Twisted Times: Son of Man (Twisted Times Trilogy Book 1) (30 page)

A month later, I went to church for the first time in three years. The Thika Catholic Church was filled to capacity. The congregation was all ears listening to the gospel according to Father Joseph Ngelani. He was talking about God and how He used us to fulfil His promises and accomplish His wonderful works in the world. He expressed his disappointment in man who fails to see God in his daily living.

“We’ve forgotten God, our Father. We no longer believe in Him. Our faith has deteriorated to amorphous shapes of doubt, and we’ve traded with the world and sold our souls to the devil. We now believe in technology, scientists and their inventions and discoveries.

“Science has become our God. Money is a deity we don’t just worship but adore yet we’re so badly-off...”

Listening to Fr. Ngelani made me think of the unprecedented masses that found their way to the church every Sunday. Many convinced themselves that they were going to find comfort in religion once they failed to succeed in their lives. Fr. Ngelani’s sermon created an air of change this day. In his homily which seemed to blame everybody for their misgivings yet blame it on others he touched many people, I for one. Were it one of the mushrooming sects that asks those who want to receive Christ in their lives after the sermon, in other words getting ‘saved’, many would have been
saved
this day. 

After the Mass many people wanted to see Fr. Ngelani. I was one of them. We all wanted to
talk
to the priest. He informed me that confession day was every Wednesday of the week. I could go and
talk
to him about anything and the grace of our merciful God would be upon me.

I had made up my mind and I was not turning back. I was done with life. Susan had concluded everything I had in this life. That’s what I meant when I said I had to see Susan first. I wanted a silent life, secluded, and the only place that could offer me this was the church. Better if I could get a monastery. Nobody would ever think of me in the church. Not even Hanan. I was tired with the world.

Psychologists would say I was confused, didn’t know what I wanted in life; others would say that I was an escapist, was running away from reality, or was schizophrenic. People would talk, they always do, those who knew me. Many would say it was as though I had no sense of direction, but it was what I wanted.

Wednesday of the following week came and I went to talk to Fr. Ngelani. To him I confessed everything I had done all my life. He told me that our merciful God would forgive me and welcome me back to the fold just like the prodigal son.

To show how committed I was to change, I gave up everything
to God;
except one thing – the house and some monies. God could not leave His house at the Thika Catholic church and go to live in my house.

My sister, Virginia Waithera, had finished college and was working at the Panafric Hotel in Nairobi. I gave her the responsibility of the house; full responsibility and possession but not ownership, as she had done when I was away.

2012;

My new life name was Paul. Saul of Damascus became Paul. Kennedy Maina aka Son of Man was to become Paul. Paul with a new life, new beginning – out Saul, in new Soul.

Under the keen eye and guidance of Fr. Ngelani, a Kiltegan priest of the society of St. Patrick, I did the
punishment
that God meted on me in atonement and reparation for my sins, thence obtained complete absolution with God.

In February of the following year, I became the sacristan of Thika Catholic church. I was now a carless man, walking the six or so kilometres to and from work. I had donated my car to the church to facilitate in the spreading of the gospel. Fr. Ngelani, who was the Thika Township parochial priest, out of his cordial heart, gave me a room at the vicarage. He was concerned about my daily trekking. He wanted to save me the route-march but I could be going home on Saturdays, if I wanted to. I did not turn down the offer.

My parents were happy for me, since now the family was now officially a Christian family, but wary with my choice of life. Was I going to throw everything away just like that, as though I had never had a life worth living? Mother wondered. It was my life, that’s what mattered. I told her. Dad had even joined the rest his family in the Catholic faith.

We were a family again, as it used to be those days before my walking out, only that I now had my own home. Nonetheless, Mom did not hesitate to remind me that I was the only son in the family and I needed to marry, something she doubted was in my plans with my recent choice of career. She wanted to see her grandchildren before crossing over. Good thoughts, but it was not on my mind. I’d had quite gruesome experiences with women and I did not want to make it worse, to complicate my life any further. She could not understand. No one could anyway. Didn’t she have daughters who could give them the same?

Her trepidation for her only son not marrying was confirmed when she knew I was the sacristan. Before me sacristans used to be young men in their late teens or early twenties, mostly who had finished high school while awaiting joining university or college. Some seminarian, on on-job-training, would take over temporarily when the young men left for further studies. The Christians were used to this and thus when they started seeing me working in the vestry they thought I was just some deacon or seminarian. My age confirmed it.

Mother, who knew better than anyone else, feared that I could decide to be a priest. As I knew, so far, I was past that. At twenty-eight I was not eligible. I was late for that career move, but never too late for the vocation. Though I sometimes wished I were a priest I liked it the way I was – just a committed and devout lay man. I was paid four thousand shillings a month for my upkeep. Good. My bank account was still fat but daily it was slimming, courtesy of too much charity. I thought that I would win God’s favour by offering too much and moreover, I had no need for the money after all.

My job was to keep the church clean, inside that is, and all the paraphernalia used during Mass and Catholic Church worship. I felt as though I was living next to God, like a lackey in His kingdom.

I cleaned the whole church, made the necessary preparations for Mass, benedictions, and adoration worships. I cleaned the priests’ vestments, the altar clothes and the vessels used during worship.

Sometimes I would try the priests’ regalia and look at myself in the mirror. I looked good in those albs and chasubles.

I became used to the life of prayer. I would pray more than seven times a day, even beat the Muslims’ record of five times daily
salat.
Not because I believed in too much prayer. It just got into me, like second nature. In my convoluted mind I thought I lived like celebrated mystics in the Catholic Church, the likes of Alessandrina Maria da’ Costa or Saint Little Flower and St. John of the Cross whom I had read from the church writings. Reading of their lives and how they became to be saints made me convince myself that I was daily performing my heroic deeds that would one day give me mileage for my canonization. Kenya would have another saint after Maurice Cardinal Otunga, if Ndingi Mwana a’ Nzeki wouldn’t have been added to the list.

As a sacristan I was used to seeing images of medieval saints, paintings of the Virgin Mary, of apostles, Jesus, and other heavenly beings. The ethereal-like persons dancing before me were straight from the astral world. The soft caress of the mist surrounding them made me be like them. I was a spirit.

First it was a woman in her early thirties. She looked as though she had never experienced the pain of birth but had the aura of a loving, caring and committed mother.

Then there was the young man beside her – presumably her son, but it couldn’t be. There was no way it could be her son. The young man was my brother, Duncan.

They were beautiful. Heavenly beauty.

Then I saw the others, their ghosts – Pauline, Kate, all the whores of Mavis days, Susan and the triplets, Shifra, Shirli and Meira. I wondered what my brother was doing with them.

The most glamorous ghost was Shirli. I wanted to reach out and do what men of flesh do with women, what we did once upon a time. Shirli was crying. She was heavy with child. They all were. Kate looked at me and smiled – first love. Pauline did not flinch; I never expected anything more from her. She had never felt for me, all her feelings were the way the jackals and vultures feel for the feast but not for the dead. The whores seemed to strip dance before me. The triplets were filled with contempt, resentment and hatred – it was all directed towards me. They hated me. I had betrayed them, their trust.

Then they all disappeared except for the lady and Danny. The lady spoke first. “What have you done, Ken? What have you done?”

I said nothing. She continued.

“You shouldn’t have done that. Man should not do such dissolute things.”

I was not listening. I was replaying my life trying to understand what she was talking about. Danny’s voice brought me back to reality. The lady was not there. She was gone.

“Where’s she?” I asked.

“Who?”

“The lady whom you’re with? Where did she go?”

“Come on, bro. Stop hallucinating. I was with no one.”

“No? I saw them. You came with them.”

“You always struck me as anything in the world but not as a daydreamer, brother.”

“I am not daydreaming. Would you mind explaining something here?”

He chuckled. He always chuckled.

“You know what, brother; time has come for me to avenge myself on you for whatever you did to me in my human life. You never loved me. You beat me. I couldn’t. You were the big brother. Now look. I am as big as you. You can’t beat me anymore. I am going to avenge myself on you.”

In his hand was a .38 Smith & Wesson pistol.

“Why? What have I done to you?”

He chuckled again.

“You don’t deserve to live. Either way you’re a dead man. You know what, brother? A dish of revenge tastes sweeter when served cold. People like you are not given second chances.”

“You know I loved you. You’re my brother. I did not mean to hurt you. Please, I am sorry.”

“Now you’re begging for your life? Interesting!”

“No, you’re not real. You’re just but a dream. You can’t do anything like that. I am your brother...”

“You want to try me? Enhe?”

He raised the weapon. He aimed between my eyes. At that moment I saw the Angel of Death descend from heaven. I knew that I was dying then. Danny was not joking.

“You did it, didn’t you?”

“Did what? I can barely recall doing anything...”

“You’re a killer, brother. You killed people. Tell me that their blood doesn’t cry out to you from their graves that will never be seen for justice? Tell me that the women you’ve lied to won’t like to see you rot in hell where you belong.”

He was talking fast, jogging my memory.

“What do you think I should have done? I had no option.”

“Can you stomach such treatment yourself?”

“I had no other option than to do what I did.”

“I want to mete out a punishment on you. No one in the world will ever catch you, but you can’t hide from us. You can run, but there’s nowhere to hide.”

I stared at my brother. I feared what I saw in his eyes. Death!

“But I am a good man now. I changed for better.”

“Bravo, brother, kudos, but it makes no difference. You’re still you. No matter what mask you put on you’ll remain to be you, Ken.”

“I am sorry. I know I’ve made a few mistakes in my life and I’ve righted them. Why are you downplaying that fact?”

“Say your last words, brother.”

“Please...”

The explosion was so deafening.

The angel of death smiled at me as darkness engulfed me.

“Jesus,” I said out aloud. Thank God it was a dream, I whispered to myself between my teeth as I sat bolt upright.

I woke up from my sweat drenched sleep my heart thumping hard. It was long after I had woken up when I realized that I was in my very bed.

I was not dead yet.

Mission Sunday;

Kennedy Paul Maina woke up sweating ghastly and panting heavily. He’d had a nightmare. The pillow was drenched in his own sweat and his heart was pounding like a mill. The first thing to do was to check around and confirm that he was actually dreaming and he was in his bed. Satisfied, he seemed to relax only to be startled by a loud shrill of the bedside clock. He had set the alarm for 5:45 A.M.

He hastily got off the bed and started preparing for the day. Being a Sunday he had quite a lot of work to do.

On Sundays masses were three:

7:00 a.m. – 9:00 a.m. –               Vernacular service

9:00 a.m. – 11:00 a.m.              –               Swahili

11:00 a.m. – 1:00 p.m.              –               English.

The English service was mostly attended by the youth. This day there was going to be only two masses. The English one was not to be celebrated. It was the Catholic Mission Sunday and the church had visitors from Nairobi, according to the chairman of the church, sent from Rome by the Prefect of the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples (
Congregatio pro Gentium Evangelisatione
) by the order of the Pope, the congregation of the Roman Curia responsible for missionary work and related activities.

After the Swahili mass the chairman of the church made to the lectern and announced that there were Christians who had visited from Nairobi but actually sent from Rome to churches in Kenya to talk about the Catholic Mission Sunday to Christians, its importance and what Christians were expected to do.

“These people are the representatives of the church in Kenya who were sent by our head of the Catholic Church in Kenya, Cardinal Jonah Njenga, to a seminar that was held in Rome prior to this day. They’d expound on the importance of this Mission Sunday to us and what’s expected of us.” He spoke for some few minutes and then welcomed the team of reps from Nairobi.

A small group comprising three men and a woman walked up to the lectern where the Thika Catholic Church chairman was. They had an aura of rare piety and godliness as they genuflected facing the tabernacle. The Chairman introduced each one of them and when he was done he left them to tell the people of God the message they had from Rome.

“Today is Mission Sunday, a day of prayer for the spread of gospel in the church,” the speaker, one of the men, said. Samson Ndolo was an Assistant PS in the Ministry of Gender and Culture and the secretary of the Catholic Justice and Reconciliation Commissioner. His delving into the matters of the church saw him being a member of quite a number of Catholic movements and devotional groups. He was the leader of the group that was nominated by His Eminence Rt. Rev. Jonah Cardinal Njenga to go to the evangelization of the people’s seminar as lay representatives in Rome. “It’s a day when we’re called to bring the gospel alive to others and witness our faith,” he continued.

He and the others talked to the Christian family of the Thika Catholic Church with gusto, and when they were done they said that there was to be a second collection (offertory) in support of the Catholic Agency of Evangelization.

At the nave sat a supercilious man who all the time was sneering at these reps and messengers of the Vatican to Christians in Kenya. Kennedy Paul Maina listened to not a single word that Samson said. As the man was talking as though he were some televangelist, Kennedy was marvelling at the drama of the cat and mouse game that was life. In his mind all what he could see was a criminal dressed in pinstripe suit preaching sweet-scented words of the gospel from the devil himself. Kennedy was the only one among the many Christians in that church who knew the man in front of them oozing charisma better than anyone else. He wondered why it has got to be that way – all the monsters are saints.

Though that was no concern of his. He had a life to live. He was no longer a man grappling with the hypocrisy of many church goers. He was a devout Christian now, his past dead and buried, his only concern the life he lived. But he hated to see such people in the place where the righteous should be kings.

The Christians were now offering the second collection. Ken did not go to make any offering. He kinda knew where that money was ending up to. After all he was paid with the offertory. It beat logic for him to offer what many were told would go to God only for him to be given it back come the end of the month.

When the Mass was over and he was clearing the altar, he saw Samson, his arch-enemy, engrossed in an ear-to-ear conversation with the chairman of the church. From the way they were talking it didn’t strike him as though they were just pious church people who had been greatly moved by the religious prowess of each other. They struck him as long-time friends who shared more than just church ties. God knew how far their relationship dated. It was none of his business.

Samson did not fail to see Ken. It was the shock of his life. The last place he expected to find him was in church, leave alone doing what he was doing. If it’s going to church everybody goes, but getting into the sacristy it’s not anyone’s preposterous idea. Even though Samson was talking to the chairman of the church, his attention was on the man at the altar.

Even after he was long gone and at the safety of his house at Muthaiga he did not get Ken’s image away. Wherever Ken was he represented trouble, but not this time round. They were completely as apart as the heaven and the earth. They’ll never meet, Samson thought.

It was shocking when Samson told Susan of Ken’s new job. It was hard to believe that Ken was a sacristan.