My Mother’s Feet

would walk in carrying censers, followed by a priest who would swing the censers to release a powerful frankincense scent. If we were sitting in a middle row, I would ask my mother to lift me and, with my nostrils up in the air, I would inhale deeply before sitting down. The priest would greet the congregation and proceed to conduct half the liturgy in Latin. The service never failed to put me to sleep. I would get poked in the ribs when it was o ertory time. I would walk from the church refreshed, looking forward to the next Sunday.

The Protestant church required alertness, call and response songs, and the whole morning worship was in our language. The members, especially women, were often filled with the spirit, so at any one moment they would stand and break into a hymn or vibrant praise song. Everyone was required to stand and dance, followed by testimonies that tickled me: folks who had fornicated and were repenting (I asked my mother what that meant and she silenced me with a look). Even in my language, fornication— okushambana—was a long word I was not familiar with. Some were envious of their neighbors’ fortunes, others had backslid and were therefore not praying as they ought to… so many sins. It was fun! At some point, I was so moved that I stood up without knowing and shouted, “Praise the Lord!” That’s how I gave my life to Christ and started fellowshipping with the old women. They were outrageous, which is why I loved them. We would meet every Wednesday evening at church. I was the youngest member. I was the only young person, and these women were in their fifties, sixties, and seventies. Since I had no experience to speak of, or grievous sins, they did not mind confessing theirs in my presence. I learnt to put on a serious face so they would not send me back home before fellowship was over. Resisting laughter became my sin. Even when I was welcomed into their circle, I was aware of being outside it by virtue of my age. My gosh, these women were full of life: lustful, scheming to manipulate their husbands and describing everything in detail—full story—unedited versions.

Again, my world became larger than it had been. I would arrive home, satiated with other people’s stories, and my mother would ask me what I had learnt. I’d memorized the Ten Commandments, so I would recite them, and she would be very pleased. She made sure that I didn’t miss a single fellowship. I was fine with that.

These women were truthful—they genuinely loved God like my family did. And they loved the soft animals of their craving bodies like I do nowadays. In my understanding, they were complete—none of them broken—and they still sought to be touched by the compassion of a savior whose body was broken on the cross to atone for humankind. They were simple village women with a lot of wisdom to go around. They knew how to give to Caesar what belonged to him, when to seek Hanna’s blessings or Bitonza’s, and be in church every Sunday to learn about other blessed mysteries. We all walked between the lines without doubting or ever forgetting that we were Beloveds of God, Gods, ancestors, and other humans.

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