At the turn into Maasai Lodge, an authoritative voice that used a microphone thanked whoever it was for attending Friday’s fellowship, a fellowship of people who shared a similar belief and lived for the same cause. They were through with a meeting with, and in honour of an imaginary, condescending friend of theirs that lives high up in the clouds, or rather the sky, that they would never hear say anything back to them or see in person but loved like they had met, seen and knew him, and feared for his mysterious capabilities.
A few strides from their church, they caught sight of a man who, without effort, drew their attention towards himself. He was, previously, like them; dressed in a suit, and tie, dress shoes. A gentleman. A good man – loving, caring, charming – and made in God’s own image.
He lay dead – apparently – by the roadside. Oblivious to the deafening sound of vehicles speeding by, to the cascading laughter of the children playing nearby, to the onlookers mocking him because of what he had transformed into.
The God in him had given up on him when he placed a dose of the lethal poison that is the unrefined alcoholic beverage: kumi kumi, which he was holding in his hand.
The God in him had, with him, died.
Ongata Rongai, Kajiado.
Friday, April 4, 2014.