Ebola and Yesu brodo
Africans love their communal way of living. We love to share, and so we share everything we find shareable, from bentua to fufu pestles, matches to salt, coal pots to saucepans … we share everything. Why was I not surprised to learn that in some cultures for instance, wife swapping was an acceptable norm?
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Oh yes, this culture has been practiced for generations among Namibia’s nomadic tribes for instance. I am told the wives in this case have very little say as to whether or not they want to be a part of the “deal”. The whole idea is to promote friendship and prevent promiscuity.
It has also been recorded that temporary spouse-trading is practiced as an element of ritual initiation into the Lemba secret society in the French Congo through wife exchange: you shall lay with the priestess-wife of your Lemba Father, and he shall lay with your wife too. We are a very liberal kind of loving people, Africans.
Our communal living is noticed even in our quest for spiritual connection with our maker. In our places of worship, we either hug or shake hands, or hug and shake hands, as a sign of greeting, love and fellowship. In some cases, depending on which denomination or wing of belief one clings to, a holy kiss is offered – keen portrayal of togetherness. But with this dangerous disease called Ebola, are some of our churches not missing something?
I was invited to fellowship with a church near Kaneshie on Sunday. It was a fundraising Sunday, and a colleague at work had extended a hand of fellowship to me. When I entered the main door of the 200-seater minster, an usher, around whose right elbow hanged a few head scarves, quickly walked towards me from within.
She, smiling, handed over to me a copy of the day’s programme and a silky scarf. “Madam, please you may use that to cover your hair. These are holy grounds. You have to return it to that table over there, after service”.
“This? This scarf? A holy ground? For my hair?” I asked, feeling both confused and surprised. Why would anyone want me to cover my hair? In the first place, it wasn’t my hair she was seeing. I was wearing a wig cap. So I saw no reason to cover that artificial hair. “No thank you”, I said to her, and handed back her scarf of Ghanaian colours.
I was really upset and actually sent my friend a text to let her know I wasn’t enthused about the near embarrassment at the entrance. She, knowing me very well, responded, begging me not to leave and that she would soon be there to sit near me. I was to reserve the closest available seat for her. I got her the seat on my immediate right. I had taken my seat next to a middle-aged woman and her active toddler.
The time of worship and praise was great! Expressive handkerchief-waving parishioners thronged the front in a circle, hands lifted, waists, upper torsos and limbs gyrating in adulation. The sermon on “how to cope in times of economic recession” was very poignant.
It was my first time of learning that a severe famine which overtook Samaria in 2 Kings 6:26-30 caused two mothers, driven to despair by the terrible scarcity of food, to enter into a pact to eat their sons. Truly truly, the two mothers ate one of the boys, but the next day the mother whose son was still alive hid him and refused to deliver him up for human consumption. Hmm! I enjoyed the sermon.
Then it came to the time for the feast of the Holy Communion. I was expecting to see what was done in my church: an already packaged wine and wafer, sealed in tiny disposable packages and served to each individual. But that wasn’t the case.
The priest asked us to be on our feet. Next, he announced courteously that if there was anyone there wearing lipstick, it should be wiped off immediately. Then he offered prayers to bless bread and wine which I hadn’t as yet sighted, and called forward all the Elders. Twelve in number, these Elders walked towards a large table which stood at the front right corner of the room.
Four of them stood at each corner of the table, and in one motion, lifted the table cloth which covered what turned out to be jars of wine and sweet smelling Barnes bread. Each loaf was in the usual transparent thin plastic bag we all know. Every one of the twelve, with a jar in one hand, and a loaf in the other, started to serve their designated rows. The Elders seemed to know where to start serving.
Each jar could serve approximately 20 people. Everyone had the chance to break the size of bread which they thought was suitable. I was shocked! How? In this day and age when all sorts of communicable diseases were threatening the lives of many, was this to be allowed? I felt so disgusted watching various hands unconsciously stamp germs on to the plastic bags in which the bread lay and thereafter, transferring the germs onto the inlaid bread.
The jar of wine was first to arrive at our row. I began to imagine the concealed prints of shapes of lips that had gone around the entire circumference of the jar’s mouth.
The woman beside whom I sat, took a deep sip in a holy fashion, poured a bit of the drink into her baby’s water bottle, and passed it on to me. “Let this cup pass over me”, I soliloquised, as I took hold of the handle of the one litre jar to pass it on to my friend.
Feeling very solemn, and in solidarity, she placed her outer lip on the edge of the jar, took a sip, passed it on, and then wiped under her lip – that side which had touched the jar. Aagh!
When the bread got to our row, the woman next to me broke quite a sizeable bit, placed it on her lap, and broke another for her son. As she handed it over to him I heard her say, “Akwesi gye. ɛyɛ Yesu brodo”. Hmm.