Contrary to popular belief, it’s gotten to the point where writing again about Mombasa, can feel a bit like piling on. But hear me out.
So I am in Mombasa but I might as well be in Kisumu. I am looking for those voodoo things I see on TV but wapi. Everyone is kind. Okay give it up Wa-bara. Where are the drugs?
And the mosquitoes here are like those short Nairobi girls: quick, tiny and lethal. It’s like they collect blood for the holy sacrifice.
Here’s the thing about Mombasa. It is hot. Hot. Even now as I am typing this, the temperatures just rose a degree. But of course you already knew that. Coast can cost you (I know you saw what I did there?).
What you don’t know is that I woke up, naked—because I sleep like how God intended man to—drenched in water. Only to realise it is my very sweat. Because my reflex reaction is panic, I run to the kitchen and drink water straight from the tap. I scream. It is salty. Now if you paid attention to your CRE teacher you’ll realise salt is hygroscopic that means it takes moisture from the air which means even the remaining water in my tissues were drained. Why do you think Lot’s wife turned into a pillar of salt? Think about it. Think.About.It.
To appease my spirits, we strut for a walk to the beach. I see a pastor pastoring on the waters. Ala! In salty water? Who approved this man’s budget?
For an hour straight, he prayed in his deep voice, until he spent the grace he had accumulated over a lifetime in the insistence of his appeal. I pity his outfit.
But how do you choose a baptism outfit? You don’t need to be a style chameleon to know that there is no right outfit for a baptism.
You might think.
You think well. Here’s a pro-tip. Don’t wear black to a baptism. Too dense, too evening; too Reservoir Dogs.
I think the reason I am not baptised is because I am a pussy. A cat. Water and I don’t mix. If Moses wanted to part the waters ati I pass through, I’d still be singing Alleluia for Pharaoh in Egypt.
Baptists believe in water. Those broads do not mess around with a few sprinkles. They put you under the bubble. They want you to feel just a moment of panic, so that you can appreciate the resurrection. They are doing the Lord’s work. Literally and metaphorically. I remember this one time I saw some guy get baptised in a small pool. The pastor, obviously a rookie, “clunked” the poor hombre’s head into the wall. I laughed. Later, I asked him how he felt (the baptisee, not the pastor, you nincompoop). He said he felt like he’d finally gotten some sense knocked into him. Alas, the Lord works in mysterious ways.
I gaze at the sea, expecting to see it turn scarlet as their sins are washed away. Nothing. They are smiling. Maybe laughter should accompany baptism, because God’s love is a gift of joy.
I fixate my eye on the heavens waiting for the spirit of God to descend like a dove. Wapi.
It seems like the wait for the Messiah goes on.