#milk'emdry

Nostalgia drove me back to the village church I last attended 13 years ago. The longing was borne from a sudden flash of memory- a Sunday morning and I am carrying my young son on my hip while the other toddled beside me, to church.

My grandfather donated the bricks for the building over 40 years ago, and it was a place that gave me some sense of peace and sanity from the troubles of life.

Sometimes I carried a small kiti moto because there were only three benches and a dusty papyrus mat, occupied by hyperactive children at the back.
I remembered how I woke up early to sweep the floor and stared out of the pane-less windows asking God to look down on me with favor.

Last Sunday, I made up my mind to relive the experience, only that this time there would be no baby on my hip and I would not be carrying a kiti moto.

Unfortunately, I reached nearly 15 minutes late, parking in the shade next to a Prado (13 years ago, cars outside this building were a myth!) opposite the entrance of the building.
I hoped I could slip in and find somewhere to sit at the back when the congregation finished the hymn.
The back bench was full but there was an empty seat somewhere in the middle.
The papyrus mat was still tucked in its corner, filled with little children who cared nothing about adult things.

“Nnyabo, jjangu o'tuule wano!” The Mubuulizi cut short her announcement for the first reading.
Eh, was she suggesting I sit at the front?

I cringed, because from memory, that front place was usually reserved for big big people and for me I was here for the experience.
It was for those people who only surfaced at Christmas and pulled out purple, red and orange-brownish notes.
“Vvaawo mwana gwe!” She shooed a teenage boy off the bench.  
Bannange, what was with this woman?
Her face transformed into a smile, “Tusanyuse okukulaba nnyabo!”
I mumbled a quick, “Kale nnyabo,” as I squeezed in, embarrassed by this uncalled-for importance I was being accorded.
“Abagenyi baffe abakulu tubaaniriza nnyo!” She was happy to see important guests.
This was turning out to be a really hard paper.

Two readings, a lengthy sermon and about 17 hymns later, the baskets came out.
Collection time.
The two-base-three- soprano choir led the song and money began to pour into the baskets.
When that ended, we sang another hymn.
Another basket came out. The Mubuulizi announced that it was collection for the choir. We moved forward again. Another hymn.

The vestry needed refurbishment and that required money.
Of the 700,000 shillings that is needed, only 30,000 had been collected.
Someone had pledged two bags of cement.
More cash and pledges please.
Another basket.
Hymn.

We would have to fund-raise for the Mothers Union as it was their day to celebrate.
The lady stood at the front, basket in hand, waiting, waiting.
Three women came forward, also dressed in the white busuuti and the blue sash.
They dropped something into her basket.
Hymn please.

The youth choir had qualified for the championships, which were three weeks away.
They needed 800,000 shillings for the two days they’d be there.
One person approached the basket.
The youths said they had some packets of fruit on sale outside.
Each pack was for 5,000 shillings.
Song.

The discussion on the church’s seed project was brief.
There must be money to be enable the planting of the forest to earn it some revenue.
Luckily the church has a huge chunk of land, still untouched by the land dealers.
Choir please?

The Mubuulizi took her seat and the Church Chair took over.
With the niceties aside, he jumped right in.

“Now, bassebo n’e bannyabo, our Mubuulizi you see here, has not been paid her salary for the last seven months. You all know how she lives- hand to mouth. We need to help her. That money is supposed to come from you. Shake out your pockets, reach deep into your bags for those notes and coins you had forgotten about. Let us all contribute kindly towards this cause. The church owes her 210,000 shillings. I will be passing a basket round."

The basket started on our line. I pulled out 5,000 shillings.
“Abalungi mu Yesu, muddize eri Mukama! Mukama mulungi!”
There was exactly 5,500 shillings in the basket when it returned to the chair.
Hymn number 26.

Someone had brought a tray of eggs to be auctioned.
“Abalungi, the church needs money, we need to make our contribution to the diocese. The auction for the tray of eggs starts at 50,000 shillings. 50,000 shillings! Anyone? Who is adding, who is adding?

He came towards us, handing the basket to my neighbor, the owner of the Prado.
It was my cue to leave.
Hopes of reliving any memories had been dashed.