When churches can be crazy places to be in

It is official! I have been toying with the idea of starting my own church. However, I have realized albeit belatedly that preachers, real and fake alike, along with witch doctors are making billions that TRA does not know about.

They are driving gleaming machines I only see in foreign motoring magazines – they wheel around in Hammers, Jaguars, Mercedes S-Class, Bentley, Cadillac and such swanky money guzzling monsters.

The ‘men of god’ are living in plushiest parts of Bongo, owning TV and radio stations raking in millions if not billions of shillings.

I am envious because for many years, I have been wearing my fingers to the bone on the keyboard, scribing crazily mediocre stories like the one you are now reading, with nothing to show for it.

Sometimes I spend sleepless nights wondering whether some years to come if the bones too will not be stamps instead of fingers!

I have realized that I might die a broke, broken bloke and end like some guys I know. That is why I must change tack. Becoming a witch doctor like Dr Kaniki Kombo, the Uswaz healer might take eons and I have no time in my hands.

Becoming a preacher might require that I become “saved” and memorise a few Bible verses. Being neither clever nor stupid, I would apply it to today’s circumstances and yippee! All I need is a set of loudspeakers, mixers, a pair of ‘mtumba’ suits, ties and shoes from Ilala (people hate poor-looking preachers) and a three-kilo Bible.

I would purport to perform miracles. The last master stroke is to afford six-months rent.

It is on the account of this realization that I joined Jesus Repentance and Miracle Church (JPMC) church in the sprawling Uswaz.

At first, I was welcomed by Bishop Reverend Doctor Matembo Makanyanga (he has never seen the inside of theological college despite all his titles).

Anyway, since I can speak some English, I was first used as a interpreter during the various Sunday services and Bisho Ntongo was ordained the children’s minister.

Soon, my thirst for drinks in cockroach-coloured bottles and the craving for “cancer stick” smoke diminished considerably. Bisho Ntongo became the happiest woman in Africa South of Sahara and North of River Limpopo.

The problem arose one day prompting me to quit. During the prayer time, a guy claiming to cast out demons would strangle me to near-death.

I glanced across to where someone was praying for Bisho Ntongo and I saw her eyes popping out as a guy “prayed” for her.

I had no choice than fall down to convince the man that demons are gone forever. Bisho did the same. By the end of the service, Bisho Ntongo and I had made up our minds that we were too young to die of strangulation!