Two Sundays ago, I had a difficult time going to church. I just didn’t feel like stepping out of my brown blanket and reach for shower. But a still voice said to me: “If for nothing else, try go to church and observe some quiet moment. And who knows today might be the Second Coming of the Prince.” I never like my still voice when it reminds me of duty, and not of my rights.
But I obeyed. Hot shower, black trouser and blue-stripe shirt; and I was ready for church. Breakfast had to wait. Few minutes later, I was riding my one-month old Raleigh bicycle down the hill of Market Street to St. Bartholomew church.
And a peaceful service, it turned out to be. The Rev. Father’s English was impeccable, and so was his cassock. Spotless white. His serious aspect reminded me of Mr. Omiwole (God bless his soul wherever he is now), my principal at St. Charles Grammar School, Osogbo.
Within one hour, we were through with service. No razzmatazz of latter day churches of Lagos. It was a church for the old people anyway. But I am feeling old these days; and funny enough, I am enjoying it, just like Mr. Hardcastle in She Stoops To Conquer. I live in an old house, in an old town. And my room is filled with old newspapers. God! I love to read old newspapers. They make good company in the toilet especially. And lately, I realise I am feeling pretty well at home in a church for the old folks of Grahamstown.
After the service, a kind hearted old woman, Sister Barbra, asked me to wait for tea. But I declined, for no reason. “Ok, do try and drink with us some other time.” She said in the most cheerful way that made me feel guilty of turning down the offer. “Sure, I will madam.” And I stepped outside to get my bicycle. Lo and behold, my bicycle was gone!
Welcome to Grahamstown.
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