ONE STEP AT A TIME…

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 mother wouldn’t give it to me so I stole that big kobole to buy that book, which I have to date. And like others in my class, I memorized page after page of prayer. Then, it was more of a competition of who could say it better without peeking at the book. There were quizzes after class and I lived for them.

I was 7 then and I knew that book, cover to cover. I could lead a rosary, any day, with my eyes closed. That teacher was what i imagined God was like, a gentle giant. A man who sat in the clouds, one that could strike your father with thunder in your presence and give you that mandazi ya slippers to erase the horror and buy your allegiance. Like how your mother acts when she’s beating you to death but someone calls her and her aura transcends from pain inducing agent of he-who-shall-not-be-named to straight up halo- crowned saint.

“Mimi TWAP! Nitakumaliza TWAP! leo! TWAP! Nimekuambia TWAP! Mara TWAP! Ngapi TWAP! usikule kwa jirani?! TWAP! Maskio ulisema ni kitambaa ya kurembesha kichwa eh?”

“Nyina Kariuki…”

“Haiya! Eh Wa Sera, kuhana atia…( then she throws you dagger eyes and you crawl away to lick your wounds as she faces the interrupter and her mouth curves up in a teeth exposing smile and begins to compliment the horrible nest of a weave on Wa Sera’s head or something similar.)

In my young mind, the catechist was that man on those life size posters sitting under a tree with a child on his lap and others at his feet, with words written in cloud 'Let the children come to me...'.

 I say cloud because, well, clouds and holiness same wozap.

Anywhuu, right before I was given communion, we moved and I had to begin the process all over again. All through most of my primary, I went to catechism, committed to the cause like your favorite politician to corruption. Different catechist now. A woman who instilled the fear of God in me.  There was a day she chased us to class WITH A CROSS! Every Saturday at 9 AM instead of enjoying Club Kiboko, I was at church confirming that purple is indeed the color of lent and relearning about the chalice and vestry, while on the side dying to find out if it was really Ribena the padre sipped at so cautiously at mass. And how only boys could serve as alterboys. My church still won’t allow girls to serve at mass. Sometimes my feminist side wants to stand mid-mass and cause a gender inclusion themed gicanjama but that might end up on the 9 PM news on Inooro and everyone in my ushago will see it which will cause Gervasio, my grandfather to call upon a gathering of old souls to sacrifice me on the altar of  ‘watoto wa siku hizi’.

So I went to catechism for another 4 years. A whole degree season. But then i missed two classes hitherto (pause here and picture a Shakespeare feathering down on papyrus meme because) the 'kufunguliwa' and again, I was denied communion.

So I went to a catholic high school and attended more catechism under Father Kavanagh and I got communion in a year. Then came confirmation in less than three months. I was happy. I was leading the path of righteousness. There is a checkbox and mine only had two more unchecked boxes. Marriage and death.

And somehow, through all this, faith was still a routine to me. I almost never prayed anything that wasn’t rehearsed or learnt at catechism. If you’re catholic, you know what I’m talking about. There’s a prayer for anything and every situation imaginable. Prayer was a formality. Not a form of communication with God but more like a playlist on repeat. An obligation I had to fulfill. All those years and no one taught me how to be comfortable with approaching God, on talking, on complaining, on asking, on giving thanks. It was only to follow a given order of things. But if my relationship with my dad is any indication, I should have known there were no rules set in stone. Well apart from Moses and his burning bush and stone tablet.

I didn’t really know how it felt to feel the goodness of the Lord wash over you, climaxing like that grand finale we had bathing with a basin. A feeling of content that pooled from somewhere, deep within myself. A love, unbound and unconditional, stoking my soul with the lightness of a feather but in it also a wall that blocks out evil in all its forms.

But like everything else in the school of life, I’m learning. Easing into it. One step at a time.