When you are navigating through midlife crisis — or midriff crisis, as I prefer to call it — you spend lots of time in a dark corner of the pub, ruminating on the little that remains of your life in a country where life expectancy is 48.
That is when you realise that age is more sobering than any concoction drunkards will ever formulate to kill their hangovers, including soup boiled from a goat’s hooves and seasoned with bits of tongue, tail, and pepper.
You accept that the dreams of your childhood were just that — dreams. No, you will never become director of CID, the president of Kenya, a successful polygamist or a tycoon with vast tracts and large herds of livestock.
Strangely, the realisation doesn’t shock you. That’s what age does to you.
Even when you are generally daft, you suddenly see things with a clarity that would evade a top KCSE student even if a marking scheme was thrust in his face.
What my musings have told me is that unless I take drastic measures, I am going to while away the rest of my life in a small village munching boiled, bitter herbs, chewing tumbaku, spitting into the distance and waiting for the grandkids to pop in on Christmas Eve. In short, I sniff a life of penury.
Now, pastors will tell you that God loves poor people. But I think that is propaganda. That story ended when Jesus, the Son of Man, allowed a harlot to wash his feet.
If you think I am being silly, have you ever seen an archbishop buring a poor man? Have you ever seen the Bishop invite a poor man to stand up in church and address the congregation?
I could pray for riches, you know — pay fungu la kumi promptly and regularly, Mpesa Sh310 to like 30 pastors every month to fatten my chances of hitting the jackpot. But why go through that hustle when I can open my own hustle?
What I will do is this. I will sell my house and give the proceeds to the ‘Lord’. What this means is that I will use the money to buy a small plot and erect a humongous tent.
Then I will fence it, install smart security guards, invest in very fine suits, marry a beauty queen and call that outfit “Mighty VIP Tabernacle of the Most High”.
Like all churches, the poor are welcome. They are great for singing and dancing, collapsing on the floor and speaking in tongues. But they will not be the pillar of my church.
I don’t want to play in the same league with riffraff who accept Sh310 tithe. I want people with real money. I want to be up there with suave Bishop Deyas of this world.
So my church will have a VIP air-conditioned section for those whose weekly tithe is Sh100,000 and above. The seating here will be leather recliners that provide body massage to the worthies as I harangue the devil on their behalf. Snacks will be served during service by a crew of beautiful women in heels, figure-hugging outfits and noisy weaves.
I will throw in executive barber and salon services on the house and a free monthly full body massage for the VIP brethren. And while the kawaida people will make do with cheap wine for communion, the VIP will munch imported cake and sip Dom Pérignon.
A vital aspect of my ministry will be the forgiveness of sins. At a small booth in my office, sinners will be invited to confess their sins via a direct line to the Most High. But for the door to open, they will need to swipe a credit card for a Sh3,500 admission fee.
A recorded voice, so soothing it would lull one to sleep, will say, “Welcome my son or daughter. Get seated and slip your credit card in that slot on the red phone then lift the handset.”
Brethren will be sweetly directed. For instance, they will hear, “If your sin is fornication, press 1. If you coveted somebody’s donkey, press 2. If you pocketed a bribe or ducked paying tax, press 3. If you worship money, press 4.” And so forth.
The trick about this arrangement is that sins will attract different fines which are chopped of your credit card the second you bonyeza a number.
Murder, will however, attract the least fine because the VIP are too cowardly to kill anyone – they send poor people who can’t afford hefty fines.
In the likely event that the devil tempts me to feast on a church choir member, the flock will have to accept and move on. Haven’t you heard of fringe benefits? Ha! Brethren, let me not reveal much before some kumbafu thief steals my idea.
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