Reading the Ceiling (27 page)

She brings me a small earthenware pot with a tiny aloe in it. ‘It's quite hardy and won't die even if you don't water it for a month.' It's almost her back to her old self. However, her commentary on my life begins soon enough.

‘I see you've kept the white Benz. It can't be cheap to run. We could do a lot for the orphanage in Farafenni with that kind of money.'

I grit my teeth and distract myself by asking, ‘Now, how many people would like Sprite?' I rush to the kitchen to get some from the crate, and walk out with the bottles clinking against each other on my tray.

Everyone is in the backyard, huddling next to charcoal burners I lit to warm the air. Moira welcomes me: ‘My dear sister, you shouldn't buy charcoal, it destroys too many trees and is against the law. We must render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's and unto God that which is God's. Luke 20:25. This is a good law we must obey. The word of God is our sword – we apply it in our lives to guard against the Evil One. Isn't that right, Deacon John?'

I'd asked Bintou to take Saturday off so she could come and help me serve today. Moira does not hold back her comment when Bintou comes out with the first hot dish, ‘Hmm, you're not even giving your house staff a rest on Sundays. Genesis 2:3 says we should all rest on the seventh day. Even the heathen.'

I find myself protesting, ‘Bintou is practically family and she wanted to help anyway.'

There is a lot of chat, but my heart stays cold, dry. And bitter.

She preaches at me all evening. Back from a trip to the bathroom, she announces – out loud to everyone – ‘I noticed your Senegalese batik of two women holding pestles over a wooden mortar. I'm surprised you've put it on such a
nice
bit of wall space. Surely a plain dark-varnished cross would be perfect there – just the thing you need to declare your witness, for we must use every opportunity to share our faith, must we not?'

When we move inside to stand together for final prayers, she casts her eyes over the books on my shelf. She picks one out and holds it up, ‘Palace of Desire? Na-gwib Manfous? What kind of books are you reading, sister? We must all guard our minds and keep them clean, you have to watch what you read.'

At the goodbye, she says, ‘Thank you my dear for a lovely evening.' She edges in for a hug. At the hint of my perfume she stands back and grasps my shoulders with hardening, clasping hands, ‘We are the odour of the Lord, we don't need any props!' As she makes her way to the door, she flings her final salvo, ‘I really must watch my little sister, I have seen many revelations about her life tonight!'

How she plays her devotion! And what intense attention she gives to the details of other people's lives.

*

As usual, I wake Kweku Sola up early to get ready for the first church service. We have a quick argument about what he chooses to wear. We settle on dark jeans, belted up around the waist, and a plainish T-shirt. I ask him to comb his hair.

God is Good, we sing and shout it, God is Good, we celebrate.

 I am a ‘Welcoming Friend.' I stand at the door of our church and give out photocopied sheets about the week's events and shake hands with everyone who comes in. Kweku Sola is at the front – he will fiddle with the buttons on the electronic equipment until it is time for him to go and help out in the Sunday School. When we go home and I ask, ‘How was church today?' I can only expect him to use his standard response:
Boring
, the single word accompanied by a
tut
and a resigned sigh. But how else is he going to learn what I believe unless I bring him with me?

Just after we open the building, it is quiet, ugly even – a large dull space with empty air above rows of flat plywooded seats on four-pronged legs that sit unevenly on the floor. Then it starts filling up, with church members coming in to do their various duties – preparing for communion, setting up instruments, selecting overhead transparencies for the choruses.

I walk outside with the sign we put up each Sunday:

Church of Christ Brethren
Welcome to our international congregation of worshippers.
Come and receive your own miracle today.
Open Sundays: 9am to 12 noon; 4pm to 8pm

A man in dirty, dirty clothes walks in, smelling strongly of drink. He's been before and usually hunches up in a seat right at the back and goes to sleep. We welcome everyone, we don't turn anyone away, for we are all lost sheep in need of a Saviour. I shake his hand and smile as good a welcome as I can. With all these people you don't know coming from wherever, I was glad when the Deacons decided to switch from using large aluminium communion cups of Vimto to the kind of little glasses used at my mother's church, passed along in a wooden tray with holes to fit them into. Much healthier. I recommended the change and paid for the glasses and holders. There's absolutely no need to pass germs around in a place of worship.

The church has grown a lot, to more than three hundred regular worshippers now. We have bought things to help us to grow even more: musical instruments, a public address system, stackable chairs, a mini-podium, and overhead projectors. As Brother Paul says, ‘We are multiplying indeed by His grace and His goodness.'

Other regulars are arriving in now. Aunty Therese shuffles in. She is bent over in a voluminous old-style Krio dress, with carpet slippers and her hair firmly tied with a length of cotton print in the season's colours – blue for the rain and green for the springy growth all around us. Rivers of age show in the stretches and folds of skin pulling off her face. Her eyes are alert as she turns towards me.

‘The best of God's morning to you,' she says.

‘And to you too,' I reply.

The taxi driver who brings her in every Sunday morning stands behind her like a sentry.

‘I'll pick her up at the usual time,' he says to me, handing over the green canvas bag she brings with her each week.

‘Let me take you to your seat,' I offer. We walk to the very front, where I take her cushion out of her bag and help her into her seat. I also get out a square blanket in bright pink-and-white acrylic, with a waffle imprint, and settle that on her knees.

‘Don't forget my water, please,' she says.

I get out her bottle of water and put it on her lap. It has a sports top, and its clear plastic is emblazoned in bright red with
Heartbeat - we'll keep your pulse.

‘Are you all right? Can I leave you now?'

‘Yes, my dear. Thank you.'

She pulls at her pink acrylic with hands which her skin is clawing to hold onto. I let her be.

I spot Brother Isaac up at the front, looking busy with the mike and speakers. He is on one knee, with his generously sized behind gloved in brown suiting trousers, the kind modestly dressed men wear to remain indistinguishable in a crowd. He can't see me, but I see him and remember. Aina turned up to service perhaps three times after their involvement was made public. She never looked sorry. Her lips stayed strongly outlined with dark red pencil, and slobbered over with gloss. Her eyes stayed mascaraed, and her braids were shot through with bright extensions of gold and blond. The last I heard of her, she'd emigrated to Qatar and was rumoured to have accompanied one of the German engineers who built the Farafenni–Fatoto road.

By the time I get back to the door, Brother Paul is squatting next to Aunty Therese, holding one of her hands; their heads are bowed in prayer. Brother Isaac taps and blows into a microphone. His voice is rough with a slight rasp:
Testing, testing, one two three.

Brother Tani walks in with a jean jacket huddled close, sneakers with a jaunt in them and a stale drift of cigarette smoke.

As the church fills up, it seems like God Himself comes to rest among us. Indeed He does say, ‘Where two or three are gathered, there am I, in the midst of them.' People hug as they greet each other. The laughter, the hellos and the energetic waving of arms across the room all create a warmth, as if in sharing these little things of ourselves, we become linked one to another. There is a buzz in the air, and an expectation of blessing from the Lord – the happy sound of heaven, people lifting their voices together and praising God.

‘. . . how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me . . .,'

Moira trills away, delivering her solo on the mike, hitting the high notes clearly and springing sighs and amens from random corners of the room. How a voice so honeyed could possibly cope with a heart with so much poison ... I start a silent prayer:
Dear Lord, forgive me but that woman has become my personal thorn. Please give me patience, so I hold my tongue instead of retorting to her sharp remarks about my ways and habits. 

The service has started. Aunty Therese hobbles along to share her miracle of this week. The microphone is adjusted to her height but as soon as she starts to speak, it protests with a screech about being too close to the drummer's mike. Brother Isaac rushes to fiddle with wires and adjust the synthesizer.

‘I thank God. Some of you may know I am a widow, and that the money I live on is the pension my dear husband worked for all his life so I could continue to live without charity after his death.' She pauses, ‘Last month's cheque never made it into my hands.' Her voice cracks like the sharp snap of hard-set sesame sugar snacks. She clears her throat, but it wavers as she continues, ‘And it's God, only God, who helped me track it down.'

In the pause that follows her sniffs, emotion runs down her cheeks.

‘These days the people at the Post Office cannot be trusted. The whole country suffers from dishonesty these days. The place is full of thieves but I thank God for His deliverance. The thief took it to the Standard Bank, where the cashier recognised my name. She did not pay it out straightaway, but instead asked her boss to verify the cheque. The man was caught. I got my cheque back, and my money for this month. Praise God.'

Her joy spins free into the air like a loose balloon, nudging the sky with its nose and waggling its string tail in glee. In response, we murmur our allelujahs. There are a few scattered claps, forcing hand-dampened air tight and letting out hiccups of holy applause.

Next, Brother Hassan shares a vision. ‘Just now, when Brother Paul was praying, I received a picture in my mind. I saw a gate in a walled city. There were lots of people pushing forward, shouting, trying to find their way out through the gate. At first it was hard for me to understand why we were all there, as I was near the back of the crowd and could not see. After waiting for what seemed like ages, someone shouted – ‘There he is, the one who could not save himself.' I did nothing. I said nothing, but felt shame creeping up on me, because by choosing to stay in the crowd and not trying to find out more, not trying to insist on knowing what was going on, I knew I had failed him. When at last I got to stand at the gate, I saw the greenest hill up ahead, with fresh bright grass. I remember thinking it was odd that the hill looked like half a calabash and not like a proper mountain. For a minute a cloud covered the sun, yet provided some light in the background. I saw the outline of three crosses. My shame was so great, I clung to the gate and could go no further.'

He explains, ‘I saw Jesus' crucifixion on a green hill outside Jerusalem. God was reminding me that I put Jesus right there, on that cross. We all put him there. I am grateful that He thought I was worth the sacrifice. Amen.'

Throat clucking praise and the odd echoing amen accompany him back to his seat.

When Brother Paul stands up for the main sermon, he takes up more space than the tiny podium has to offer. His voice hardly needs the boost of the microphone. The thrust of his message is this: ‘Money is the root of all kinds of evil. Rather than let money control us, we should control the money. Money is all part of God's design. He gave us humans the ability to invent a way of sharing wealth. But we must guard against money becoming our master. For it is then that we call it
mammon
, a curse of faith.'

The main announcement today is for a wedding. Brother Tani to Sister Yetunde. We are all invited to the ceremony in two weeks' time.

My silver Mercedes has not lost its new-car smell. I am in its cockpit, with cushioned air around me, beige leather seat under me, and a panel of lights on the dashboard to tell me about trouble before it comes. I turn out of my house, heading for the Banjul road, where I'll be meeting Rohey for lunch. The engine murmurs under my acceleration and the wheels swing this way and that to my slightest touch.

This car is the kind of model I can sell on in a couple of years to a politician, industrialist or diplomat. It has every kind of modern convenience: cupholders, a sun roof, a glove compartment that can stow an emergency wardrobe, and wing mirrors that are adjustable from the inside. My Merc talks to me if I leave the lights on, the keys in the ignition, or if my petrol gets low, providing the comfort of an electronic caretaker. It cuts a dash on the highway, being one-of-a-kind in town, stretching my tanks of petrol, soothing over bumps in the road.

Money is not a headache for my clients. All the government ministers have Mercedes, and I have supplied our president with ten models in the past couple of years. Yesterday, a Mr Oguntola from the Nigerian High Commission rang to put in an order for two new black series E. Mr Mboge rang to ask me to look out for a ‘solid second-hand'. It is not always clear to me where people get their money from, but I can't exactly turn my back on God's blessings and start to ask stupid questions.

My good luck has all been in God's hands.

Rohey and I meet for lunch at the SeaFront Beach Bar and Restaurant. We greet each other the way we've been doing since we first became friends,

‘
Awor
,' I say, giving her the respect of the senior wife.