Africa39 (32 page)

No money. Loan looming. Needs arising. Tired and confused. Derrick looked for hope elsewhere. He found it in Beatrice. She lived in the next plot and was permanently awed by his one-bedroomed iron sheet house that had electricity, would you believe it? Hers was one timber room that did not have cement but mud on the floor, no electricity and she was always being attacked by every odd kind of insect. But Derrick’s house? Wow. Things were in separate rooms. You had to go through a doorway to find a bed. And another doorway to find the stove, pans and plates. Plus all that netting, lace and crotchet around the sitting room wall to cover the rusted iron. How did he afford that? Wow. Beatrice, you have found a man among men.

Thanks to his 200-bob-a-month house in Kawangware, Derrick got a girlfriend. She was not of his class; he had a degree and all. But location, location, location. That is why she was perfect. His ideal woman probably lived in an extension in Bururburu but he smelled of kerosene and pit latrine all the time. For that reason, Beatrice would do.

And she did get fat and pregnant successfully, three times. Fourteen years later, he was the oldest tenant, paying 3,000 bob for the same old tin. Going out every day to look for money.

The Bachelor of Recreation and Leisure Management had built houses, sold scrap paper and metal, cleaned toilets, washed cars, cut trees, delivered letters, sold onions, lost some coins in a Ponzi scheme, cooked and sold mandazi, pickpocketed, cut hair, made soap and cobbled shoes to make sure his progeny ate. Just food. No one was going to go to school, even though Daddi had told them that it was a fantastic place to be. And what was the point anyway if a tin was as far as school took you?

But food they just had to have. Derrick knew it. Except for this one day. He was tired and it was too early to go back home. He sat on a City Council bench opposite the Junction Mall, under a city clock, near that great corner and watched the rich go crazy with the paper in their purses and wallets.

To be honest with himself, he was afraid of money. It had caused him so much pain without even allowing him to touch it properly. Money was that woman. The one who hates you so much yet you have done nothing except desire her. The sight of you makes her puke. Derrick made money sick. Money could not believe he wanted anything to do with her and his love grew into fear that if one day he conquered her, he would mistreat and abuse her. He was not really sure he wanted much to do with her. The money game was exactly like playing Double Dutch with barbed wire.

‘Praise the Lord, my brother,’ a man sat next to him.

He was wearing a white shirt, white trousers and white shoes. The shoes and the cuffs of his trousers had some red dust on them. A sign that he had walked some distance before he got to Derrick. The man was holding pamphlets and a Bible. He was yellow. Not a white man, not Chinese and not Indian. A yellow curiosity that looked foreign and believable.

‘Amen,’ Derrick said.

‘My name is Pastor Agostinho and we speak Portuguese where I come from.’ He looked at Derrick like he wanted him to guess something.

‘Good for you.’

‘Ha! Do you know which countries speak Portuguese, my brother?’

‘Not really.’

‘Ah, my brother. The Lord is the source of all knowledge.’ The man laughed as if he had said the most delightful thing in the world.

Derrick was amused by the yellow cartoon.

‘I come from Brazil and the Lord has sent me to you. What is your name?’

‘Derrick.’

‘Dederick. That is the name. You, my friend, were born to be a ruler. Your name is blessed.’

‘Derrick. Not Dederick.’

‘No, my brother. Your name should have been Dederick. Derrick is removed from Dederick and whoever gave you that name took your blessings from you, Dederick.’

‘My parents.’

‘Yes, they cursed you.’

‘I am tempted to believe you.’

‘Tell me Dederick . . .’

‘Derrick. Derrick.’

‘Tell me Dederick, what do you do for a living?’

‘I do my family for a living.’

‘No, I meant do you have a job. Do you earn money?’

‘I do not have a job. I try to earn money.’

‘You do not have a job because you were cursed and Jesus sent me to help you.’

‘How big of him, considering he never had a job.’

‘Jesus is Lord. He died for you and has told me that you need the floodgates of heaven to open for you to prosper. I came all the way from Brazil where I had a good life. I abandoned my relatives and followed Jesus here just to help you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you need deliverance.’

‘Which church is this anyway?’

‘The Church of the People of Damascus.’

‘From Brazil?’

‘No. From the story of Saul who was persecuting the people of God and then saw the light on his way to Damascus. What would have happened if he was not on his way to Damascus? What, Dederick?’

‘The Lord would have found him on another route?’

‘No. No. No. This is what I mean. This is your road and the Lord sent me here to save you. I will pray for you and things will change for you, my brother. Let us pray. Father Jesus, you said the kingdom belongs to such as Dederick. You said your house is open to them. The ones the devil is trying to steal. The ones hell has already taken like Dederick. Lord you said they are yours and I, your servant, am here fighting for Dederick’s soul. He should not suffer at the claws of demons. Save him! Purify Father Jesus! Send your fire Father Jesus! Purify! Burn the evil. Kill the devil, Father Jesus. Pour your blood on Dederick. Pour your holy blood. Red blood purify your child Dederick. Your sacrifice was not in vain. Make Dederick the ruler he is meant to be. Make him walk on streets of gold and fly with wings to the glory of your kingdom! Oh Father Jesus! Burn the Lucifer! Sanctify! Sanctify! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! We believe! I believe! And you Beelzebub, master of darkness, I command you in the name of the light of the world, leave Dederick’s body. Manifest yourself! Manifest! Leave! Go to hell! In Jesus’ name! Amen and amen.’

‘Amen,’ Derrick said.

‘How do you feel now?’

Derrick looked Agostinho in the eye. He had never heard such a prayer.

‘Dederick, there are six demons in your eyes. They are looking at me with authority over your body and soul. The demon of poverty. The demon of covetousness. The demon of leprosy. The demon of foul smells. The demon of polluting farts. The demon of stagnant faeces. They have refused to come out. You need to come to church this Sunday. The big bishop is coming from Brazil. He has come with power from the Holy Land.’

‘Brazil?’

‘He will go to Israel before landing in Kenya.’

Agostinho gave Derrick a pamphlet:

Do you have family problems? Are you sick? Do you need a job? Are your children stupid? Do you feel cursed? Do you have bad dreams? Do you need a promotion? Are you an alcoholic/depressed/stressed? Do you want to go to heaven?

Come to the Church of the People of Damascus on Sunday 7 July for the Prayers of the Seven Tabernacles and be delivered.

A powerfully anointed bishop, who just came from a pilgrimage to Mount Moses (aka Sinai), will fight the devil with you.

Come brothers and sisters. Bring your burdens to Bishop Abraao.

It read like those signs Derrick saw in places where people who went to Junction Mall lived. The rich areas had different types of houses, tastes and kinks but they had one thing in common: numerous wooden signs, all nailed to trees. For Dr Ali from Tanzania, Dr Nuhu from Zanzibar and Dr Shabaan from Pemba. The signs said the doctors could clean woe out of lives, enlarge a penis, stitch a vagina telepathically, get a toy boy back, track stolen cars, wear an invisible cloak and tamper with ballot boxes, and like Agostinho they got rid of evil spirits.

‘Agostinho, do rich people go to your church?’

‘No, the kingdom belongs to the poor.’

‘Why are the rich left out?’

‘They worship the devil.’

Agostinho left and after four days of hunger-no damn work-quarrelling-undermining-bickering it was Sunday morning.

Derrick needed a break. He still had Agostinho’s pamphlet and curiosity made him walk out of his house and trudge on till four hours later he found a cinema hall in town with a huge banner, THE CHURCH OF THE PEOPLE OF DAMASCUS written on it in glorious Technicolor.

He walked through the big doors and found ushers milling around, directing people. Agostinho was there too.

‘Dederick, praise the Lord. Come here!’

Derrick went.

‘Nice to see you here mighty ruler. At the end of the service you will be a better man. A free man. A very blessed man. Do you believe? Say you believe. Come on!’

‘We will have to wait and see, Agostinho. That is all I can say for now.’

‘Have faith. I am glad I convinced you to come. Go in, Dederick. The Lord is waiting. And please do not be a doubting Thomas,’ and once again Agostinho laughed as if he had said the most delightful words in the world.

‘Isn’t that a good thing?’

‘No! Why would you say that?’

‘Because then the Lord would actually come back to life and let me touch his wounds to prove that he really lives. And I will also ask him to spare a few minutes to tell me why he sat back and let life hand me a bad deal. If he does not have a good answer he will have to ask for my forgiveness.’

‘I see demons are working inside you, Dederick. But Father Jesus is stronger. Go in my brother. Go in.’

‘OK.’

Derrick went into the cinema church. The seats were almost full. He sat next to a young woman who was humming to a nice choir song coming from the wall-mounted speakers.

There was a very good smell about the place that Derrick liked immediately. There was a scent of fresh flowers but there were none in the building. Curious. The music and the scent made him feel at ease though. He looked around to come to complete terms with his surroundings.

At the front was a stage with a pulpit and arches covered with purple and pink curtains. A large blue velvet cross with a silver Jesus hanging on it stood against the white wall.

Ushers came from behind the curtained arches carrying throne-like seats – high-backed and painted white – which they later wiped with equally white pieces of cloth that were now and then dipped in bowls of what looked like Elianto.

As soon as they left the stage, Agostinho and five other pastors came from behind the arches. They each had a wireless microphone. All but Agostinho had potbellies.

‘Hallelujah,’ they said.

‘Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Let us all welcome Bishop Abraao with a mighty clap. A thunderclap, people of God. Open the floodgates. Rain blessings on the man of God. Hallelujah.’

A man Derrick assumed to be the bishop raised his hands, smiled and waved at the people.

‘Stand up, close your eyes and feel the spirit. Raise your hands, lift your burdens, open your hearts and tell Jesus you are tired of carrying the cross,’ Abraao said.

Derrick closed his eyes. He tried to open his heart. This was a very straight-to-the-point church service. No song, dance and sermon. Just get to the main purpose of congregating: complaining to Jesus.

Some people started talking to themselves in prayer. The woman next to him turned her hum into a low chant. He tried to make out what the others were saying but the din now accompanied by a keyboard made it sound like Tom Mboya Street at 5.30 p.m. How did Jesus comprehend all this? It sounded like Babel.

Then, someone screamed and the cinema was quiet. All eyes opened to see where the evil sound came from. It came from the back. There was a woman jumping and screaming. She removed her blouse and threw it aside as if it had safari ants.

‘Close your eyes,’ Abraao said. ‘The demons know that the eyes are the windows to the soul. You came here to collect blessings not evil spirits.’

Everyone but Derrick closed their eyes.

Abraao told the ushers to bring the woman to the ‘altar’. As they did that there were more screams and grunts, as if in defence of the woman.

‘Aha, Lucifer’s servants and their herd of pigs have felt the presence of the Lord. Bring them all here.’

Derrick watched the ushers battle the demons all the way to the altar and wondered why they were doing it with their eyes open. The demons had a perfect getaway right in front of them and the owners of the windows seemed oblivious of the danger Abraao had warned them about.

There were close to fifty evils spirits crawling on the stage. Demons making faces, hugging each other, calling Agostinho, Abraao, the other pastors and the ushers idiots, nincompoops, losers, philistines, weak, mere mortals, irreparable pots, powerless and stupid. The demons called on Lucifer to save them. They wrestled the ushers and threw punches at them.

Abraao took one demon by the neck and began interrogating.

‘Who are you, who sent you and what are you doing in this man’s body?’

Boisterous, the demon said: ‘I am Zapara the Third. I lead a legion of 10,000. I am a good commander with a few accolades to my name. I am the shit, to be honest with you. No lie. And I have been sent by his wife’s ex-husband, Bishop Abraao.’