Open air gospel crusades are slowly making a comeback. They'd been nailed by the pandemic guidelines. My hood, though, didn't wait for the Ministry of Health to ban crusades. The hood-inspired ban had been triggered by a preacher who had 'lost it'.
If you didn't know, a lot of preachers on rickety, makeshift dais in public squares, have had other lives. There will be reformed convicts - murder, serial rapists, cons and robbery masterminds - threatening you with the proverbial fire and brimstone.
So, a few days to Christmas (2018) - a van screeches to a halt, at a road intersection. It's our public square. The faithful are largely middle-aged, rocking turbans in assorted colors. Ranks and hierarchy.
Oh, they have a red flag happily flapping in the wind, on a bamboo pole.
In a few minutes, Kikuyu gospel tunes are booming - drowning the cacophony of Roots Reggae ballads blaring in electronic and Khat stalls. The public square has a robust business culture, plus it's an important Matatu drop-and-pick station. It's busy.
No one minds the turbaned faithful. They are jerking and drumming along to the music. It's a free country, after all. The freedom of expression.
After, perhaps, an hour's worth of ruckus - it's preaching time. An elderly guy, in a purple turban takes hold of the microphone. He's this authoritarian vibe, quite the Bazenga - I mean, he has someone standing a step behind him - with a towel. It's a beach towel.
He starts off at a normal, even tone, but, behold, the tempo considerably picks.
His style is unorthodox. But, maybe, it could be orthodox in flag-bearing churches. Every few minutes, he drops a prayer. A themed prayer. Politics, and politicians. The weather. Heck, this preacher even remembers our "unfortunate girls braving hostile jobs in the Middle East..."
The preacher (deep in prayer), goes:
"Yes, Lord...SAVE US! Save us from death! Save us from death like you saved the daughter of...of...of...eeeerm...eee...the daughter of...."
At this point it's clear. Our preacher has lost that bit of his memory.
The faithful had made the dais quite high, so everyone sees the preacher against the backdrop of the church's red flag. It's lazily swaying in the breeze, in all it's reddish glory. It demands excellence, and persuasion - which the purple-turbaned bearer heavily lacks.
Now, every hood has it's share of loafers. Those lazy, Do-Nothing's at the square with stale beer breath, and smelly, cheap plastic shoes. The funny thing? The loafers are drunk 24/07 - something you cannot afford - even with your university education.
Anyways, one of the loafers shouts: "...Jairu's daughter !..."
And, this is absolute madness - dude kicks a plastic soda bottle half-filled with some liquid towards the dais. To this day, I can see the bottle fly towards the preacher - in a sort of slow motion. The bottle lands at the preacher's feet. He's rocking moccasins.
He halts the prayer. Midway. You know it's a bad thing by the long it takes him to open his eyes. His upraised left hand slowly descends to his waist. The right hand is still clutching the microphone. The beach-towel-guy tries to hand him his towel.
The often-ignored English phrase 'Shit Hits the Fan' is not an idle phrase. It came to life, as we all watched. Daylight, so broad and unforgiving. We didn't have time to reflect, or ask - but, that preacher must have been a legend in his former life. That is, before he'd retired from whatever, to pick up a Bible and a purple turban.
He turns and flings the microphone into a Khat stall some metres to his left. These stalls usually have open doorways. He jumps off the dais like an Olympic-class athlete. He lands on his feet, charges across that space like a bull on steroids. Western bull fighters would be proud.
He grabs the nearest dude by his collar, and starts pummeling him.
Hey, this preacher doesn't have a preacher's fists. More like a mason's, or a fisherman's. Blood starts spouting, he grabs the next dude on the bench!
It's like a force unseen has entered the man of the gospel.
Well, in a few minutes the market square is void of human visitation. All the Khat stands have overturned chairs and boxes!
After a few minutes, frothing at the corners of his mouth in rage - he regains his composure. He looks around, breathing slowing down.
Meanwhile, half of his faithful have scaled the dais, and are gawking at him. You'd think a demon has strolled out of hell in pants and a checkered shirt.
