The Preacher.
The performers of divine duty have gradually evolved from polite young devotees in warm coloured suits knocking at people's doors to daring vocalists infesting our every space.
The other day a petite middle aged woman jumped onto the nearly empty taxi I was in and settled in the corner at the back. When the taxi had reattained pace, she clasped her frail palms together and started praying very loudly, very unexpectedly; quite startlingly, if you will. At the end of which invocation she broke into a song of praise that she sang to the very end, word for word I imagine and then chipped in an impromptu sermon to us-God’s beloved children-before departing at the next stop.
This wasn’t the first time I had witnessed the like, and neither was it the second. I clearly remember the first time I saw a public car preacher. It was exactly four days after I’d recounted to the clan mates a slightly embellished near death experience in Mabira forest at the hands of a reckless taxi driver. My relatives, conscientious as they ever are, shackled me onto a coaster (mini bus) from Jinja arguing that it was slower, calmer and not in the least likely to distress my mental faculties any further.
Within the hollow length of the coaster, it was indeed calm and very, very quiet. As such, I was vastly unprepared when the woman behind me took to cramming the holy word directly into my ear. Before I could recollect my thoughts and grasp what she was about, she called for all to join her in a prayer of thanks. A few virtuous persons joined her, while the rest watched in amused silence as two lengthy songs were sang afterwards and a thirty minute sermon was delivered. All the while I thought I had accidentally invaded a church fellowship party headed to a retreat or someplace spiritual but as my equally bewildered neighbour soon clarified, I hadn’t.
Outside the comparative restrictions of public transport, a more vicious kind of preacher dwells. This preacher has taken to the street and seized every concrete partition in sight. Of recent he has taken to the pavement as well. He has devised means to amplify his voice and be heard over the bustling noise of the city; he has hired echoing assistants and purchased P.A systems. There's one such preacher on the pavement at Centenary Bank main branch. It is a lady with a megaphone and her companion has a raspy voice. While I can not exactly condemn this woman's work, there's simply too many of her and too few of me.
If the lady and her friend do not get to you any more than broken bits of what is screamed into the megaphone, a brother at the Wandegeya traffic lights will finish the job. In Kamwokya, another brother waits to promptly emphasize the good word. One more brother echoed by a sister startle me out of a late afternoon day dream in Ntinda and by the time I've made it home I'm no longer too certain I didn't dream the whole thing up. The congestion in my senses is just too much to sort through.
Someone once told me it is okay-even advised-in certain circles to spread the good word in any way possible, megaphone style inclusive, but it is horrifyingly hectic to be ambushed at every nook and turn with scripture citations.
