Some folk are convinced that I would do well with being a habitual church-goer, be “born again” or even marry a pastor and be Mma moruti. Ha, Imagine! Not one to argue with folk who claim to know me better than I know myself I always accept invitations. One of the few reasons I go to church is that I enjoy singing. Although a shower singer, I’m not shy to belt out in tune and tackle a hymn. So I took up yet another invitation and on a Sunday morning when I would normally be reading newspapers or jamming to my Stimela collection in between the infamous ‘I quit drinking’ pep talk while I nurse a horrible hangover, I joined the holy masses in praising the Lord. It was packed.
After the touching sermon which echoed the importance of involving God in your life, the music started to boom as praise singing began. As if on cue the congregants and choir members began to sing in unison, hands raised and the loud voices shrilling across the hall. After the first two songs, the music became more upbeat and lured on by the pastor who jumped and shook; the congregants went wild with excitement and began to dance harder. At the age I am at, I can’t dance to save my life. I used to be an excellent dancer and was known to be a party starter with my acrobatic moves but that was a few years ago before I lost gravity and everything started going south.
