Africa39

by Wole Soyinka

  ‘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. Hall
elujah.’

  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.’

  ‘What are you doing in this man’s body?’

  ‘What are you doing in this man’s body?’ Zapara mimicked.

  Abraao tightened his grip on Zapara’s neck.

  Zapara coughed and Derrick’s eyes grew bigger.

  ‘OK, Abraao, go easy on the neck. It is not mine but it kinda hurts. If you play nice I will give you all the details. Deal?’

  Derrick expected Abraao to decline Zapara’s offer.

  ‘All right. Speak!’ The bishop held the legion leader by the collar.

  ‘I sex him every day and night so that he does not desire his wife. That is my assignment and tell you what? I think he likes it as much as I do.’

  ‘God save us! Holy Father have mercy on us. What is your mission Zapara?’

  ‘To make sure that slut goes back to her real husband. He has paid a good price for her.’

  ‘What price?’

  ‘If I tell you, all the work I have done will be useless.’

  ‘You, won’t tell me?’

  ‘No Abraao. Neither will you force me. I know things about you. Demons talk and word is . . .’

  ‘Church, raise your hands towards this man. We are going to kill Zapara!’ Abraao said at the top of his voice.

  Everyone in the church started screaming and Derrick was so frustrated because he could not make out what Zapara was saying. He really wanted to hear the dirt on the bishop.

  The ushers were told to abandon the little demons that were kickboxing them and form a ‘circle of fire around me and Zapara’. And like clockwork everyone started screaming, ‘Fire, Fire, Fire, Fire.’

  Zapara stopped talking. He convulsed, writhed and fell on the floor limp.

  Abraao knelt next to the limp body.

  ‘Wake up, child of God. You are now free. Resurrect. We have defeated the devil. Rise and see the light.’

  The man opened his eyes and sat up. Abraao leaned forwards and blew air into the man’s eyes seven times.

  Every time he blew he said: ‘Receive.’

  The people followed his lead at the third ‘Receive.’

  The Zapara-free man stood and jumped up and down with what looked like joy.

  Derrick could not help but think that Zapara had pulled a number on all of them and was somewhere in there, dissociated from one of his possible multiple personalities.

  Everyone started clapping and muttering praises to the Lord. Their eyes were now open.

  Abraao told them to close their eyes again. Derrick’s refused to shut.

  And he saw demons, talk, fight and mock. They puked yellow stuff all over the white thrones. One by one the spirits were subdued and the people they had possessed gave little speeches about how they had suffered under the demons but now that they were free, they would do anything and everything for Father Jesus and Bishop Abraao.

  ‘This is quite the show,’ Derrick told no one.

  Abraao, Agostinho, the pastors and ushers were sweating through their shirts and blouses. They looked so tired with their eyes wide open. Their souls had been placed at risk as much as Derrick’s.

  The bishop began sobbing. So did everyone else except the usual suspect.

  Mass hysteria, is what one of his lectures had called this fete. The professor told them that it could be very useful to shrewd men who wanted to entertain themselves or an audience.

  Derrick felt lucky to be the esteemed audience at the cinema. But he had mouths to feed and long roads to walk. It was time to go. There was nothing for him to give or take at the Church of the People of Damascus. Agostinho would not set him free. Derrick now knew that his two hands and his sweat would deliver him sooner, later or even never. Abraao and Agostinho were using their hands and sweat in there. It worked well for them. They knew precisely what they were doing with their grand performance.

  Tomorrow was coming and Derrick knew what worked for him. The road. So he walked.

  an extract from the forthcoming novel Ebamba, Kinshasa-Makambo

  Richard Ali A Mutu

  A cool breeze. The sky begins to cloud over. The sun wends its way to set behind the majestic Congo. Hovering above the riverbed, the great red sun glitters and glistens like blood. The river is still as glass, the cool wind unfurls. Night draws in and day slips gently away. The skies are filled with birds fluttering swiftly back to their nests. Still the leaves rustle and add to the cool of the evening. It is just possible to make out the tuneful and melodious sound of a wind that heralds rain.

  Today is Saturday, the day when Kinshasa shimmers, shakes and struts its stuff. Kinshasa-makambo – Kinshasa the troublemaker – Kin the mysterious, Kin-du-Knoy awash with the golden beers Primus, Skol and Turbo. Kinshasa the party animal. This much is true: to live and die without ever seeing, without experiencing Kinshasa is tantamount to never having lived on God’s good earth. See Kinshasa, if only for one night, if only to watch the majestic Congo snaking through the city before you die!

  It is coming on for 6.12 p.m. and the bars of Kinshasa are filling up from Nyangwe to Kimbondo, from Tshibangu, Super, Beau-marché and Muguyla-guyla all the way to the last stop on the line which is, as it always has been, the mighty Avenue Oshwé in the district of Matonge. Here, the pleasure, the exhilaration and the excitement is redoubled. Here goat meat and chicken are grilled out in the open air to be snatched up and wolfed down like hot cakes. Beer flows like water. But what matters most is the dancing! Because Kinshasa is also the king of song, the Queen of ndombolo!

  The evening wears on. Already it is 9.05 p.m. and the bana nyonka – the
little serpents – begin to slither from their lairs. Their eyes meet yours which instantly well up with tears, they are unutterably beautiful. They glister like gold. Some wear miniskirts, others skin-tight dresses, some are wrapped in a simple pagne, others are sporting outfits that defy description. They are vipers seeking some man to devour or some man to devour them. See them lined up along the Avenue du Stade, on the Rue Inzia, in Yolo Nord, along the Boulevard du 30 Juin. Nameless women, filles de joie, banaya-mpunda, our runaway sisters, our bongolo-sisters. They come in every colour: black, chocolate brown, white, mixed-race, albino. They come in every size: small, slender, neither-small-nor-slender, not to mention the dwarves, the deaf-mutes, the blind and the crippled.

  At the Muguyla-guyla bar, Ebamba and his friends are dancing to the diabolical rhythms of Ya’Jossart Nyoka-Longo. Throbbing to the irresistible beat of songs like Mokongo-ya-Koba, of Vimba, of Mama-Siska. The demon drink arrives on cue with intoxication not far behind. Under the influence of alcohol, Ebamba begins to lose control. He very nearly touches the breasts of his best friend’s girlfriend; his best friend brings him down to earth with a slap across the face. Precisely the right reaction since it means Ebamba stops himself in time.

  Ebamba, too, had a date, but Eyenga, his fiancée, has gone home early because she wasn’t feeling well. Ebamba had walked her as far as her neighbourhood then raced back to the bar because the party is due to go on into the early hours. It’s a birthday party for his childhood friend, his very best friend, his masta-ya-kati!

  They party on and the atmosphere just gets hotter.

  It has not rained, but the lowering threat of rain has brought with it a balmy night. The cool breeze whipping across the dance floor means they can keep on dancing without too much sweating.

  At some point, there are a few raindrops, but no one complains, on the contrary, it whips the dancers at Muguyla-guyla into greater frenzy.

  1.05 a.m.

  Knock-knock-knock!

  Knock-knock-knock!