The sound of the morning bell was no longer envisaged. Studying became a thing of the past; the Holy Bible being the only relevant solace in the conspicuously lonesome environment. No more Sam Owitis and the George Orindas giving me trouble. The shouts from the Wajuaji wa Nairobi and those of Kisumu were but a pipe dream. Obunga, Ochung’, Bando, Kidi, Nyakwaka, Odongo and the rest of the teaching fraternity with funny names were a threat – no more. A molecule without boundaries – left alone for the world “out there” to complete the work that the teachers painfully began. I continued praying a lot coupled with fasting here and there and preaching the Word at every opportune time. Together with my cousin and covenant friend Oscar, we saturated every homestead with the gospel – one home at a time. We knocked at every door, the Catholic and the Protestants; the indigenous and the foreign; the old and the young – hearing the wondrous works of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.
The first Sunday came and we went to Oscar’s mother church – the Apostolic Church, Ogwedhi. The preacher, Pastor Ondijo, gave a lengthy lullaby sermon. The saved were bored while the sinners were sent to sleep with some snoring like my pet cat that died from snake bite. They were awoken by the offertory hymn and we all gave as the Lord enabled us. The village church had much accountability as the offering was counted and announced right before the church. The sum total that Sunday was thirty Kenya shillings. That is when the Man Of God went back to the pulpit conspicuously submerged in anger “The total is thirty shillings and I personally gave twenty. That leaves the rest of you with only” He argued. That is when I started smelling a dead rat because I also gave five shillings leaving the rest of the church with only five shillings. That couldn’t be! “What does it profit a man to be an usher and loose his soul in hell?” I whispered under deep anointing.
The following Sunday, after much deliberation, we went to St. Peter’s Anglican Church of Kenya, Nyiera. The preacher was a confused but crazily agitated human being who never believed in salvation. “The day you were baptized as a child was the day salvation came upon your soul. There is no other salvation apart from that. I hear some people walking around saying ‘I’m born again. I’m born again’. What is born again?” He preached. That is when one Mzee Dan Oloko, raised his hand in objection! “Teacher, I have patiently listened to you but I feel I have to make a few corrections to what you are saying before you conclude your sermon” he interrupted. “You see we have young men in this church like Mac’ Omera (that is how he used to refer to me) and telling them such things will lead them astray. I beg of you to rethink what you are telling your congregation” He continued as the whole church nodded their heads in agreement. The preacher remained up there looking at Mzee Dan lugubriously.
Oscar and I managed to give our testimonies and Mzee Oriyo, the husband to one woman who refered to herself as “Original”, was asked to pray for us. Oscar and I could not resist the overwhelming laugher triggered by the prayer of this mzee:
“Nyasaye wating’o nyingi malo” (God we lift your name on high)
“In Nyasaye mar nditi kendo nditini neon ratiro e ng’ima jogi” (You’re the God of glory and your glory is manifest in the life of your people)
“In Nyasaye ma ka opielo to got” (You are the God that when you pup – mountain”
“Ka ilayo to nam” (When you susu – lake)
“Ka ijir to mor polo” (When you sneeze – thunder)
“Ka iywak to koth” (When you cry – rain)
He went on and one with great imagery as the church was deep with back-up of “Mmmm” “Mmmm”. Thereafter we sang the song of salvation – Tukutenderesa Yesu (/watch?v=oD8ms-CjzmU).
My dad belonged to Nomiya Luo Church but we couldn’t dare pay them a visit there as that would put our innocent uncut apparatus into great unwarranted risk. This is the church where baptism is by blood emanating from painful chopping of the unwanted but precious foreskin. That is what we called apparatus sharpening. Since I did not have to use mine then, I saw no need of sharpening it in advance.
We then decided to stick with Anglican Church where the service was like a gymnasium as it involved too much short sessions of standing and sitting. “Let’s stand for the apostle creed” “Let’s sit down for the first reading” exedra, exedra. The church gave me the ministry of taking care of the stomachs of the Men of God in whatever church function. The only problem was that most of the church functions were funerals where I was supposed coordinate the volunteer women cooks. These women were the age mates of my mother and ordering them around was an uphill task but due to the authority bestowed to me, they would listen to every instruction I gave with deep respect. The hosts would give us live sheep or goats for meat and maize for floor. It was the onus of Migingo Awat to turn the sheep and goats into meat. I sent so many animals to the Lord to an extent that I would hear some funny sounds of “Meee!! Meeee!!!” in my dreams. It was revenge time.
Servicing in funerals later developed me into a funeral minister. I would go for every arita
(the night before the burial) just to preach the gospel to the
unsuspecting but willing crowd. I did not have to spend any money on
posters as where the dead are the vultures would obviously gather. The
problem with the funeral ministry is that it requires me to be
aggressive as most of the crown were women who came to the funerals with
their blankets and traditional mats (par) ready to sleep in
the open. A boring preacher would send them to sleep literally. One day
the elders called me for a meeting to introduce me to myself. “We want
to tell you who you are so that you stop shaming yourself and your
family in the funerals” they groaned. I did not understand how and when I
ashamed myself. I requested them to elaborate but I assured them that I
would not quit preaching in funerals. “How dare you preach against wife
inheritance as if you do not know that your own grandfather, Mango, was
a wife inheritor?” They shouted. “If Mango did not inherit Stella, your
grandmother, after Oguda’s death, your father wouldn’t have been in
this world” they continued. “Please stop this nonsense of ashaming us
and just preach the general gospel like any other person” they decreed.
“Elders, I know where my dad came from but that does not make right what
is definitely wrong” I replied respectfully. They blamed refusal of
women to accept joter (wife inheritors) on my kind of gospel.Why wife inheritance? In Luo culture, a woman became unclean as soon as her husband kicks the bucket. Thereafter some codes, otherwise known as “kode”, forms around the subject matter – the mouse. These codes had to be broken to make a woman clean. The process of breaking the code was referred to as chodo kode. Chodo kode has two meanings depending on one’s pronunciation. The first being breaking the code while the second one is adultery. Breaking the code was not done my using the fingers or any other accessory but by male uncoated apparatus. This was where the wife inheritor a.k.a Jater or terrorist came in; he was meant to have unprotected sex with the bereaved woman anytime after three days succeeding the burial thereby breaking the code tying the woman to her dead hubby. If a woman claimed to be born again and refused to do the obvious, her children would be turned against her making her live in isolation. Such a woman was not supposed to go to any other homestead or relate with any other “descent woman” as she was a carrier of mikolo- bad omen. The old men would say to their sons “Dhakono ogak. Kik uyiene odonj e dalana” (That woman is a carrier – of mikolo – don’t allow her in my homestead)
The rule was that after yueyo liel (sweeping the grave), the woman was required to get back to the cloths that she wore the day her husband died. She would be in these clothes until she got a jater to chodo kode. The clothes were not supposed to be washed until the whole was drilled by the terrorist. Any sensible woman would not stay in the same clothes for long hence forcing them, even against their will, to get hooked up with somebody at the soonest opportune time. There were women who refused to be inherited and even went ahead to change their clothes against the norm; their faith in Jesus Christ never allowed them to be inherited. They endured rejection even by their own children for the sake of the cross. “Weri gi ma. Wabiro make bang’e” (Leave this alone, we will catch her later) the elders would say.
What entailed catching her later? This meant that the issue of inheritance would arise as soon as the women are dead. When a woman died before being inherited, the dead body would be inherited before burial. Elders would convince a man ma chuny min oaye (Whose mother has lost hope in), to sleep with the body in the full glare their full glare. The thought of sleeping with a dead woman in the presence of old men would lead to an automatic strike form the apparatus department. A few glasses of traditional brew – changaa – would make the hired inheritor see life and beauty was there was none making him do the obvious.
The men, on the other hand, had an easier sweep. When a man’s wife died, he was required to have a dream where he would sleep with the woman and wet the bed. This would automatically release him to go on with his daily business which included looking for another bride to replace the dead. This was where I came in with my kind of the gospel; telling the ladies to open their eyes wide as the culture was discriminating against them. The elders obviously couldn’t tolerate me as I was in every funeral enlightening, mostly women, on the dangers of wife inheritance. I talked about AIDS, hepatitis B, gonorrhea and other sexually transmitted diseases. I elaborated through scriptures how God was angered by this tradition. People ran to God in these funerals like never before, giving all the glory to Jehova.
Yours Funeral Preacher,
Migingo Awat
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