—Are you here to praise JEE-SUS? comes the call from the stage.
Around them, the churchgoers say yes.
The pastor cups his ear. —I said are you here to puh-raise Juh-EEEE-SUS?
—Yes!
—I can’t hear you, Nairobi. I am saying: Are. You. Here. To puh-RAISE the LORD?
This time, even Kiunga shouts: —Yes!
—Amen!
Whooping and clapping fill the hall. The place is now nearly full. The band members have taken their positions and are providing an accompaniment to the preacher, punctuating his pauses with drumrolls, his questions with cymbal clashes, his exclamation marks with short bursts of rhythm.
—Praise the Lord. It is so good to see you all again, brothers and sisters, on this day. And what a blessed day it is. For this is the last Sunday of Advent, the last Sabbath day before we celebrate the birth of our Lord.
—Amen!
* * *
Mollel is familiar with the story. As someone who had actually been born in a stable—or something very similar—he has always felt a certain affinity. But he can’t help feeling that as far as miraculous babies are concerned, he prefers the Maasai story of Ntemelua, who was born with full faculties of speech. Ntemelua’s mother and father were so frightened of their prodigy—and tired of his nagging—that they sneaked away one night, leaving him in the custody of a cow, a donkey, and a goat. When some morans tried to steal the animals, little Ntemelua hid himself up the cow’s arse.
Now that is a trick Mollel would like to read about in the Gospels.
* * *
—I have to say I’m pleased to see so many brothers here today, the preacher continues. Particularly when there are so many important football matches being played.
Gentle laughter ripples through the audience. Kiunga groans. — Don’t remind me! he says in Mollel’s ear.
—Yes, right now, Manchester United are playing Everton. Who wants to know the score? asks the preacher.
A few hands go up. Kiunga puts his fingers in his ears. —Don’t say it, don’t say it, he mutters.
—Don’t worry, I won’t ruin the suspense, booms the preacher. You can catch the highlights when you get home. You know, it’s funny. When I’m watching a big match live, my hands get clammy, my heart starts racing …
He mimes leaning forward, watching a game. The audience laughs in recognition.
—I hate preachers like this, whispers Kiunga to Mollel. They want to be stand-up comedians.
—I feel that, even though I’m thousands of miles away, I can still affect the outcome. I will my team to score. I will the ball to go into the goal. It’s never the same, watching a recording. And you know, that’s a little bit what prayer is like.
—Here comes the scripture, murmurs Kiunga.
—James four, verse two, says the preacher, and there is a ruffle of Bible pages around the room. You desire what you do not have, so you kill. You covet, but you cannot get what you want, so you quarrel and fight. You do not have, because you do not ask God.
He pauses, letting the words sink in.
—Now, I’m not saying you can pray for your team to win a football match. It doesn’t work like that. However much you’d like it to!
Some more polite laughter from the listeners.
—But you can change things in your own life if you allow God to guide you. The only thing you can’t change is what’s already happened.
* * *
Mollel thinks of Chiku. She had had faith. She always tried to convince him, too. Whenever she spoke about Jesus, her face lit up and her eyes shone with happiness. It was one of the things that had first attracted him to her. It did him no harm to attend services and pray to the man nailed to a cross. If doing so made Chiku happy, it made him happy. But he could never understand her strange father-son God. Even though he’d long ceased to believe his own people’s mythology, he still felt it simply made much more sense.
There was Naiteru-kop, who created the world: an act that was as neutral as the animals and plants with which he furnished it.
Then there was Enkai Narok, the Black God. He was the god of love, of family, of goodness. You thanked Enkai Narok when a child was born and appealed to his protection for the spirit of a loved one when they died. At times, in the Christian Church, he recognized Enkai Narok.
When all around him closed their eyes in prayer, he felt that Enkai Narok inhabited even this place.
But there was also Enkai Nanyokie. The Red God. Enkai Nanyokie was vengeful and capricious, full of jealousy and wrath. Mollel recognized Enkai Nanyokie, too, in parts of what he heard in church. But he could never reconcile this god with the loving one. That the Christians thought the red and black gods the same entity required an intellectual leap of acrobatic proportions that Mollel had never been able to master.
The Christians called him the Old Testament God; said he was a thing of the past. And yet it was this god, this Enkai Nanyokie, who manifested himself every day. You only had to walk the streets of Nairobi to see his works. You didn’t even need to go looking. If you waited long enough, the Red God would come to you. He had come to Mollel when he took Chiku away, so violently, just at the moment of his greatest happiness. And thus Mollel knew that if any god existed, his color was red.
* * *
He has stopped listening to the man and has allowed his eyes to wander to the area at one side of the stage. The young woman wearing a headset is talking into her microphone; an expectant buzz of activity surrounds the dark curtain there. The warm-up preacher is doing his best to keep the audience’s attention, but it is clear that their excitement is not for his theatrics, but for the main act.
—Amen! Thank you! Hallelujah! finishes the preacher, and the congregation joins in, leaping to their feet. Mollel and Kiunga stand too. The band strikes up a new tune, and from the PA system, a voice starts to boom.
—Ladies and gentlemen. Brothers and sisters. From Nairobi, Kenya, direct to viewers all around the world. This is George Nalo Ministries. The word of God from the heart of Africa. Now, will you please welcome the cofounder and director of George Nalo Ministries, Dr. Wanjiku Nalo.
The curtain opens, and a large middle-aged lady walks out. She is tall and well built, with a pleasant, youthful face despite her gray hair. Her determination and dynamism are palpable even at a distance. She waves to the audience, picks out a few individuals for a special smile of acknowledgment, then takes a seat beside the large gold lectern at center stage.
—And now, here he is. Please give the most blessed Nairobi welcome to our founder, our shepherd, our guide. The one. The only. Reverend. George. Nalo!
The audience erupts, and the band bursts into a frantic, uplifting, crashing melody. Suddenly Mollel becomes aware of a previously unseen choir, at least two hundred strong, in spotless crimson gowns, at the far side of the hall. It is immaculate stagecraft. Everyone seems to know what happens next, for as the choir begins its hymn, the congregation all around them joins in with perfect unity. It is not a hymn that Mollel knows, but despite himself, he claps along to the rhythm. It is infectious. Even Kiunga’s face has broken into a big, somewhat foolish grin. Just as the hymn reaches its chorus, a huge, suited man glides out from behind the curtain. He waves casually in acknowledgment of the frisson his presence causes, and he walks slowly across to the podium. He passes his wife, touching her briefly on the shoulder, and gathers some notes at the lectern. He also produces a large white handkerchief from his pocket and waits for the hymn to end.
—Hallelujah, he says.
He has a voice like a hundredweight of sharp sand. Deep, sonorous. And yet with a dry treble note. Almost like several voices. And he begins quietly, taking the microphone but holding it nonchalantly away from his face. The effect is to silence the audience, focusing them on his words.
His quietness implies power withheld.
—Exodus, chapter eighteen, verse twenty-one, he says, and Mollel sees many of those around him reach for th
eir Bibles and flick through to the appropriate page.
—When Moses founded Israel, Nalo continues drily, he knew that the country needed temporal law as well as spiritual. He was told: look for able men from all the people, men who fear God, who are trustworthy and hate a bribe—here he turns his gaze directly to the audience for the first time, glaring outward—place such men over the people as chiefs, and let them judge the people at all times.
—Now. We may not call them chiefs anymore. We may call them politicians. But the commandment remains. Men who fear God. Men who are trustworthy. Men who hate a bribe. Does that sound like any politician you know?
A ripple of laughter reverberates around the hall.
—Those are the criteria. That is how we should select our chiefs, come the twenty-seventh day of this month. Men who fear God. Men who are trustworthy. Men who hate a bribe. And, in deference to my dear wife, I should point out that this applies to women, too.
Another polite laugh. Nalo takes his handkerchief and mops his massy brow. The act is a kind of punctuation point.
—And yet, he says. And yet I still have dear members of my flock—he waves his hand to encompass all those before him—my children, who come to me and say, Pastor, who should I vote for? Perhaps, even now, you are hoping to hear me say a name, a party, or to drop a hint, a color—orange, perhaps, or blue, or red … but my answer will always be the same. Who should you vote for?
—Those who fear God. Those who are trustworthy. Those who hate a bribe.
—Perhaps it is no wonder, when we look upon our politicians and find them so failing in every regard, that we turn to tribalism instead. If they are all corrupt, the logic goes, then we may as well vote for our kinsman. When he comes to disperse those government jobs, those constituency funds, those education grants, he’ll remember his own. It may not be perfect, but life is not perfect. What more can we do?
—Fear God. Be trustworthy. Hate a bribe.
—Look around this great hall. Look around you.
The people in front of Mollel turn and look back at him and Kiunga. He takes their lead and looks back up the row of seats. It’s a dizzying experience. Everyone in the room is looking around them, and then Mollel sees a flash of white hair, of pink skin high up at the back of the hall.
—Turn to those around you and shake their hands. Go on.
Kiunga puts his hand out to Mollel, and Mollel shakes it distractedly. He is straining to see the white man. He feels a tap on his elbow, and the middle-aged lady in the seat beside him proffers her hand. He can’t refuse it, so he shakes her hand and then others, the hands of the couple in the row in front and the family behind, even the little girl in her father’s lap.
—Praise the Lord. Hallelujah.
The audience falls quiet again, a few keen stragglers still reaching for a final handshake. Mollel bobs his head to try to see the mzungu again, but can’t make him out.
—We greet each other in the name of the Lord because we have come together in defiance of ethnic division. When you shook your neighbors’ hands just then, did you think, I am shaking hands with a Kikuyu, with a Luo, with a Kamba, with a Kisii? Did a Luhya shake hands with a Kalenjin, a Maasai with an Embu? I don’t know. Because from down here, I could not tell the difference. I just saw God-fearing, trustworthy Kenyans sharing in the love of the Lord. Amen.
—Amen.
* * *
Mollel leans over to Kiunga and whispers, —I’ll see you at the main entrance at the end of the service. Then, delicately, trying not to attract attention, he stands and picks his way past the lady next to him and to the end of the row. Once there, he goes up the steps, scanning each row as he does so. He reaches the top without seeing the mzungu again. At the back, there is a set of double doors and a stairwell. He slips through and follows the stairs back down to ground level. He finds himself in some sort of service corridor, windowless and bare, with ducting and pipes running along the ceiling. He hears a sudden commotion and barely has time to leap aside before dozens of choristers race past him, pulling off their crimson gowns, revealing pure white ones underneath. Following them is the woman with the headset.—Choir two almost in position, she shouts into her microphone. Where on earth are those dancers?
Mollel follows the choir along the corridor, which is curved. He passes a door and looks through the small window set into it. He’s looking back up at the stage.
—Hey! What are you doing here? The voice is aggressive.
Mollel spins around. It is the young man who greeted him at the entrance, Benjamin. He stands with his arms crossed. Unsmiling. He’s not wearing the black jacket he wore earlier, just a T-shirt. Now Mollel can see the strength in his arms.
—This is not a public area.
—I was looking for someone, says Mollel. A mzungu. He must have just passed this way.
—You’re a week too late, says the young man. Last Sunday we had two hundred wazungu, visitors from one of our sister churches in North Carolina. But this week … no. Now, please …
—Are you sure? White hair. Old guy.
—Sir, says Benjamin in a quiet, threatening tone, you can go inside and worship the Lord or step outside and enjoy his creation. But you can’t stay here.
Mollel shows his police identity card.
—Now, let me ask again, says Mollel. Have you seen a white man here today, at all? An elderly man with white hair? Do you know anyone who fits that description? The usher shakes his head, reluctantly compliant now that he’s seen the ID.
—Right. I need to speak with Reverend Nalo when he comes offstage.
—You’d better come to the greenroom, says Benjamin.
* * *
It doesn’t look very green to Mollel. In fact, the only green things in the wood-paneled room are the bottles of mineral water on the sideboard, glistening attractively with beads of condensation. Mollel ponders, waiting, then thinks, What the hell, and pours himself a glassful.
He’s been left alone here, but he’s able to follow the show’s progress thanks to a huge TV screen on one wall. Nalo in full flow, the sandy tones filled out into a deep-throated, gravelly roar. Every time he shouts the name Jesus, he brings the microphone right next to his mouth. The TV is on mute. Mollel hears him, with a few seconds’ delay, through the wall.
Along the bottom of the TV screen, a scrolling text bar urges donations and offers a telephone number and Web address.
The water is cool and delicious. Mollel finishes his glass and replaces it alongside the others. He continues to inspect the room. There is no window. On the wall opposite the TV hangs a large oil painting of an eagle in full flight, a snake grasped between its talons. The inscription on a brass plaque below reads TO OUR FRIENDS IN GEORGE NALO MINISTRIES. FROM THE UNITED TABERNACLE OF CHRIST, TASHKENT, UZBEKISTAN.
Elsewhere the walls are dotted with pictures of George and Wanjiku Nalo. The Nalos shaking hands with former president Moi, President Kibaki. President Museveni of Uganda. Bill Clinton. George W. Bush. A lot of presidents.
Nalo has finished invoking Jesus and is now visible on the screen, laying his hands upon congregants who have been brought to the stage. His mouth hangs open, his eyes are rolled back orgiastically. As he touches the temple of each person presented to him, he shakes, and they fall back, caught in the arms of their supporters. With each new case, Nalo seems to weaken, his physicality shrinking, as though it is his strength that is being transferred. Through the wall, Mollel hears a massed wailing, howling.
Catholic church was never like this.
The noise level rises abruptly, and on the TV screen Mollel sees Nalo preparing to leave the stage. At the same instant—there must be a few seconds’ delay on the broadcast—the door of the greenroom bursts open and Nalo pushes in. He’s even bigger than he seemed from a distance, though he is hunched and leaning wearily on the arm of the woman with the headset. She leads him to a leather sofa, where he collapses. Then she darts to the sideboard and pours cold water into Mollel’s used
glass and gives it to Nalo, who downs it in one gulp. She produces a towel from a drawer, and he wipes his face and neck, pulling open his collar.
Mollel makes to speak, but the woman holds up a warning finger. She leans over Nalo, removes a small black device from his pocket, and flicks a switch on it.
—The mic was live, she explains. You can talk now.
Nalo slumps back. His eyes seem shut, but he says, —Who are you?
—I’m Sergeant Mollel. Nairobi Central CID.
—Thanks, Esther. You can leave us.
—Back on in five, the woman reminds him as she leaves the room.
—That was quite a sermon, says Mollel when the door is closed.
—Glad you enjoyed it, Sergeant.
—You’re not endorsing a candidate? According to the papers, most of the major preachers have come out in favor of one party or another.
Nalo raises a weary finger skyward. —His is the only endorsement that matters.
—The papers say you may be a candidate yourself in five years. I suppose in that case, it’s best to be neutral now.
—Neutral. Fearing God. Trustworthy. And hates a bribe. That’s me, Sergeant. Does it describe you, too?
—Most of it.
—Only it seems to me that whenever I have the pleasure of meeting one of our public custodians, there’s usually a certain tithe to be extracted. What is it this time? Our singing has broken city noise regulations? You’ve found a fire door somewhere obstructed by a fallen leaf? Or perhaps the grass outside was growing a little too quickly, and you want to book it for speeding? Whatever it is, please talk to one of our church wardens. I never handle cash.
—Surely, replies Mollel, a bribe is equally hateful whether you’re giving or receiving?
—There is a difference between bribery and extortion. If I pay a policeman to let me off a legitimate offense, that’s a bribe. If he’s fabricated the fine, that’s extortion, backed up by the threat of force. Look around you. Look at what I’ve created. Do you think I could have made an organization like this without attracting the worst sort of attention? Wherever there’s an eagle, there are vultures. Let me tell you something. Back in the days when we were still running from a tin shack in Kibera, we were building a following. We’d started to put up awnings outside to give shade to all the people who could not fit in for the services. When we passed around the collection pots in those days, we didn’t see notes, checks. We saw fifty-cent, one-bob coins. We saw homemade trinkets and bags of millet. One day I saw a child’s doll—a little girl had given her favorite toy. These people had nothing, Sergeant, nothing. And yet they gave. And it added up.
Hour of the Red God Page 7