Angry Wind: Through Muslim Black Africa by Truck, Bus, Boat, and Camel by Jeffrey Tayler

Author:Jeffrey Tayler [Tayler, Jeffrey]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Africa, Cultural, Islam, Non-Fiction, Religion, Travel, Travelogue, War & Military
ISBN: 9780618334674
Google: jcd4u5Knn-8C
Amazon: B00DFM6OVO
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 2005-10-14T23:00:00+00:00

The next day was Sunday. Ezekiel invited me to have lunch at his home—after we attended his church, the Victorious Jesus Christ Disciples Gospel Church, out in the neighborhood of London where he lived. London turned out to be a reeking, collapsing quarter of shacks and sewers, ashen roads and refuse heaps, and bony cattle and goats. Despite the filth, the church was in good repair. It was a one-story cement building with many windows that let in the light and breeze, and with, on the back wall, a painting showing a (white) Jesus descending from heaven accompanied by (white) angels. Next to the painting were the words 2003—MY YEAR OF ACHIEVEMENT! A dozen or so comely young women, whose broad cheeks and straight noses indicated descent from one of Nigeria’s northern peoples, stood prim in black dresses, their hair under black scarves, in front of what looked like a set of 1950s high school drums.

The church echoed with excited chatter and was almost full, and we were lucky to find seats. People quieted down when a man approached the podium wearing a red tie and blue oxford shirt and chinos; he resembled attendees at the fellowship meetings I had frequented in Virginia. Wide spaces separated all his front teeth.

He wasted no time. “Praise the Lord!”

“Hallelujah!”

“What year is this?”

“2003! 2003!”

“Hallelujah!”

“Amen!”

“Praise the Lord!”

“Now, people, listen here! The year 2003 is your year of achievement, when you achieve your goals and all your dreams! Now, you people here, you talk too much to do this. Just as the boss calls the employee to account for his expenses, so Jesus will call you to account for your words. You blather all morning and all day, the more you blather, the more you lie. Be quiet, people! Take account of your words! To come to God, and to achieve your dreams, you must come broken and contrite. If you do this, you will excel, because God wants you to excel! God made you to walk in high places!”

“Hallelujah!”

“Amen!”

“Praise the Lord!”

At that the congregation stood up, and a young man in a blue blazer went up and sat down behind the drums. He brandished drumsticks and began banging away. The choir broke into a hymn—a staid hymn, I thought, not nearly as passionate as Gospel music in the States—sung in Hausa-accented English. Ezekiel urged me to sing along, but I didn’t know the words.

Soon the pastor left the stage. Another pastor replaced him, and he had a comic look: he was dressed in a black suit, and his pinched and sweaty face was set beneath a Don King—like afro.

“Okay, people. A woman go to market and want to buy a dress. The dressmaker take out a dress and hand it to her. ‘Is it costly?’ she ask. ‘Five thousand, Madame!’ She look angry. ‘Oh, give me jabu [an inexpensive fake]! I no got money for the reee-al thing.’ Okay, she is wrong, that lady. God want you to have the reee-al article! The oreegeenal! But you must pay high price.

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