THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (PART 20)

After painfully quitting my well paying job, I focused on my college education and the preaching of the gospel.

I went ones again to stay with my step mother at Mamboleo. I was then an adult with national Identity Card. The moment I reached Mamboleo - Kisumu, my step mom, Elsa found it unnecessary to have a house maid. I took over the household chores, against all odds, with vigor and enthusiasm. The first task was to make sure that the kitchen was well stocked with mura (saw dust). We had a jiko that used mura for fuel. I had to get at least two huge loads of mura every evening, after college, before embarking on splitting firewood for the preparation of Nile Perch for resale. Elsa was a vivid fish business lady who transported fish to all the markets from Kakamega, Kitale and Eldoret. It was also my responsibility to transport these fried fish to the roadblock, about one and a half kilometers away, where a market bound matatu would pick them. The fish were so heavy to an extent that I had to embrace them and do some careful balancing act as I literally dragged them, on my bike carrier, to the road block. I used to do two to three trips every morning from around 5am to about 6:30 am.

I had to wash my bicycle, prepare breakfast for dad and the little kids, take bath and ride to college located in the City Centre. It was always next to impossible to catch up with the first lesson.

Gorety had already eloped, three years earlier, with a guy who was supposed to be her trainer in tailoring. She was to join Utali College for some hotel management courses but marriage seemed to be her first priority then. I tried talking her out of this relationship to no avail. When I first appeared in her new home without notice, I saw a severely malnourished woman whose beauty had disappeared from hard labour and food related stress. There was no way I would endure seeing my best friend and sister in such a state but there was very little I could do to drag her out of that situation. She later quit relationship, under pleasure from the man’s parents, as she could not produce any offspring within a given grace period. She hooked up with another man who though was not that educated but at least he was very sensible. Then is when, a disease, which had no punctuation marks, caught up with her.

Gorety was a quick witted woman who knew nothing about giving up hope. Her new husband and I were always by her side notwithstanding the whole of our family. The hospital made great profit margins from her predictable frequent visits. I prayed for her in several occasions but the disease grew worse. It was like my prayers were contributing to the multiplication of the viral or bacterial effects. Got Abindu (Abindu Mountains) knew me by all my names as I used to disappear in those caves for several days praying to God by faith for her healing; but she grew worse. When things became very thick, she was sent back to her parents to take care of their daughter. That was not the time to remind her of the past mistakes but dad being who he was could not let this opportunity pass by. Dad with a soft loving way gave her the whole Quran. Parents would never leave their children to suffer no matter what. She started developing some flesh in her skeletons. I glorified God for answering my prayers.

Got Abindu was not a place to go to casually. We had to prepare ourselves for tough weather conditions coupled with meeting some unfamiliar human beings notwithstanding crawling animals. Peter, now a Pastor, was the one who introduced me to this secret place. We arrived at around 6:30pm in the evening. It was a cold evening; the clouds were thick and dark. The birds of the air were already fondling to each other in their nests. The cows in the nearby homesteads had already been milked and the chicken had returned home to roost. We climbed up to the dry rocky mountain in anticipation for a great week before the Creator. As soon as we reached the top, the heavens opened pouring rains cats and dogs. We dashed into a cave which was full of men and women dressed in white, blue and green robes. They were surrounding a faire place which was keeping them warm in the chilly cave. Peter and I moved closer to the fire place to have a share of the warmth. “Hii!! Hiii!! Mmm!! Awinjo muya marach odonjo ka – Hiiii!! Hiiii” (Hii!! Hiii!! Mmm!! I feel the presence of an evil spirit here – Hiiii!! Hiiii) one long bearded old man exclaimed. What he was trying to say was that our spirits were not agreeing with theirs. We both insisted on sitting by the fire place despite their loud prayers and casting of “muya marach”

When the rains stopped and the rocks dried up, Peter and I left the noisy cave to the rocky top where we prayed later slept. We realized that those in the caves were Legio Maria people who had been fasting in the same cave for close to twenty one days. After a week of prayer and fasting, we left for home leaving the Legio Maria guys behind. They were to continue in their prayers for another ten days.  After walking for about twenty minutes, we saw ripe paw paws on one of the compounds. The owner handed over a few to us. We ate seriously to the full, forgetting the fact that we had been fasting for seven days. Wait a moment – the pawpaw refused to settle in the empty stomach but rather preferred to move directly to the exit point. That was the day we understood that one can diarrhea raw pawpaw live-live.

The following Monday, I headed to college where I noticed some very vital health issues which I addressed at the Superior College Kamkunji. “Mr. Principal, there is no way both men and women can share toilets” I began the complaint. “I once went to the toilet and both the doors were engaged. When I knocked some funny soprano voice replied ‘I’m inside’ but she refused to come out for close to fifteen minutes” I continued. “These ladies do not leave the toilets as soon as they realize it is a man waiting outside and they don’t continue with work in progress as they fear the one outside will hear them farting” I added “Sir, that day I had to rush to the privatized city council toilets only to realize it was a mere ombulumbuso which I could have gotten rid of in the college toilets were it not for the two soprano ladies”. At the mention of ombulumbuso, everybody went into uncontrolled laughter. Ombulumbuso is that small portion of poop that comes last when you’re already done; if you do not understand the art of exhaustively pushing your exhauster until that part leaves your system you’ll be surely walk around with it wherever you go. “The money I paid for the Ombulumbuso was meant for my lunch. I did not take lunch that day sir” the students continued laughing as I smiled softly. I knew my point was hitting the principal squarely. I went on and talked about the dumping of sanitary towels in an appropriate manner. Severally, the principal tried to stop me but the male students couldn’t allow it. In fact Mr. Ocholla, our Financial Accounting teacher asked the big man to allow me to express all my sentiments. The management had no otherwise but to act. Those ladies had very big bad manners, sticking in the toilets forever! For them to come out faster, we had to pretend that we were walking away only to bump into our handsome faces when coming out.

“Mr. Principal, the other issue is what we sit on – timber!” I continued amidst crazy applause. “The last time we sat on such was in primary school and we do not expect to suffer the same way in college” I continued with the fully blown pregnant points. “After sitting in those things for two continuous hours, our buttocks refuse to be ours and our legs follow suit! Even standing becomes a problem sir” I continued amidst laughter and applause.

I do not know whether my eyes were deceiving me but our class for full of faces which looked like Al Qaeda. They were always on toes even during photo sessions. It was like CIA agents would strike any moment. Damian Guda would have been different were it not for his cheek bone which resembled that of my donkey. He liked chewing so much until one day his supposed girl friend lamented loudly “Stop chewing! Chewing makes your cheek bones look funny” We laughed to near death. This Damian guy was either breeding snakes or leopards; his ties were either spotted or pythonish and the way he used to make them long..

Charles Lwanga was another one; very smart and handsome but never used to socialize so much with the ladies. He was never inclined to making fun of anything. His neck was always patterned with a shiny golden rosary. Those day’s ladies feared such religiously adorned men. He worked as an Accountant for some time but later joined the seminary and became a catholic priest. The talents bestowed on his God given apparatus were buried. I, on the other hand, was carefully very outgoing, with the gospel well knit on my loins. I used to preach at Oile market together with Jasper Mose and Musa Juma. Musa was one hell of a faith guy; his faith was so much, the faith the shook the kingdom of hell. He was brought up in an Islamic family with both his mom and dad being very strong Muslims. When he decided to be born again, he was kicked out, literally; his dad chasing him away with a machete.

Those day’s suspenders were the order of the day whether the trousers were loose or fitting. It was part of fashion – students, teachers, preacher, parents and even the touts were all in suspenders. The craziest thing about this was that most of us were wearing suspenders with belts! What a fashion disaster!

Lazarus and Musa Juma, my friends, were always in suspenders at every opportune time. I couldn’t also lose out on the fun especially when everybody was going that direction. My dad was the best fun of these fashions disaster items; his made the stomach protrude like a baby’s bottom but he was very happy in it.

Yours in suspenders,


Migingo Awat

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (PART 19)

The grueling tasks of looking after cattle, fetching water for sale with the two donkey, pruning trees within the compound, helping mom with the farm work and going around schools with the gospel was greatly overwhelming. The burden and commitment to all these tasks were so heavy that there was no way I could isolate any of them for elimination. I had to take over in herding the cattle after our herdsman, Charles Odiany, decided to quit working for us. He went on terrorizing the young beautiful widows who had all the cash inherited from their dead husbands.

I fervently prayed to God, on a daily basis, for something that could give me some more money as the little cash I was getting from the two donkeys was not enough to meet all my requirements. If there was one thing I hated was witnessing my mom struggling to make ends meet. I shared my feelings with one brother who promised to get me some kind of a job but to my surprise he asked me to go and take care of his grandmother’s cattle which would pay me around Kes. 1.200 a month. The pain that I felt after the news was so heart breaking that I decided to delete this guys name from my friends list. How could he even think of such a job for a form four-leaver? The fact that I was taking care of my dad’s cattle did not necessarily qualify me to be every Dick and Harry’s herdsman. That was not my portion.

A few months later I was informed of an announcement from the Chief’s Baraza (gathering) that there was a recruitment exercise for an NGO which would surely pay well. I was among five hundred applicants and I was lucky to be among fifty people called for the interview. A day to the interview, I went for a nice stylish hair cut, the kind of cut that would automatically win me the most anticipated job – data collector. The barber, Awat Oyoo, decided to put his funny styles on my head on a day that mistakes were not to be tolerated. I couldn’t even dare appear before my dad that evening and therefore I decided to shave everything – Jordan style. Dad shouted at me that evening and assured me of failure in the interview owing to my pathetic hair style; but I encouraged myself in the Lord. That night I prayed in tongues that sounded like Latin coupled with a lot of Kijaka and very heavy English!

The following day, I went for the interview and to my surprise there were more that one hundred people waiting to be interviewed; the fifty of us plus the other opportunistic two legged parasites. My turn for the interview came at around 4pm that evening with one Phoebe giving me very easy but challenging IQ questions. I passed.

The joy of getting a very well paying job with the then Plan International (now Plan Kenya) was so fulfilling. The fact that only ten of us were recruited out of over five hundred people was just amazing. Our job was to interview at least ten families per day and decide whether they were needy or not with each questionnaire earning us a hooping one hundred shillings. This meant that we were taking home one thousand shillings a day – tax free.

Plan Int. Recruits

We were then to go through an orientation programme which would take just a day. The ten of us were taken to Tom Mboya Labour College, Kisumu. Each of us was picked by the same vehicle from our respective homesteads and driven straight to Kisumu City. The whole Plan Int. top brass was present at the event. On arrival, we took a lot of snacks as if the world would end before noon of the same day. When lunch time clock rung, we all walked to the dining room with those fully inflated stomachs. I had listened carefully to the advice of my old man “Do not do anything that the Director does not do. If she serves one piece of chicken, do the same”. One of my fellow new recruits approached the food with vigour like a lion approaching its prey. His dad never gave him any table manners instructions. He ended up serving too much mushroom soup for starters. When the main course was brought, the human being behaved as if he wanted to hide his soup under the table. “It’s okey, you can take another plate for the main course” Phoebe advised him. This guy had a heart of gravel. He went ahead and added some vegetables and meat on the same soup messing up the whole thing. No matter how much he tried to hurry to complete the food, it was next to impossible as he had served everything in hyena quantities. Wait until the table was cleared and desserts were served; most of us were as full as the village ticks and nothing could find any space therein. These people wanted to kill us with food.

When we embarked on the job back home, I realized that that people were very poor out there with some surviving on only natural fruits on a daily basis. I witnessed a nursing mother going without food with her tiny skinny baby sticking on the emaciated breasts which would not produce any liquid matter at whatever cost. Most of the time the guides would comfort me rather that the suffering families as my knees would refuse to carry me beyond their gates. I would scramble down and groan painfully at the helpless situations I had just witnessed. There was a home where a lady of about twenty four was widowed and neglected. The grave was still fresh by the house with her two closely spaced and emaciated children sitting on her laps with no hope of any meal in the foreseeable future. This woman was so young but had nowhere to go as she had refused to be inherited. Her parents back at home rejected her since she dropped out of school to be married to this confused young fisherman who professed love to her. She was filled with regret and agony beyond measure. Her in-laws couldn’t come to her home as she was a carrier of mikolo. I sometimes went out of my way to give out some cash to assist even just for a day.

After about eight months, I got promoted to be the head of data collectors, a promotion that was not confirmed in writing. This meant that it was nolonger required of me to go to the homesteads but only cross-check the questionnaires from the other data collectors. I did my work peacefully for some time until a lethal rumour hit the Reru airwaves. “Migingo the grandson of a wife inheritor has struck Ong’ele’s (not real name) grandson’s name from the list of the needy children” One woman who guided us the data collectors romoured. Ong’ele was one guy who was feared in the village as he was good with the magic arts. He had a magic stick that he would just point at his victim and blood would just ooze from all his openings. Who wanted to cross this old man’s path?

One Sunday morning, I woke up to find Ong’ele in my step mother’s house together with my dad. They were talking in low tones but I could hear the mention of my name. I knew I was in for some huge elephant shit. “Henure iluongi gi babani” (Henry your dad is calling you) Elsa, my step mom called out for me. I felt my world crashing down when I received that summon. I already had issues with the village elders and I did not know whether it was the same issues coming out or some other more dangerous ones.

“I want you to apologise to this mzee for striking his grandson’s name from the list of the needy children” dad roared.

“Dad I do not know what you are talking about” I responded.

With Dad & herds boy

“Don’t pretend, I just need an apology and I will forgive you. If you don’t apologise, I will point at you with this magic stick and be sure you will wake up in another world tomorrow” the old man threatened.

This old man refused to believe me but ended up humiliating my dad as he literally went on his knees tearfully begging him not to point that little but ugly stick towards my direction.

“Dad please let him point at me. What wrong with you? Don’t beg him, I have done nothing wrong. Whatever he’s saying is just but a romour” I reasoned. Ong’ele, the old man ended up not only pointing at me with the stick but also saying some malicious cursing words. I was not supposed to wake up the following morning.

That evening, I went into deep prayers and fasting commanding ever demon to disappear into the lake of fire. I also commanded all my opening not to produce anything that is not meant for them and they obeyed. My eyes could only produce tears of victory with my mouth shouting praises. There was neither blood in my urine nor in the solid latrine matter. I was as fit as a fiddle despite the thunderous threats from the stone hearted old man.

Dad had no idea that I had visited the hospital that day just before I returned home and I was due for a sick off the following day. The doctors claimed that I did not have enough fluids in my body. The following morning, I heard some steps around my brother’s house where I was “chasing sleep”. Those were the footsteps of my dad who was very worried about my well being that morning. I woke up an hour later and went straight to the market to buy breakfast for the two families. That was when I knew that so many other elders were involved in this conspiracy. They were like “what? You mean this kid is still alive?” I was not only alive but also stable enough to ride my bicycle across the market at high speed. The God whom I serve rescued me from the hands of my false accusers.

The villagers were so aggrieved by the fact that I, a grandson of Mango the terrorist, was having a well paying job. They claimed that such jobs were meant for the families with great backgrounds. These people were so sarcastic. They wanted all women to be inherited upon the demise of their husbands but when these inheritors gave birth to some offspring, the innocent ones were declared outcasts for several generations. This was very unfair but who cared? I personally didn’t. I never got any rest from these old men when I was working with Plan Int.

I later resigned from the job and joined college. I understand Phoebe looked for me thereafter but no one gave me the information until it was too late.


Yours in His Service

Migingo Awat

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 18)

George Ocholla and James Odiwuor were two young men who closely walked with the saved old men in the renowned East African Revival Fellowship. They had been acquainted to singing the “Tukutenderesa Yesu” song to an extent that they even behaved more mature as compared to their actual ages. They later convinced Oscar and I to join the fellowship where we were required to give our testimonies on our very first visit. Our testimonies did not move the old men. They asked us to sit in the feet of ‘Gamaliel’ to get more direction. Every other person had the same lines in their testimonies making the whole idea of fellowship very boring. The testimonies went like this:

“Opak Ruoth owete gi nyimine” (Praise the Lord Brothers and Sisters)

“An ma unena ka ok alongo e nyim Nyasaye” (As you see me here, I’m not righteous before God)

“An ja richo kaachie kodu” (I’m a sinner together with you)

“To asiko mana ka alokra aloka e remo” (But I keep repenting under the blood)

“Nyocha wuoda man Nairobi okowona sukari kilo apar wapake Ruoth” (My son from Nairobi sent me 10kgs of sugar, lets praise the Lord)

“Nyara ma yande otedo Kabuoch bende yande omako ich ma onyuolo wuowi. Wapake Ruoth” (My daughter who got married in Kabuoch got pregnant and delivered a baby boy. Lets praise the Lord)

Kabuoch is a place in South Nyanza where it’s said that people’s apparatus; do not have the capacity to be called assets but liabilities. That’s why when a lady was married in Kabuoch, it took a miracle for her to get a baby.

As much as I did not like the testimonies, I convinced myself that maybe I was the one who was a bit impatient and had to cultivate some level of endurance. Indeed I was a novice with only four years in salvation. I managed to attend two Revival Fellowship Camps at Chulaimbo and Maseno High Schools. When we made it to Chulaimbo, we were told that the word “youth” was prohibited since a “youth” was somebody who was a bloody sinner. Those were the days when the chief would send youths to the villages to forcefully take cash “donations” for the purpose of purchasing gifts for the visiting District Commissioners’, Provincial Commissioners’ or even District Education Officers. Having no cash would risk your only thuon gweno (cock) as the youth would chase the poor thing around and turn it into delicious soup for the so called visiting government officials. We surely did not deserve to be called “youths” kidhedhe or even Oyoro Tho. We were officially referred to as Owete matindo (young brethren). The work of Owete matindo was to serve Owete Madongo (Old brethren) during and after the camp.

Oscar, Rhoda & I in my step mother's house

I vividly remember the day we traveled to Chulaimbo from Reru. The day was so chilly with scattered drops of rain making the forty kilometer journey very gruesome. A few of us had bicycles while the rest of the community managed on foot.  When we arrived at Chulaimbo, Owete Madongo were directed to the well furnished dormitories while the rest of us, Owete matindo, were told to wait for “further instructions”. The very old, weary but powerful preachers spoke their hearts out on how they became Christians. We all enjoyed the powerful messages. When time to sleep came, every old person disappeared into the dormitories as we were left in the tent wondering our next move. An old man then appeared with pregnant testimony of how they went to “bring salvation from Uganda”. He explained how they suffered on their way to and from that foreign land. “Where is he heading to” a young man whispered. “Young brethren, we were even forced to sleep on banana leaves and stems for the sake of the gospel” He hit the nail on the head. Immediately, we smelt trouble. Something very fishy was cooking..it must have been a shark. This guy was a real fisher of men.

That night we slept in the classrooms; some on the lockers, others on the floor and the rest joined seats together to make a something close to a bed. I managed to sleep on the some joined hardboard seats. I can’t clearly remember whether Oscar and James slept on the lockers too but I could hear their voices in the same cell. Throughout the night, a fellow young brother, from Siaya, seriously lamented at the torturous experience we were going through. He instigated us to revolt against the leadership of the old brethren - he did not get any following. The following night, we did the obvious – slept on the banana leaves and we were encouraged ourselves in the Lord – but the owner of the banana plantation was not very happy with us anyway. Rules were so tight; we were not even allowed to interact with the beautiful sisters. In fact ladies had their separate queues during meal times. After the Chulaimbo and Maseno camps, young men ran from the Revival Fellowship. Oscar and I joined Kenya Students Christian Fellowship (KSCF) (http://kscf.org/). James and George Ocholla later joined us and we worked very well in reaching the students in high schools. Within less than two years I had preached in over one hundred schools.

Preaching in funerals and local churches did not have any financial benefit. I had to think of something I could do part time as I needed money to have much impact not only in my village but also in the surrounding villages; high schools notwithstanding. Photography hit my mind and I went for it with the support of my dad. Young windows would call me to take their photos with some asking me to take them in their birth suit – an idea I could not give even the slightest thought. Taking photos of kissing couples was never in my domain. In short, I had thinned my customer base to descent photos only. I would help my mom with the farm in the mornings, tether the animals and ran to the lake to the lakeside to take photos. In many occasions I would ride on my bike to and from Kisumu for picture printing. Kisumu is about forty kilometers from my village. My dad claimed that such kind of bike riding would interfere with my apparatus.

The photography business became so interesting until I started doing it just for fun. I then embarked on ferrying water, for sale, from Achuow dam to Reru market. Dad had bought two donkeys that were very obedient to me for some time. I had to wake up very early, fetch water for resale then get to the farm to help my mother, come back to tether the cattle and prepare for evening school ministry. My schedule was too tight to an extent that even my own dad missed my presence.

Dad was a very hard nut to crack but I wanted him to get saved anyway. I knew he loved to flirt and the only person who would bring him to Christ would be a lady. We arranged and asked one Rhoda Onyango, my spiritual mom, to come over and talk him to Christ. Instead of Dad receiving the message of salvation, he began to question Rhoda on the reasons for her long stay as a single lady. It was a case of the hunter becoming the hunted and Ondiek chamo wendone (a hyena eating its visitor).

School ministry wasn’t an easy task. Students, especially the ladies, would come up with very mind-blowing questions to me, a young preacher. A lady once came to me for counseling and she had a problem with men. “Brother Awat, I always feel like I need a man. This is my biggest issue” She said “Even now?” I asked “Yes even now!” she replied. The way she was looking at me suggested that the human being would jump at me any second if I continued with the counseling. I used to counsel them in the field where everybody could see; this helped me avoid so many temptations things with the girls. “The problem gets worse just before and after my periods. Like now my periods ended just yesterday” She continued. At that point I knew even the dwarfs would turn into giants. I handed over the sensitive case to the lady C.U patron. Matters of ladies mouse was never my area of expertise.

George Ocholla, Migingo Awat & Allan Oloko

There was this other case where a lady was raped by a so called Japolo (Man of Heaven). Jopolo (plural for Japolo) were those long bearded people walking around in white robes pretending to prophecy about the future of the unsuspecting individuals. Most of them were from Roho Fueny Church, Roho Msalaba, Legio Maria and such indigenous churches. This form two lady used to fail in class and the mother felt that there were some spirits behind this.

“So my mother took me to this Japolo in Kolweny ” She narrated.

“Japolo prayed for me that day but did not allow me to go back home with my mother. I was left alone with him for night prayers.” She continued

“Your mother left you alone for the night with another man!!” I exclaimed.

“Yes. She trusted him so much due to the fact that this Japolo was in my dad’s age-group. She knew he was so descent for any indecent act”. She responded

“He woke me up in the middle of the night for prayers. That’s when he started touching me everywhere without my consent. I tried to scream but he covered my mouth with his hands” She continued in horror with tears rolling down from her deeply depressed eyes.

“Brother Awat, Japolo raped me! I felt excruciating pain – the kind of pain I cannot describe in words. I was a virgin!!” the lady said amidst painful sobs.

“When did this happen?” I enquired

“About six weeks ago. When I told my mom about it, she asked me to stop accusing Japolo falsely. She caned me insisting that I was lying!” She responded with loud scream, the kind of scream that has refused to leave my ears 15 years down the line.

“Brother Awat, I contacted gonorrhea from that experience” She added.

“Oh, my sister. I’m sorry. ” I whispered in her ears with a deep urge to give her a comforting hug.

“Did you manage to contain the disease? What about pregnancy – have you gone for a test?” I asked hurriedly.

“I managed to use my pocket money to secretly seek treatment. I never got pregnant as the ordeal happened during my safe period” She responded.

She deserved a comforting hug but that would not suffice as it would lead to my automatic disqualification from preaching in that school again. I decided to forward the issue to the C.U patron but the lady seriously begged me out of the idea claiming that her parents had warned her against dragging the name of Japolo into such issues. Japolo had told her parents that the demons in their daughter were responsible for the false accusation. As much as I was begged to conceal the horrific experience of the lady, I felt the need of sharing with my KSCF Kisumu Team who took over the matter. The sixteen year old lady did not deserve such a punishment.

Yours in God’s Service

Migingo Awat

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 17)

A feeling of confusion, an emptiness born out of something very closely knit to culture shock passed through my body. My eyes stared blankly at the birds flying freely in the open sky as the animals beneath went on with their usual business. The herdsman busy squeezing the rare liquid out of the tiny backslidden tits of the cows. I was glad to be home, far from the usual Masada routine, but this happiness could not override the sadness I felt at leaving the environment and lifestyle I had acclimatized to for close to half a decade.

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