Behind Kanjo, the iron roof of the church keeps yawning and trembling slightly whenever the wind picks up. When it stops flapping, the mid-morning sun burns Daudi’s eyes, so he turns his body slightly to face the council officer. The man wears a green overcoat, blackened at the elbows and on the sides, torn at other places like around the collar. The pocket is also partially torn, and if Daudi squints at Kanjo’s shadow, it becomes a tail, short like a goat’s. The frown on Daudi Mfalme deepens as Kanjo stretches out his fat greasy palm, an offensive smile warming his eyes, showing his yellow, rotting teeth, shaking Daudi’s faith.
Kanjo’s eyes momentarily linger on the expansive bar and restaurant behind Daudi, its colourful graffiti of women and men in a crowd: their source of joy invisible, their laughter almost audible. Despite his best attempts, he can no longer ignore the small man talking in his face, so he turns his eyes and attention back to Daudi whose face is plastered with disbelief, disapproval stretching his mouth at the corners, his eyes boring a hole through Kanjo’s outstretched palm.
“You offend me, brother. Bribery is a vice and I will not be blackmailed for defending the church against today’s Sodom and Gomorrah…,” Daudi’s impassioned speech is cut short by the abrupt and loud laughter from Kanjo, leaving him standing still, his old leather Bible firmly tucked under his arm and his left hand caught mid-air.
“Kijana fukara mjinga,” Kanjo says between his laughter, “Who cares what your book says? This is business, my friend. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll find that money or else even that old book won’t help you.” Kanjo does not wait for another response. He turns away, his face twisted in disgust and his voice dripping with anger, “Money! Money, my friend. That’s the real gospel right there.”
Daudi stares at him as he walks away, feeling the fury he has been praying away starting to froth and simmer. His anger is further ignited by the sight of the rubble from the broken wall. The concrete wall had stood between the bar and the church for close to three years now. On Daudi’s side, the wall was bare, unplastered, and formed part of the church’s structure. The other three walls were made of timber boards loosely nailed together. It would have been exotic if it were in any place other than this city.
He walks alongside a row of aloe vera, heading to the entrance of his pride and joy. At the corner of his eyes, he glimpses Kariuki, that drunkard who interrupted a Sunday service a few weeks ago, staggering around the bar’s compound, cheerfully greeting everyone he comes across. Broken chairs, tables, bottles and glasses lie accusingly in heaps on the far end of the bar’s compound. Daudi feels shame start to take shape, but he chastises it away. Everyone liked the phrase “What would Jesus do?” but Daudi did what Jesus would, and he would not let a foul-mouthed, pepper-eyed, yellow-toothed and round-bellied son of Satan punish him for following in His footsteps.
His thoughts wander aimlessly as he stops by the wall, a few metres from the entrance of the church, to peer at some dirt that has piled up behind one of the plants. It is the women’s duty to clean the church and its compound every day before the servant of God comes to start the day and fellowship with the Spirit. It seems they are starting to get lazy, because why is the dirt looking at him now? Other prophets and ministers ask for full salaries and sacks of rice, and their congregants do not fail them. How is cleaning a church before noon a difficult task?He chews on this discovery and decides he will remind his church about giving. He caresses the Bible he holds, as if looking for confirmation. He must have found it because he nods to himself.
His momentary joy is soured by the sound coming from across the wall. Kariuki approaches with a smile in his eyes, and a song on his lips. “Jabali lile lililonikangamia ningelipiga risasi kuli…Aaah King David,” Kariuki comes to a stop at the point where Daudi and his congregants broke the wall down. The drink in the tottering drunkard’s hand swirls in the tumbler, but it does not spill. This only infuriates the preacher-man who watches with his lips firmly pressed together, and his throat suddenly dry.
“Shalom Kariuki,” Daudi says, moving his Bible to his chest. Kariuki eyes him for an unending minute, before offering the drink to him. Daudi shakes his head no and considers slapping the tumbler from Kariuki’s hand. He doesn’t. With a smile, Kariuki brings the tumbler to his mouth and drinks before continuing very enthusiastically, “I heard Kanjo laughing, I did not know…there are…jokes in the…the … Bible.” His slurred speech is punctuated by saliva that flies from his mouth into the air around him, prompting Daudi to edge backwards.
“God will make a way,” Daudi murmurs, irritated that someone witnessed Kanjo’s mockery.
“You …you know…lazima…utoboke.Time ha…has chan…changed since Moses and his burning shoes. Lazima…” Kariuki leaves his words hanging as he lifts his tumbler to his lips and drinks deeply, slurping and moaning. When he is done, he continues, “You know your stubbornness to assimilate to the times…is…is why your flock is running away. These are…are …modern times…you need to a..adapt. Droppp the act and sss…stop.” He appears to have more to say but he brings the tumbler to his lips again, holding a finger up in Daudi’s face
Daudi, whose only reason for entertaining this sorry excuse of a man is that he hopes to convert him back to the way of the church, takes the pause to explain why God’s word is not subject to the changes and seasons of man and his thinking: “Nothing is impossible for my…”
Kariuki stops mid sip and guffaws loudly, bending over and spilling the little drink left in his tumbler. He tumbles over and falls to the ground laughing, kicking his feet and using his free hand to slap his thigh. “Sstopp! Haha. You…you broke into the bar…didn’t you? Just don’t…hahaha,” Kariuki stammers as he lifts himself to head back to the bar. He curses his spilled drink, and in between the cursing, he laughs at Daudi Mfalme. He calls the preacher-man names and shakes his head vigorously before starting to sing another song in that deep voice. Unlike his speech, his singing is clear and smooth.
Behind him, Daudi seethes.
Why? Why does God allow evil to triumph?Daudi kicks the pile of dirt and instantly regrets it as a rotten banana peel sticks to his well-polished black shoes. He starts to drag his foot against a stone lying close by, to dislodge the peel. He is successful but now a film of dust coats the hem of his pants, and he stifles a scream. He proceeds to enter the church, pushing the flimsy timber door open with such force that it hits the wall, comes back and hits him in the face. He stops for several minutes, breathing deeply and slowly, before calmly walking in. This time, he pushes the door gently and leaves it open.
#
It is true. A week ago, Daudi led his congregation to break the wall and rampage that filthy hole of debauchery and all vices the devil concocted. Everyone is fixating on his reaction, he thinks as he walks into the church, as Kariuki continues to butcher the lyrics to Them Mushroom’s song: “Nilipomaliza pesa mateso ya duniya…”
Daudi only did what he did because the loud sinful music from the bar was disrupting his Easter sermon. Jesus was rising from the dead and yet a few metres away from his pulpit, people were crucifying him again. Occasionally, he would pause for his flock to get the gravity of the sermon. “He is not here; he has risen, just as he said,” Daudi Mfalme’s deep voice thundered through the small church, his body vibrating from the intensity, “Yes, He has risen. Risen from the dead. Risen from the darkness. Risen, just like he said. Our Saviour is not a liar. Come on, say it with me. He has riseeeeennnnnnn!”
The women, men and children repeated his words and in the silence that followed their proclamations, he stood perfectly still, looking at each and every one of them. All ten of them. Daudi could swear he felt the presence of the Spirit. He went to add something about the empty tomb, but he was cut off by a DJ screaming, “Make some noisssseeee!” His anger momentarily blinded him, but he decided to stick to the sermon. The resurrection was of course a rich source all through the year, but on Easter Sunday, the timing was just perfect, and Daudi was nothing if not an artist relentless in the pursuit of perfection. So, he went on.
But so did the bar with its noisy, sinful and lustful songs, its people laughing in loud, drunken and pitiful fits, inviting the devil into their hearts. The final straw was the interruption of the communion, as his flock knelt on the spalled floor pondering on the might of God. The DJ yelled, “Ikibamba sana wapi nduru weweee!” Daudi asked his congregation to excuse him for a minute.
If the DJ wants to see noise, I will show him noise, Daudi thought as he went to the back room. He emerged with a shovel, two hammers, and a big log. He signaled his congregants to follow him as he walked out of the church. With the hammer, he took to fiercely attacking the wall which only gave in after his brow was lined with sweat. His congregants were right behind him, feeling the power of the Spirit surge through them, as their leader had told them it would. They widened the gap in the wall then stormed into the bar’s compound. They broke tables, tore down the tarpaulins, threw stones at windows and people, and even poured a full jar of salt into the brewing tea. The patrons’ panicked screams, interrupted by the banging of sufurias and blaring car alarms made Daudi’s heart swell with joy.
Mathayo’s arrival, with three police cars in tow, sent the wreckers into flight. Daudi himself took off like a dog, jumping over the broken wall and disappearing out of the church’s compound. His followers barely managed to follow, but it would have been difficult for him to know this, given the clouds of dust he was stirring behind him, and that he did not look back, even once
The glory is now stained by Kanjo’s threat and disdainful laughter. Stuck on Daudi’s mind is Kanjo’s demand for 100,000 shillings. That, or being thrown into a mariamu like a common criminal.
#
The Saturday morning sounds are starting to give way to the busy part of the day. Nganyas blasting their loud music, touts calling travellers to their vehicles, a Safaricom shop almost begging people to buy some SIM cards and a church sermon manages to sneak just underneath all this. The voice is loud, scratchy and consistently interrupted by static. Daudi’s meandering mind latches onto it, and he tries to determine whether the preacher would look as confident as he sounded. Or is that how he himself sounded whenever he was on the pulpit? A big voice but empty on the inside? His sermons only a symptom of his desperation as he willed his congregants to believe in him in a way he himself never could? Daudi shakes himself, his narrow frame moving stiffly as he does, and drops that line of thought. No need to wake up the ghosts.
He walks across the cracked floor, past the tiled pulpit, and opens the window. It creaks open slowly, and a burst of fresh air gushes in as if it has been waiting for the invitation. He inhales deeply and then goes to the small back room that doubles as both the store and his office. The room is barely big enough for the desk at the centre, and there is no room to move from one side to the other without first pushing it out of the way. From the corner, he retrieves an old stiff broom, chewed up by years of service. He pushes the desk back into position, and in doing so, accidentally stubs his foot. He hisses loudly and folds over, resting his hands on his knees waiting for the pain to subside and for his breathing to become steady.
When it does, he picks up the broom and walks out of the office, into the room of worship. He starts sweeping vigorously, as if to pour out the anger that was drowning him, as well as to mute the sounds of laughter and merrymaking coming from across the fence. Oh, how the sinners laugh and dance, while his flock squeezes itself into this cramped armpit on thin benches – pieces of timber desperately held together by prayers. The dirt collects quickly, but it escapes Daudi’s notice. He is also oblivious to the newcomer; tall, with broad shoulders and his locs lazily rolled into a messy bun.
Mathayo walks in with slow measured steps, before announcing his presence, “King David.”
Daudi sighs, more annoyed than surprised by this latest interruption. He rises slowly to meet the eyes of the bar owner. Once, Mathayo too, had been one of his congregants, and Daudi had entertained the idea of converting him into a man of the Book just like himself, but that flame was put out when he beat Kariuki. He sighs again, recalling how that vile demon staggered into the church, eyes red, shirt untucked, one foot sticking through his gaping shoe, and the other wrapped in a red turned brown juala bag.
When had Kariuki greeted him so enthusiastically at Mathe’s drinking den, Daudi knew the fool would try to embarrass him, but he had assumed that drunkards had a code of conduct. If thieves did, then surely drunkards must have one, he reasoned to himself yet again when Kariuki staggered into the church, three days later. It seemed there was no code, and of all places to be exposed for his failings, Daudi would not allow that to happen in his sanctuary.
“Hypo…crite! King David is a…hy…pocrite!” Kariuki screamed as he walked towards the pulpit. Heads turned, and murmurs broke out, littered with laughter. Sister Maria and Mama Esita quickly rose to escort him outside, but the drunkard wiggled and jiggled his way out of their grasp. Once at the pulpit, Kariuki picked up the Bible, turned it upside down, and started imitating Daudi: “Blessed are …the…the…blind, for…they will…not know…when…they get lost.”
The spectacle unfolding before God’s holy altar brought an itch all over Daudi, which he scratched by picking up a broom and chasing Kariuki, who ran out of the church, his hands on his pants’ waistband lest they fall to his ankles. Kariuki was not fast enough, because Daudi caught up with him and pounced on him, mercilessly. Then, Daudi started beating him thoroughly. It was Mathayo who separated the two, as everyone from the bar and church watched and laughed, while a few pinched their faces in disapproval.
Then Mathayo, in the presence of everybody else, accused Daudi of defiling the church. “If you want to be Van Damme, why open a church?” The accusation stung differently every time Daudi recalled it, every time he saw Mathayo and the cars he drove, and every time Kariuki mocked him with his songs and stupid, alcohol-fueled antics. At least when Daudi drank, he knew to hide and feel ashamed.
The nods of agreement from some members of his church pierced him. The way Sister Lucy tied a leso round the drunkard and Mama Ben handed him a bottle of water. And how his congregation started shrinking after that. Once, he ran into Mama Ben, sometime after she had left his church. It happened on a bad day, and his eyes were blood-red, his mouth stinking like an overflowing sewer. She had laughed in his face, throwing her head back before remarking, “Which God is this that you preach?” Her laughter echoed in his mind for days afterwards, and when he noticed Sister Lucy and Mama Pendo had stopped coming to church, he knew his flock had been compromised. Even more and more people stopped coming till his flock was less than a dozen. Mathayo’s attendance had become sparse after that incident, before stopping altogether. Until today.
Until now.
“You. You’re here because your lackey failed, aren’t you?” Daudi accuses.
Mathayo looks at the man before him and slides his hands into his pockets. His face is blank, and he seems not to be surprised by the outburst.
“I will not press charges, but all I ask is for you to stay on your side,” he starts, offering an olive branch.
Daudi drops the broom, picks up his Bible, and tucks it under his arm. He looks outside the window, past the broken wall, to the clustered groups of people drinking in the bar’s compound. Kanjo’s laughter floats back to him, and the anger he has been nursing since morning resurfaces.
“My side of the fence? My side?” Daudi bursts. “Is it not your bar—no, your garbage—that keeps spilling to my side? That noise. And Kariuki. But you think it is me and my side with a problem?”
Mathayo sighs, his eyes fixed on Jesus nailed to the cross on the preacher’s lectern, just a few steps behind Daudi. His shoulders tense, and his mouth tightens. He rocks on his heels as Daudi rambles on about the bar. When Daudi compares the bar to Gomorrah for the second time, Mathayo cuts him short with a slight eye roll and says, “What if you sell this piece of land? Sell it to me.”
Daudi jumps to object, “This is holy ground, Mathayo. I cannot just let you convert it into another corner of vices,” The objection leaves the taste of sand in his mouth.
If he says yes, he will not have to worry about Kanjo. But the toil of building a church from the ground up? Could he do it again? He recalls the verse: I can do all things through him who strengthens me. But what will differentiate him from the lost? His worry is dwarfed by his own sermon a few days ago: All things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose. Truly, He works in mysterious ways.
“How much?” Daudi asks as he lowers the Bible, placing it on the thin bench before him. It falls to the pile of dirt on the floor with a soft thud but he does not notice as his eyes are fixed on Mathayo who has turned to walk, as silently as he walked in. Mathayo looks over his shoulder, then he stops and turns to face Daudi. He remains quiet as Daudi reduces the distance between them in three long strides.
Daudi asks again, louder: “How much?”
“105,000 shillings.” Mathayo’s response is swift.
Daudi does the math, subtracting the sum Kanjo was demanding. The coincidence disturbs him, so he lashes out, “You! You greedy, greedy hyena…”
Mathayo, still standing close to the door, cuts him off again, “I take it to court, you lose. If you sell, you at least keep your dignity.” Daudi goes quiet, and slumps into the nearest bench. Mathayo looks at him, then he glances at his watch.
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Image: Jonathan Sanchez unsplash remixed