01/04/2013 Easter Monday Easiness
Friendship
presents easily when you travel and especially when you’re a white woman in a
black man’s world. Today, Easter Monday, I’m thankful to be kicking back at
home alone. Downtime is much needed.
Yesterday,
Easter Sunday begins 9:30 in a large, air conditioned Pentecostal Church. This
is my colleague Christine’s social hub. Hymn lyrics appeared on a super board
above the stage. A rousing choir moves members of the congregation to raise arms
in chorusing halleluah’s and praise the lords. This is definitely a wealthy
institution. Pastor speaks in pidgen, so it’s difficult to follow his
off-the-cuff jokes, but most of his sermon is projected for easy reading.
Christine and her sis, Tiffany, and I leave at 11:00 and head to the Catholic
church where their Aunty is giving thanksgiving for her husband’s recovery from
tuberculosis. I’m curious to see how Catholicism plays out in these parts.
Sunday
Mass starts at 10:00. By the time we arrive the priest is well into a long
winded sermon. He punctuates his lecture with calls for interaction: “We are redeemed by the lord Jesus - say it
now! We are redeemed by the lord Jesus! Say it again. We are redeemed by the
lord Jesus. Say it louder....” This kind of thing goes on and on for another
hour. Around noon it’s time for the first incensation. The choir ramps up with
a lively hymn. Parishoners rises to their feet one pew at a time, spill into
the aisles and head to the front alter to drop offerings of cash into a big
metal bowl. They bob and weave and dance in rapturous joy back to their seats.
Some sit, others continue to dance. After round one, the choir gets rowdier.
When spirits are sufficiently elevated the second incensation starts. I’m taken
a back. In a place where people can barely make ends meet, their beloved church
takes and takes “in the name of god.” Gawd. Incensed, I follow suit a second
time, feeling obliged to do so. But when the third request comes with
instructions to put cash into the envelopes conveniently left on pew seats, I
sit out and read the church bulletin instead. One announcement advises that the
church’s youth “are expected to pay a talent levy” – N500 for the unemployed
and N1,000 for working class youth to participate in the Youth Talent
Celebration. Another announcement advertises Passion Drama DVDs for N200. A third lists sponsorship/advert rates for
the Youth Talent Celebration Souvenir Program. The last and final announcement
says “Parishoners are requested to pay their AMC on time.” Rates range from 1%
of annual income to N100 for wee children. WTF?
No wonder I left this “faith.” Regardless, I decide to take communion. The
wafer is thicker than I recall. It sticks to the roof of my mouth and takes a
while to dissolve. I wonder if it's intentionally a little heartier given that most in the congregation are lucky to get one decent meal daily. Next comes a 45 minute procession of people presenting money and
wares in personal thanks. This is Christine and family’s time. Aunty expresses
her devotional thanks with bags of rice and yams and myriad other goodies.
Finally
at 1:30 mass concludes and we’re on our way to party one: Christine’s dear
friend (her name escapes me). Her home
is modest albeit with a flat screen TV serving as the parlour focal point. We
eat sweet cake. Plates are heaped with spicy jollop rice, fried chicken, eba
and a veg soup with curled skin and fish. I ask to serve myself and take a wee
bit of each, suffering through the veg soup with quick polite swallows. Party two is at the large and elegantly
appointed home of Christine’s Aunty and Uncle. He’s a retired government
bureaucrat. Aunty runs a bush meat bar somewhere in the Marion/Atikong street
strip. Before even saying hello a gynormous plate of coconut rice, boiled fatty
chicken-chunks and dried (donut shaped fish) comes at me. Contrary to what you
might think coconut rice like everything else here, tastes of pungent crayfish
seasoning. There’s not a hint of coconut flavour. Thankfully a bottle of
chilled Spanish red wine comes with the plate of food. Three glasses in and
we’re dancing to Nigerian hip hop and having a blast. It almost feels like one
of my own family gatherings back home.
Evening
time, Kim, Leanne, Sara and I meet up at Millennium Park for a free jazz
concert. Christine E, her hubby Bassey, and sis Tif join us. Jazz morphs into
hip hop one act after another. Some of it is meh, most of it is awesome. I’ve
gotta track down Agba. His lyrics slay me.
What I
had hoped would be a simple afternoon at home looks like it’s turning into
another white gathering at the Botannical Gardens for a free gig of cultural
dance and masquerade. To-ing and fro-ing, head under tap freshening later, it’s
simply too energy-zapping hot today. Happy to stay put.
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