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My-Once Molly (Sunday Preaching),

 





































Hi Molly. Hope you are good. So, hurting from your Sunday kind of lovin’, I went to church. You remember how Sunday afternoons were special? Me and you finding exciting places to see, savouring fresh tastes that were newly discovered culinary delights… walking down the aisle that was the jacaranda leaves in autumn as the sun danced on your cheeks and lips…

So, my body was in church, but my spirit was elsewhere… Sunday afternoons as your loose blouse conspired with the whispering wind as we hiked the Ngong Hills, the teasing peek of ebony skin underneath… I know, I know. I shouldn’t be thinking these things in the holy precincts of church.

Anyway, it’s like the preacher hear my unholy thoughts. His sermonin’, the book of Samuel… How the Lord called Samuel three times, with him waking up Eli. At last, Eli asked him to answer. This preacher, lovely stories, he tells. Asks us married folks if we planned them babies or they just happened.

Samuel and his parents, he tells. They had trouble getting a child and people were talking, as they always do when married folks aren’t getting kids. So, they pray – maybe fast – if they were coloured like us. Anyway, they get a baby boy, straightly ship him to the House of the Lord. That’s where he get his callin’.

The preacher, he asks, what brings us to church? He is new – visiting. Says, the choir is all lovely, the drumming lending a soulful taste to the proceedings. Is this what brings some of us to church? To enjoy a moment of livery in our otherwise humdrum lifin’? He would come to our church for this.

Them married folks, he asks, do they come to church to forgot their quarrels? He then tells this story. That he had a dog, Tommy, his name. So, there he is on his farm, Tommy for company. Tommy, charming dog he is, he has all the neighbours’ dogs around for a good play.

Tommy, he sees a rabbit far-away and gives chase. Simba, Tiger, Jack… Tommy’s friends, they are soon chasing after him, though they can’t see the rabbit. Up and down, Tommy chases for a lovely snack… soon after, the others tire and give up on the hilly section. Is this how we live our lives? Without purpose? Without a calling?

Anyway, Molly, I felt personally attacked and didn’t give offering this Sunday. Petty of me, I know, but love does make a man do petty things. Anyway, after church service, I went back to the house, my heart pained by your absence and I did a piece. Hope you’ll get to hear it someday.

Again, I still have my book launches to do in February. The news is bleak… out of a total of Kshs 100,000 for the two launches: ‘A Funeral Dress for Nyasuguta’ and ‘Love Told, Poetry Souled, Family Bold.’ I’ve raised a wonderful Kshs 300 in total through my ‘#20BobSanaa.’ Maybe, I should pray very hard like Samuel’s parents for a miracle… The miracle can happen by you donating here:

Buy Goods Till Number: 9080911, Gatere Mwangi
Send Money: 0708 276 622, Mark Gatere

My Once-Molly, I miss you… that’s my signing out. Hope the piece below will convey what the preacher said, love, dreams, and all:

Your beat? Your dance?

The orchestra picks up, the beat strong
On the dance floor waltzing, you belong
Gaiety all around, you spin and tap along
Steps, chimes, flirting and  swirling to the gong.

But, is this beat  of your choosing?
Are the steps – quick - your making?
Are you dancing the life of another
This trip embarked, are you lost a sojourner?

Do you hear the music or yours is mime
Do you hear the echo or yours is hollow
Do you lead or you’ve been seconded to follow
When it ends, do you say – that song was mine?

 

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