The son of Mwobithania opens his servers…and all hell breaks lose (Part IV of IV)
- February 28, 2018
“Praise the Lord…” that’s how those before me started their confessions. I was boiling with content.
“Do you, Sir, remember one early morning you were forced to drink the litre of raw milk you were taking to the collection centre?” I said pointing to an ageing dude in the second row with a heavily balding dome.
“You were then roughed a bit and tied upside down to a nearby electric pole. Lost your bike too. Well, that was my crew. Of course we were higher than this here church roof. In fact, it is I, myself, who rode the bike away,” I had already blown the sinful competition out of the water, so the looks on the faces staring at me confirmed, yet I was barely started.
“However,” I went on, a triumphant smile forcing itself on my kisser, “you might be happy to learn that I fell from your bike only twice. But was selling the confounded Black Mamba hard? In the end, we swapped it for four jugs of keg, a nearly full pack of fags and 300 bob,” I was feeling like the champion sinner I was at this point.
“Next time, ride something that is much easier to sell, like the bike we took from one of the kids that had come visiting Mrs Kahuria one Christmas two years ago,” I said acknowledging an ageing woman with a bush of white hair on her head.
Remember the day you and your husband hired us to steal your car so that you could claim refurbishment or whatever you called it from the insurance?
“The gears were a bewilderment we tried really hard to unravel. In the end, we couldn’t. So we carried the bike in turns to Dandora and 15 minutes is all it took for its weight to be replaced with that of three, dazzling elephant notes. That’s the sort of bike you should be riding,” I said turning back to the balding fellow. The church had gone as silent as a grave. I was loving the attention.
“And you madam,” I said turning to one of the women with a blue head wrap on the front row. “Remember the day you and your husband hired us to steal your car so that you could claim refurbishment or whatever you called it from the insurance? Well, I am sorry to report that we were not very honest with you in the end.” Streaks of sweat were flowing from under the scarf on her head. Forgiving must be hard work, I thought and went on.
“I’m afraid we might have sold you out to the insurance guys. I’m sorry you were arrested but in my defence, it was all Masengele’s idea. But you will agree that we would be mad to refuse a doubling of the 30K you paid us, right? Besides, the case collapsed after we could not be found to testify…”
By the time I confessed my fifth sin, all touching on members of the congregation, the church sounded like a beehive from all the whispering that was going on. So I did this thing that I have perfected over time –misreading of signs. That’s why I stood there, reveling on the excitement I had raised in the exhaustively dull church.
I might have closed my eyes and raised both hands in silent appreciation of the standing ovation rupturing in my dome. There is a likelihood I bowed a few times, acknowledging the Christian fans that were now worshiping my name. I was feeling mighty powerful. It is a feeling I’ve had before, sometime last year when I made a stub at politics, but that’s a story for another day.
When Pastor John asked whether that was all, perhaps I should have nodded acknowledgement and clamped my kisser shut. I didn’t!
“I have a final confession sir and this is one is really good,” I told him, mumbling something about the last savings being for best because I could not remember how the saying goes. I still can’t.
“It touches on you pastor,” I added turning towards the preacher with a smile. He didn’t look happy at all. I reckoned my confession would change that in an instant.
“I might have slept with your house girl.” I could see his unlovely face crack. He must be mad at the sin, not me or the girl, I thought. The church was dead silent again.
“May have…or did?” Pastor John asked in a trembling voice.
“Well, I did…and your daughter too, the one in college…must be your eldest,” the pastor froze, his mouth wide open. The microphone fell from his hand with a thud.
“And your wife too…” I said.
“M..y..my..wwife…?” he stammered.
“Yes, sir. Three times…”
There was a squeal like that of mating cats, followed by thud from the group of women in blue head wraps. I turned to see the pastor’s wife lying flat on the floor. I wondered if that was normal procedure in confessions. Before I could ask, there was a roar behind me like that of a strangled dog.
In an instant, Pastor John was hanging on my back, clawing, biting, kicking, punching and screaming like a mad dog. At first, I thought it was part of the cleansing. Then the bugger reached for my neck and started squeezing.
It dawned on me that this was no longer godly business. It was very personal. And for the second time in an hour, the preacher man was attempting to dispatch me to be with my grand pa. I might not be a fighter, but there was no way I was going to be walloped by a church boy. How would I explain the embarrassment to the crew.
So I whirled and socked him one proper left hook right in the middle of his sweaty face. That shut his stinky mouth up. I followed it up with a left into his soggy tummy. He was now looking thoroughly uncomfortable.
I decided to show him the proper way to strangle people. So I spun him around and wrapped my arm expertly around his neck. I gave my biceps the right amount of squeeze and I could feel the man of God begin to go limb. A few more seconds, he would be joining his wife in slumber land.
But then, then there was a sudden commotion as the church members erupted into rebellion. In an instant, I was drowning under a sea of bodies. Everyone seemed to be clamouring for a piece of me. There is barely enough me for one person, let alone a church-full of crazy people.
The pastor by himself, I could comfortably handle. But this mob was a different thing all together. Fight was no longer an option. Flight it was. Calling on experience, I wriggled out of the flailing limbs and was almost out through the main door at the back when a crowd of Sunday School tots filled it, seeking to make sense of the adult excitement in the church building.
I was not ready to stomp some little children to death so I screeched to a halt and turned, aiming for the side door at the front. The aisle was full of irate Christians so I flew over the benches like it was a steeple chase.
I was two seats from the exit when I saw an opportunity I had to take. The striped kiondo people lined up to drop money into earlier was still sitting on the small table next to the pulpit. Darting through the numerous tentacles trying to arrest my flight, I scooped my prize and made a sharp u-turn for the exit. Some buggers had however shut it. I was trapped. Or was I?
I evaluated my predicament and aimed for the windows. The spaces between the metal grills were designed to keep even a rabbit out. But post office boxes were also designed to barely fit an arm. But I, Kirundiro son of my father, fit myself inside one to hide from an army man whose girl I had attempted to smooch at a bar. The spaces between the window grills looked the size of warehouse doors in comparison.
I aimed for one at the furthest end of the church and flew over the seats once more, with the crusaders panting after me, their stash safe under my arm. In a flash, I was through the window. They didn’t stand a chance after that.
So here I am, battered, nearly naked but fed like a King. Nebuchadnezzar must be thoroughly mad with himself wherever he is for scramming before the feast started, I am telling myself as I swing past the curtain on Mama Muhia’s door. It is going to be an awesome afternoon…