The outer gospel crosses are slowly returning. They had been nailed down by catastrophic guidelines. My neighborhood, however, did not wait for the Department of Health to ban the crusade. The hat-trick ban was instigated by a preacher who “lost” him.
As you may not know, many preachers on the wrong platform, temporary public places, had another life. There will be prisoners of reform – murder, successive rapists, anti-theft brains – threatening the fires of proverbs and brimstone.
So, a few days before Christmas (2018) – the car stops at a crossroads. It is our public place. Believers are largely middle-aged, wearing vibrant turbans of different colors. Positions and leadership.
Oh, they have a red flag fluttering happily in the wind, on a bamboo pole.
Within minutes, the kikuyu gospel songs are ringing – and turn off the Roots Reggae song lyrics that hit the electronic stores by Khat. The public domain has a strong corporate culture, with it being an important download and take away platform for Matatu. It is inhabited.
No one cares about the faithful with the turban. They dance and dance to music. After all, it is a free country. Freedom of expression.
After, perhaps, one hour of heckling, it is time to preach. An old man with a purple turban grabs a microphone. He has that bossy vibe, totally Bazenga – I mean, he has someone standing behind him – and towels. It’s a beach towel.
It starts with a normal sound, even, but when you go, the tempo is very fast.
His style is unusual. But, perhaps, it may be Orthodox in flag-bearing churches. Every few minutes he drops a prayer. Topical application. Politics and politicians. Weather. Damn, this preacher even remembers “our unfortunate daughters who did hostile work in the Middle East …”
The preacher (deeply immersed) said:
“Yes, Lord … SAVE us! Save us from death! Save us from death as you saved the daughter of … to … eeeerm … eee … daughter of ….”
At this point, it is clear. Our preacher has lost this piece of his memory.
The believers had raised the platform high enough so that everyone could see the preacher against the background of the red flag of the church. It sways lazily in the wind, in all its glorious red color. It demands quality and influence – something that the wearer of the purple turban lacks.
Now each hat has its own moccasins section. Those sloth, Do nothing on the square with a breath of worn-out beer and cheap smelly plastic shoes. Funny thing? Moccasins get drunk 7/24 – something you can’t afford – even with your university education.
In any case, one of the painters shouts: “… Jairu’s daughter! …”
And, it’s absolutely crazy – the dude throws a liquid soda bottle full of liquid on stage. To this day, I can see the bottle flying towards the preacher – in a kind of slow motion. The bottle lands on the preacher’s feet. He hangs moccasins.
He stops praying. Half way. You know it’s a bad thing for the time it takes him to open his eyes. His left arm is lowered slowly down to her waist. The right hand is still holding the microphone. A boy with beach towels tries to give her a towel.
The frequently overlooked English word “Shit Hits the Fan” is not a free word. It came to life, as we all looked at it. The light of the day, broad and merciless. We did not have time to think or ask – but, this preacher must have been a wheat in his old life. That is, before he separates himself from anything, he should take a Bible and a purple turban.
He turns and throws the microphone into Khat’s booth a few feet to his left. These booths have open doors. He jumps off the stage as an Olympic level athlete. He lands on his feet, passing through that position like a bull on steroids. Western bullfighters would be proud.
He grabs the nearest man by his collar and begins to beat him.
Well, that preacher has no preacher’s fists. Preferably that of a mason or fisherman. The blood starts to flow, he is holding someone else on the bench!
It is as if an invisible power had entered the gospel man.
True, in a few minutes the marketplace was unoccupied. All Khat booths have overturned chairs and boxes!
After a few minutes, foaming at the corners of his lips in anger, he regains his composure. He looks around, his breathing slowing down.
Meanwhile, half of his followers stepped onto the stage and stared at him in amazement. You would think the demon came out of hell with pants and a plaid shirt.