Church Girl

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Slap me hard if you ever find me carrying someone’s baby in Church again! I have literary heard enough of babies. I know I keep complaining of why they even have to cry whenever I hold them and why some even get terrified when I look at them but what Susan’s baby did on Sunday marked the end of the road for me as far as carrying those little champs is involved.

“Hey,” she had greeted me when the praise team concluded the intercessory session. Her smile was like armor and every day, she went to war. No man could resist her impact. She requested me to hold the baby for her when she goes to make her presentation. Until now, I still wish I hadn’t accepted.

Susan wanted to make a presentation. She was glowing the entire time I sat next to her. It’s like she was waiting for the right moment. For the service leader to call for presentations. When the moment came, she did not hesitate.

But there was no way I could tell that when Susan got to the pulpit, she would ask us to be on our feet. She gave me no clue that she would request us to help her praise her God for being faithful to her. It’s her blessings, right? Why was she even asking us to rejoice at whatever her blessings were? I like the believers who whenever they feel like God has been faithful to them, they give a short direct testimony and that’s it. I like the ones who will say as many ‘Bwana Yesu asifiwe sana?’ as possible. I don’t mind having to repeat Amen countless times. They don’t bother me. I love the ones who sing. The ones with a voice. But what’s wrong with these other crop of humans who insist that we stand and sing with them?

Suzan’s baby was young. I didn’t ask how old but he looked one or two, or maybe three. A man can never tell a kids age at first sight. But despite being a mother, Susan still looked perfect inside her tight dress. Her curves kept calling. I don’t know how but the boys behind her kept dancing during the praise session. Like her behind called and their eyes responded in chorus. Sitting next to her gave me the prestige that only husbands. And I surely redeemed the bonus when she handed the baby over to me as she went to make her presentation.

Holding the boy made me alive. And as she testified of Gods goodness to her life, I was busy trying to cheer up the little champ. I tickled him and smiled aimlessly as he laughed the way kids do when they are exited. I must have been saying something like ‘babababububu!’ I am not sure the 8.4.4 curriculum taught me that, but it worked.

As we sang and danced to ‘mahali nimefika nimeona wema wako’ I held on tight to the baby. He didn’t cry. He didn’t complain. I felt alive and perhaps Susan’s testimony had also healed the gap between me and the little ones and all the praise song was doing was to seal the bond. I could feel some warmth in my heart. The area around my chest where the baby was lying started to become warm. And as the song came to end, people clapped in ululation. They cheered Susan. Her testimony had moved them. As she made for her seat, next to me of cause, I was there feeling like the man of the hour. But besides the warmth around my chest, I could now feel some smell. Some funny smell.

Susan’s baby had urinated on himself. The urine had spilled over to my shirt. I wasn’t smiling anymore. I wasn’t even feeling like the man of the hour anymore. This little champ had ruined my one and only moment of glory. I stood there not knowing what to do. The boys who sat behind us noticed the shame on my face and started laughing. Soon the entire Church did too and joined in the laughter. Bad things also happen around places of worship?

I should have removed the shirt and stayed with a t-shirt or a vest. But I had none of the two. For a while I stood there wondering ‘why is jumbo pack not free in Kenya?’

The next time I carry a baby maybe I will be part of a campaign advocating for free jumbo packs in Kenya.

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