JESUS OR JESUS PIECE?: Inside an 'international deliverance' church.

I went to visit a friend last Wednesday. In the Old Park, I boarded a taxi to Namugongo at around 18.00 EAT and Kampala being Kampala, we negotiated with jam, till at about 19.30 hrs. when I arrived in the vicinity. I am not friends with taxis and occasionally I always swallow saliva repeatedly to avoid wreaking havoc to my neighbors. It was with much relief therefore when I shouted at the conductor, a shabbily dressed fellow.

“Maasawo!”

I alighted just before crossing the bridge over the northern bypass and proceeded on foot along the Kamuli-lubaawo Namugongo bypass. By this time it was alarmingly dark and I fought several urges to take a boda. The Swahili always say it, there is no problem that travels alone. When shit is going south, expect a bucketful. My host made it clear that he had stepped out shortly. I had to wait on the outside. Turning on my mobile data, the battery level dramatically dwindled to fifteen percent. Great. Just what I needed. I quickly turned the phone to the ultra-power save mode and dropped it into the pocket. Mosquitoes of every bleed and race buzzed over my head, forcing me to pull over the hood of my sweater. They buzzed over me again, like the unwelcome visitor that I was. Then I decided to take a walk.

I hunched my shoulders, pushed my hands deep into the pockets and then proceeded on my forced tour. There was nothing much. Just a typical Kampala suburb, a saloon here, an aroma of freshly made chappatis, roadside sausage stalls and music. A cinema hall with V.j Jingo in full blast.

“Nga tuli Kasubu na kki?”

“N’aloo.”

I felt my pockets keenly, anticipating a call but there was nothing. My host was not yet back. He would call if he did arrive. No worries. I headed north, more uneventful saloons and chappati stalls. Nothing to get my attention.

I was about to turn back when I picked up an all-too-familiar sound. The sound of evening praise and worship from born again churches. I had never been into one before and I had nothing worthwhile to do. Why not?     

                                                              

I branched to the left, past an abandoned automobile washing bay and beyond. Just like I had pictured in my mind, it was an iron sheet structure. It shined in the dark, the pale moon light reflecting on the ‘walls’, signifying the presence of the Lord, I mused.

prayer and divine healing ministries international.

The blast of music hit my face with such force as I entered this holy iron sheet structure. Sounds of praise and worship, akin to the midnight atmosphere at Rock Catalina filled my ears and it was sheer providence that my eardrums remained intact. A tremor run through my body. Inside the house of the Lord, I felt like s stranger and expected to be bundled up at any time and thrown on the cold outside in case someone noticed the devil ridding on my shoulder. I was not roughed up however, not at that moment and not in the hour that I spent looking at frenzied worshipers.

The floor was covered with red woolen carpets that had seen better days no doubt, with plain white chairs scatter across. The lot of them however had been bundled to the sides, creating an expanse of space in the middle. The altar  was a different dimension. Ornately constructed with stone and painted immaculate cream. A glass stand was elected thereon with the church Logo gloriously emblazoned, the mark of the church. This juxtaposition is usually symbolic… flamboyant shepherd, wretched sheep.

Inside this house of the lord, it is a different universe. I felt like John Carter on his first day on planet mars. The worshipers were marching, like army recruits, pacing back and forth. Sometimes they picked up pace, like in an Olympic race walk, mumbling a heavenly dialect that I could not fathom. I felt ill at ease, shifted from one leg to another till I settled in the corner and keenly watched the proceedings. I could see the lot of them and more than half were young women not yet into their thirties obviously and about half of the latter had babies slung over their shoulders, young mothers perhaps?

The leader of this praise and worship was an equally energetic young man, spotting a plaid shirt and a black trouser that looked worn out from a distance. And occasionally he would pump words into the microphone. His voice, so powerful had by now grown hoarse and constantly he would pose for a breath before barking bark into the microphone again.

“Twaala okusaba okwamaanyi!”

“Twaal’emikisa gya Yeesu!”

A young lad probably gripped with the holy power, circled around the church and finally linked up with a young lass, they joined hands and prayed so powerfully that the young man’s abdomen shook, the young lady shaking like an autumn leaf in the wind. I know nothing about praise and worship rituals so I just starred in awe like a teenage boy having extracted a word from the girl of his dreams.

It took me a while to realize that the microphone had changed, to a young lady this time. The lady’s voice had been no different from the young man’s that the transition had gone unnoticed. Hers in fact was over the top you would think we had a lion growling in the church. Her predecessor, visibly exhausted made his way to the altar, to the glass pulpit and picked up a glass of water, took a long swig and then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He then paced around the altar and shook his head in appreciation, like a man inspecting a half days work.

Waking up from the eerie, I could see a young man who had now lain on the floor, like an expectant heifer about to bring forth its calf. A young girl, oblivious of the lad’s intentions went up to him and shook him, probably fearing the worst. He did not budge. She then imitated him and spread her miniature body on the carpet. Her mother came and whisked her away, admonishing her to stay put.

Inside the house of the Lord, I did not feel any different. I looked at the men and young ladies pacing around in prayer and mumbling in tongues and wondered if it was not a hoax. That deep within, they were just problem-laden people looking for release. I remembered a time a friend of mine showed up with a string of new beads on his arm. Keith is not really the religious type so I was a little bit shocked to see the word Jesus etched on the bracelet.

“Uh. So now you are a believer.” I had exclaimed, a strange light shining in my eyes.

“Turn it around.” he had said.

I twisted his arm around to complete the bead maze.

Piece. It said. Jesus Piece. The Game’s fifth studio album...

Aren’t most things usually like that. Look once, it is that, look twice and it is a different story.

I felt in my phone pocket for my Tecno m6. It was getting late really. I stepped outside and just then sly thing started ringing. It was my host come back… Time to go home old boy. I pulled over my hood and pushed north, beyond the praise, beyond the worship, beyond the music.