the Gospel According to Binti Kelci

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Church Etiquette (or the Gospel account according to Binti Kelci)



We were invited to the Christening of the baby of Naomi, the financial treasurer of CHES Tanzania at the Lutheran Church. It was to start at 7:30 AM and we were advised to arrive at 7 AM. It was to last an hour. The choir had arrived as had a few members of the congregation. The music was wonderful and mum reassured me I would not have to dance although swaying and clapping of hands to the music was appropriate. We were unsure of where to sit and decided on the second row of the middle group of benches on the far left. This was opposite the choir, near the baptismal font, and away from the altar. As more and more people piled into the church we became increasingly uncomfortable as no one was sitting near us. We began to notice all of the men were in one area. Mum decided they were segregated from the women to ensure there was no lusting during prayer; however, the women continued to avoid us as well.

Mum was getting anxious and frequently commenting at our bad choice of seats, when soon a young girl around 6 sat behind us. Then our friend Vivian arrived and kindly came to sit with us. Most of the other benches had filled up. Within a few moments a group of children with disabilities moved us out of the way. An answer at last! People weren’t avoiding the wazungus, our seats were for The Children with Disabilities choir!

By this time, mum had me in hysterics trying to figure out the antics of the Tanzanian people. I was grateful for her to move benches as I did not want to laugh during the sermon. I was also grateful to be surrounded by children glancing at us Wazungus so my smiling and laughing would not appear offensive. Mum however kept sneaking glances knowing it would put me into a fit of hysterics as she kept a straight face. (This is not true) She was across the aisle from me, coveting after the Barabaig shawls with their many buttons and colours and commenting on the beauty of the women. The men wore brilliant greens and golds and many of the women had lovely corn rows. Mum hid her wild locks under her demure headscarf, matching her orange pyjama dress. I had borrowed a one size fits all kanga that continuously slipped from my waist. My tattoos were vividly displayed on my shorter sleeves and I noticed women surreptitiously glancing at them. I wondered if they thought they were witches markings.

The sermon soon began with a charismatic motivational speaker. At some point we understood “Wageni wa karibsihwa kanisa yetu” Welcome the visitors to our Church. By now I was close to mum again and we decided not to stand up and say Asante Sana in front of the congregation of about 500. The “Pasta” (pastor), who mum had met previously, kept checking on her to make sure she was laughing at appropriate times. I had my hysterics under control and would either laugh into my arm, pretending I was coughing, or, at other times I would laugh so hard I cried and thus was able to pretend I was praying and/or repenting my sins.







There was the main “Pasta” and an assistant pasta, an assistant assistant pasta and an assistant assistant assistant pasta all dressed in long white robes with green crosses embroidered on the back. There was also the very charismatic leader, dressed in yellow who danced, sang and blew a whistle. He was not doing the dance of the Watusi bird, but certainly reminded us of the territorial dance of pre-homo erectus. At times he also appeared to be speaking in English. Mum was translating his motivational behaviour and figured the sermon was on not putting more than one shot of Konyagi in your soda. We could certainly make up what we thought was being said, remembering that a lot of communication is in body language. However, my anger at hearing “homosexuals mbaya” at least stopped me from my continued giggles. This brought on side discussions with Mum of the killing of old women with red eyes, albinos, and openly gay folk who we had already known as killing targets in certain regions of Tanzania..

After an hour and no sign of the Christening, mum started to nod off. She was not happy when we had to get up and clap and read the Bible especially as I scolded her for not following the readings of the epistle of St Paul, that misogynist saint. She started checking the time constantly and would loudly sigh “Oh God” thus folk either thought she was praying, or having an orgasm,(brat child comment) rather than being impatient.

At some point we noticed women swaying and waving their arms. Mum was tempted to wave back believing she was being greeted then noticed people starting to chatter. They got louder and louder and louder and were speaking in tongues. Fortunately one of the young boys from the choir kept looking at me and giggling, again giving me the opportunity to process glossolalia.

After about 1.5 hours, money started being collected. It was done in many different formats. People would line up and drop it into a big Singida style basket or they would sign pledges. Alas we thought the Christening would occur, but then two baskets were brought to centre stage. People then lined up with envelopes, some dropping one in one basket, some in both. Bags of maize, bunches of bananas, baskets of papaya and other goodies were brought to the front altar. Then people came up again in rows, many mastering the art of putting their hands in but not actually dropping in money. We figured this was to take any shame away from those living in upmost poverty, but the pledges list off the names of people and the amount donated. And then other speakers got up and read these out. This process continued for over an hour between speeches and giving money to the Church, not once, not twice, but at least three or four or more times for some people.

And finally it was the Christening. We had been to Pentecostal baptisms before where the children were dunked into a vat of water. The Lutherans are more progressive and simply scattered the water on the babies’ heads. We were the photo takers and encouraged to get up close and personal. Mum was still sighing and getting rather excited that the service was almost over. But no. All of us CHES folk were called up to the front of the Church and acknowledged for something we didn’t understand. Mum was now devising a way to escape but our students surrounded us.

And then more charismatic speaking in tongues and swaying. Finally we were herded out of the church like cattle. We were set in groups outside as the Childrens Choir sang while the rest of the congregation joined the herd.

Once gathered and settled, the Auction committee brought the bags, which had been left at the altar, out of the church. And the auction began. This was not a silent auction. Going once, going twice, SOLD. Bananas, papayas, maize, beans and clothing all auctioned off to the highest bidder, for the good of the Church. I have never experienced such a process. Three and a half hours later, at 10:30, we were able to leave or so we thought. There were greeting from past neighbours we had to pretend to remember, wasallamias to mamas and students etc. At least we had previously mastered the art of not drinking coffee or water before meandering into town as there was not a choo in sight. Mum almost opted for a bodaboda ride to get home to a bathroom but decided not to after thinking of all the holes and bumps in the road. We have decided not to go to another church service while in Tanzania. However, we may return next Sunday as the prices at the auction were much better than the market!!!!!

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