Nyaruai

photo: courtesy Like most of you folks, I grew up a staunch Christian. A catholic to be precise. I remember my first catechist, a man, greying in faith, who would tell us stories of men who followed Christ like a shadow, eating ears of corn from people's farms.   That story stands out because I remember examining a maize cob to look for ears. There were none. Corny people those ones. The black men (yes, even my Jesus was a black man) on the charts used looked focused, as they followed around a man who could calm the sea and multiply fish. And another of a small boy who stole his father’s money and spent it all then ended up eating with pigs. He was so specific with the content of the pig food, every time I read that part in the parable I picture banana and potato peels. I love stories. I had a good storyteller. I was home. I never missed one class. One time, the catechist told us once to borrow 5/- to purchase a small learning aid, a book called Hii Ndio Imani Yetu. My mo