‘Eh…this guide…don’t you think we should be studying the Bible using the Bible itself not a study guide?’ Mama Sally interrupted him. This observation got a few nods, a few grunts of approval and even an “amen”. ‘I mean, why are we using another book to study the word of God? What if the person who wrote it is wrong in his interpretations?’ More people were swayed by her thinking.
‘Eh…’ Mr. Karanja had not anticipated a challenge to his plan.
‘I think we should vote on the matter,’ Mama Sally continued.
‘Wait! Wait just a minute.’ Mr. Mathai got up to intervene. ‘Mr. Karanja, I mean, Pastor Mister Karanja here is the ordained pastor. If he has read the book and thinks it is in line with the word of God, then we should do as he says.’ Mr. Mathai knew only too well that a vote would end in acrimony and to think this could be the end of such wonderful get-together with his neighbours. He wouldn’t have it.
‘Eh…’ Mr. Karanja resented Mr. Mathai’s interjection even more than he did Mama Sally’s challenge. He’d also not found the words to defend his decision yet––
‘Yes, we have been going through the Bible using this study book with our church Bible Study and we can personally attest to the fact that it is in line with God’s word,’ Mrs. Karanja said standing up as well to assure her neighbours.
Mr. Mathai and Mrs. Karanja had a pull on their neighbours who preferred to side with them over Mama Sally. They were the popular kids of this particular high school. The matter was dropped and Mr. Karanja was given over a subdued crowd which stayed that way until Mr. Mathai interrupted to say ‘––but the words in this book are very small.’
‘In which book? The Bible or the study guide?’ someone enquired only too willing to welcome the interruption.
‘The study guide. Mama Kanono can you see this?’ Mr. Mathai held the study guide to his wife’s face. She tried to pull away, embarrassed by the spotlight. It was one thing that Mr. Mathai adored it but why did he have to keep dragging her into it as well?
‘It’s not that small,’ she said when she realized everyone was looking at her, waiting for her response.
‘No, I think Mr. Mathai has a point. The words in this book are too small. It will strain my eyes,’ Someone else agreed with him.
‘It’s not too small. You people are just growing old,’ another voice piped up.
The Bible Study devolved into a conference on eye-sight, who was short-sighted, who was long-sighted, whose family had a history of glaucoma; the fact that diabetes could lead to blindness; the offensive intimation that disability was a punishment from God; God’s different forms of retribution; the ultimate retribution––the coming of Christ, which a few people had it on good authority was happening at the turn of the century, a mere nine years away.
‘We don’t believe in hell.’ The room grew still. Mrs. Shah who lived in one of the three homes owned by the extended Shah family, had come along to meet her neighbours. Now, a multi-denominational Bible Study was a challenge on its own. There were the spoken and unspoken biases: Protestants who thought the Catholics were a sneeze away from Atheism, Baptists who thought Protestants to be too liberal and therefore unlikely to be among the chosen few, Seventh Day Adventists who thought––
––And this did not even include the tribal tensions. Yes, the gathering, though friendly enough, was wrought with social, religious, ethnic and cultural tensions but all of these divisions disappeared in the face of Mrs. Shah’s statement.
‘But your gods are idols. Ours is the one and true living God,’ Mama Sally declared. The room held its breath at the harshness of Mama Sally’s words.
‘Um…I think…I think what Mama Sally is trying to say here––’ Mrs. Karanja came forward in an effort to rescue the situation, ‘––is that we believe that there is only one God.’
‘Oh? Which one? The Catholic one?’ Mrs. Shah asked amiably. She spent every day with the same people in the same three houses. Right now, she was just so pleased to be communing with anyone other than her family for a change, she hadn't noticed the uproar her question (born of genuine interest), raised. ‘I think he sounds nice,’ she added in appeasement when she realised the comment had not gone down so well.
‘There’s no Catholic God, Mrs. Shah,’ Mrs. Karanja tried again.
‘It’s Mary isn’t it? Sorry, I keep forgetting,’ Mrs. Shah’s apology was sincere as it was off-putting to a certain subset of her neighbours. The Protestants suppressed a chuckle as the Catholics bristled.
‘This is why the Bible Study is good. You’ll get to learn more about God. For a start no one worships Mary––’
‘But we pray through her––’ Mama Sally said, interrupting Mrs. Karanja.
‘Okay…okay…Catholics pray through Mary, but you can, and you should pray directly to God, through Jesus.’
Mrs. Shah cocked her head to the side, confused. ‘So it’s faster to get to God through Jesus than Mary? But wasn’t she his mother?’
‘She was, but Mary is not a deity.’
‘But she is holy, Mrs. Karanja,’ Someone else added.
‘She is the mother of God but she––you––okay––I think we are going into the details here which will get us a bit confused.’ Mrs. Karanja saw no other way to save the situation other than to avoid it. ‘Let’s get back to the study, shall we?’ she expertly steered the conversation into safer waters and handed the floor back to a sullen Mr. Karanja.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nyambura and the Aunties, August 4th, 2012
‘Kanono, Kanono! Come here.’ Nyambura had just stepped back into the hall when she heard her aunt (one of the four Mathai sisters), calling her name. There was so much noise in the background, she wasn’t sure what direction the call had come from, not that she was interested in meeting her aunties. In fact, she’d purposely avoided them from the moment she spied them walking into the celebration. Nyambura turned to walk back out, pretending she hadn’t heard her name, but before she could take a step she felt a cold clammy grasp secure itself onto her left forearm.
Nyambura had known the wedding, really just coming back home, would be challenging for her. Growing up with a nickname like Kanono was traumatic. At first, when her therapist had offered her the word traumatic to describe the experience, Nyambura had struggled to buy into it.
‘You’ve not gone back home in nine years,’ her therapist pointed out.
‘Yes but that’s because I’ve been busy,’ Nyambura countered.
‘You don’t need to accept that the experience was traumatic if you are not ready to.’
‘It’s not that I’m not ready, it’s just that I don’t think it was that bad. It could have been worse, worse things have happened to people in their childhood.’
‘Would you say it impacted the way you view yourself? Your identity? Being called the fat one every day?’ Nyambura kept quiet. ‘Nyambura?’
‘Look, it wasn’t ideal but…’
…
‘...I wish, sometimes I wish my mum or dad would have just told them to stop.’
‘They also called you that?’
‘In Swahili it doesn’t sound as bad as it does in English…but yes they did. Everyone did.’
‘Your mother’s wedding