Of Sacred Zeal and Silent Saints
No one at St. Luke’s Anglican Church in Mulaha, Diocese of Maseno West, could tell me whether Mr. Akwiri ever took communion there. In fact, he wasn’t even known to be a church-goer. But what was seared into my memory one afternoon was how he became the “ninja-prophet” the Anglicans of Mulaha never knew they needed.
I was in grade 5 at Mulaha Primary School, and our break-time hero was a certain Jaduong’ “Omuogo” Richard. A man of many talents, he sold us boiled cassava at break time, with porridge, and sugarcane, and was also the unappointed chief drummer of St. Luke’s Church, the owner of a dusty drum that thundered to signal worship hours.
One day, Jaduong’ Richard’s drum remained unusually silent. Something unholy was brewing, which his conscience couldn’t reconcile with.
A week earlier, a traveling acrobat named “Jebunga Sube”, also a part-time body builder and fire-eater, walked into the school and thrilled our teachers. The teachers seeing an opportunity to outsource entertainment, struck a deal with Jebunga: he would return for an exclusive performance for “jo-upper” (Class 4–8) at a fee of 5 bob per learner. But there was a problem. We didn’t have a hall. Quick solution: use St. Luke’s sanctuary, which could be hired occasionally anyway.
On the appointed day, Jebunga walked into the church and began flexing and eating fire where sacraments happened, while learners cheered from the pews. As usual, I was outside with those who couldn’t pay 5 shillings, peeping from cracks in the curtain-sealed windows.
And that’s how I saw the hero.
“Saint Akwiri” came charging furiously from the gate! Head wrapped like a Ninja.
Dark shades hiding an angry righteous glare. Gumboots on his feet.
And a shining machete, gripped with holy conviction. He offered no “Bwana Asifiwe” greetings. He went straight for the church door, and began hacking it like Elijah versus Baal’s prophets, shouting that he would not allow Jebunga’s nonsense in his church.
A battle ensued. And I must report, disappointingly, that it was a pretty short one since Akwiri was quickly restrained by a group of teachers and some tall class 8s with adams’ apples. But the desired damage was done. Jebunga packed up his performance and relocated to the school field, where he did it for free this time. Call it divine redistribution.
Who defends the sacred when the church is silent? Heavens sometimes seem silent when theatrics and strange fires reign on altars. But silence isn’t always consent. God often reserves strange measures for occasions that deserve them; occasions that fit prophets with no voices, wearing unlikely uniforms.
Looking back, I still don’t know if Akwiri even owned a Bible. But this, I know: there’s a kind of faith that doesn’t wear robes or hold a Bible. It just shows up in strange ways.
Psalm 69:9, “zeal for your house has consumed me, and the insults of those who insult you have fallen on me.”
Leave a comment