Memories of church

We start going to a new church in Harare, and I start going to Sunday School.
“It’s good to go to church,” says Mum. She is zipping me into a pinafore dress. I hate wearing dresses. “It’s good for her,” she nods at me, “to go to church and get some idea of what’s right and what’s wrong.”
“Ja, well, I suppose it’s only an hour out of the day,” says Dad.
“Can I take a book to church?” I ask Mum.
“No.”
“Can I take a My Little Pony?”
“No.”
“Can I take ..”
“Agh, come on, man!” says Dad. “Just get in the bloody car and zip it.”
I consider snivelling, but decide against it. Dad’s face is red, which means it’s not a good idea to push him. We pile into the car with our Bibles and set off.

The church is old and its spire is not quite straight. I stare at it for a while, and when I look back down it seems like everything is slightly off-centre. There are lots of people parking their cars, walking to the church and chatting. I feel shy.
“Come on.”
Mum grabs my hand. She takes me to the church hall, where the Sunday school is. There are already lots of other kids there, all looking well-scrubbed and brushed, like me. I stand feeling stupid while Mum talks to the teacher, and then she goes away to the main church. She waggles her fingers at me and gives me a smile.
“Be good.”
I look at all the faces turned up to me.
“Sit down,” says the teacher, pointing to a spot on the carpet. I sit. The carpet smells like old people’s clothes.
The teacher sticks felt sheep onto a fuzzy board. She is telling us the parable of the Lost Sheep. We all have paper, coloured pencils and glue. When she finishes telling us the story, we can draw our own sheep to show to everyone back in the church. I want my sheep to have glitter in his wool, and after a brief argument the teacher opens the cupboard and gets out the glitter. Of course, after that everyone else wants glitter on their sheep as well, so the pot is in demand.
There is a poster of Jesus on the wall. He is wearing a white robe and has a soppy expression, and kids are climbing all over his knees. I have seen this picture before, and it means that Jesus likes kids. That is good to know. I colour my sheep in black, and scatter the glitter all around its edges. When I have finished, it is sparkling. I have drawn its eye at a funny angle, so it has a knowing expression.
“That’s a good sheep,” says the teacher. “Why did you make it black?”
“Because Jesus loves black sheep and white sheep equally,” I say. That is not really why. No one else was using the black crayon, so I didn’t have to fight for it. I know the teacher will like this answer, though.
“That is marvelous,” she says. She holds it up to show the others. “Would you tell everyone that in the church?”
“Okay.” I am regretting this now.
We troop into the church. All the adults look at us with aren’t-they-cute expressions. The old ladies make kissing faces. When we are standing right in the front, where the singers stood earlier, the teacher lowers the microphone down to my face and asks me to tell the congregation why I drew a black sheep. I tell them what I told her earlier, and everyone claps and smiles big white toothy smiles, and I go to join Mum and Dad in their pew. When I look behind us from our pew, which I am not meant to do, I can see all sorts of faces looking forwards. The church is an old stone one with big stained-glass windows. The sun shines through the windows and throws coloured patterns onto the floor and the people in the pews. If I move my hand a little to the left I can turn it green.

We sing a few hymns which I have heard before. I find it difficult to sing the hymns, because the words are strange and old and fit into the tunes in odd ways. Heaven becomes heav’n. Every becomes ev’ry. There are words like doth and whilst. The tunes are always too low or too high. An old woman sitting behind us sings in a thin, wobbly voice that is painful on the high notes. I start to giggle.
“Shhhh.” Mum is fierce. I try to hold the giggles in. If only the old lady would stop singing.

A group of people get up from the congregation and go to the front of the church. They stand in front of microphones, and a couple of them sling guitars across their chests. Someone sits down at a drum kit. There are a few strokes on the drum, the guitars start strumming and words are projected onto a big screen. Then the people at the front start singing, and after a moment the rest of us join in.
Jabulani, jabulani, Africa!
Sing for joy, oh Africa!
Perfect, throbbing harmonies that swell and carry the rest of the voices – the ones that are out of tune, the quavery old-lady voices, and the squeaky ones like mine. Every Jabulani echoes off the walls and back. I can feel my heart beating quickly in my throat, and I try to raise my voice up and up, above the roof, up to the sky where God must be looking down at all of us. I have never heard anything like this before.
When that song is finished, we start another.
Tinofamba kudzira dzashe!
Tinofamba kudzira dzashe!
We are marching in the light of God!
We are marching in the light of God!
I sing loudly and enthusiastically. Lots of people have started to clap. Some of them have started to raise up both their hands as if they are carrying invisible trays. Some of them have their eyes closed.
Someone in the congregation starts to ululate. It is a thrilling noise, like a war cry and a shout for joy and a song all at once. When she has finished, others start. I did not know that being a Christian could be this much fun.

After the singing, it is time to Offer One Another The Sign of Peace. This is where people have to clasp hands and say “Peace be with you.” In our old church Mum and Dad would shake hands with the people directly to the left and right of them, and that would be it. I wouldn’t have to do anything at all. But this church is different. People actually get up from their seats and start walking up and down the aisles shaking hands and talking to people. Some of them even hug. Dad has started pretending to adjust his watch. I know he is pretending because he has his watch set to perfect time and he won’t let anyone touch it, ever, in case it changes the time by a second or two.

I have never been so enthusiastic about God before. If we can dance and sing like this every week, I will not mind coming to church.