a temple or while facing Kirinyaga are children of one faith. They are different fingers of the loving hand of one Supreme Being.
Second, I believe that all true religions are like water bodies. Rivers, lakes, brooks, springs, oceans- all contain water. Same way, all true religions contain truth. Truth may be given to different people in different ways- but the source is one. That’s my personal beatitude.
Anyway, back to the story. Sometime in 2015, I was going through some internal turmoil that saw me forget church for a while. My heart recoiled, like a spring, in some deep solitude, making me lock out the world from myself. All I wanted was leave of absence from humanity. Our Reverend got concerned and organized a visit to my bachelor pad.
One balmy Sunday afternoon, I was cooking, shirtless. On my waist, hinged on my kitambi, I wore a simple cotton wrap around called kikoi. A halo of perspiration hang around my face as I kneaded the ugali slowly, mulling over my solitude.
To wash down the malignant sadness that was spreading in my heart like a bad rash, I was also drinking that fiery drink which the Scots bequeathed the world. A drink so punchy that after a few tots, I could feel a warm rush of feel good hormones coursing in my veins.
When the good Reverend knocked on my door, I placed my drink near the cooking pot and welcomed the man of God. As we talked, the food started sizzling, prompting me to empty a half full glass into the meat stew.
My Reverend got to his job and advised me that it’s not only bread that can keep a man alive, but also the word of God. I nodded vehemently, seeing that I was in the wrong.
When the food was ready, I dashed into neighbours house next door and borrowed two plates. My neighbour was a wise fellow who could read a ‘bachelor’s’ predicament, so he added me two spoons and two tumblers.I couldn’t borrow a serving tray since none of the ‘bachelors’ in the hood had any so I served the food on the cover of a bucket. We then ate the food was eaten in silence, the Reverend and I, like the communion. I could tell my guest was relishing the serving.
‘The food was pleasantly tangy.’ The Reverend confirmed my hunch after gulping down a glass of water contentedly.Its then that I realized that when the meat sizzled, I had added whiskey to it instead of water. And thus the tangy taste. This incidence, though unintended, stained my conscience and guilt gnawed at my heart like a mole rat.
The following Sunday, I was welcomed back to church, like the prodigal son. I rejoined KAMA- the Anglican men association which would sing off key hymns in church. I was back home-and on my way to healing.
My Reverend may have realized my mistake, but decided that his love for me, the one lost sheep, was bigger than my mistake.
