In Nairobi, when a man stands up in the aisle of the bus you're on, asks for your attention and declares that his fellow passengers have nothing to fear as he is not about to preach or hawk goods, you can guarantee that he is about to both preach and hawk.
Justin, who professes to be a convict turned medical student, does not disappoint. Today was the second time I've suffered him on the 24 bus – the one that goes to Karen, the richest of the rich white settler suburbs of Nairobi. His story is an impressive one; drug addict sentenced to seven years in prison, finds the Lord, gets and education and an unexplained 3-year cut in his jail sentence; I refrain from shouting 'grass' at him, as I doubt it would amuse my fellow passengers as much it would me. He ends his presentation with a plug for his now published story, which is available in (some) bookshops with all proceeds funding the studies which will complete his full life turnaround. He does, however, want to leave us with something we can take away and remember him by. He produces a slim but 's inspiring' volume entitled 'your letter from prison'. Again, one has learned to wait for the catch, and sure enough he only wants to inspire and deliver a message from God to those of us who will part with 100 Kenyan Shillings. Some passengers buy it, but not enough for Justin. He decides to escalate his sales pitch with a classic Kenyan merging of God with anything you personally want to happen. God has blessed us, we are told, by giving us this opportunity to support him. We don't even have to buy the book – we can do God's will simply by giving him money.
He moves towards the back of the bus to tout for more contributions to his studies, and delivers his knockout blow, implying not taking that this opportunity to support him is not something you'd want to be raised when stood before the gates of heaven asking for entry. It seems to work, as many fellow passengers are moved to contribute notes as well as coins.
Justin's story is a good one, and for all I know it could be true. Life is very tough for students here, and many have to look to innovative ways of raising their own funds. But in Kenya, God is brought into everything, so some of the world's poorest people are answering calls to do God's will by giving generously to their church, to people like Justin, to the many people who carry well-worn sponsorship forms for their school fees, uniforms or their own faith-based charity. Some of my colleagues informed me that as a foreigner I could make a lot of money if I started a church in Kibera, and that even in the slums the congregation is encouraged to give money every week – one colleague even reported that they'd been told to 'forget coins and only give paper'.
VSO training does prepare you for the totally different role the church plays in the lives of Kenya; its sheer omnipresence, if you will.As is the case all over the world, faith can be a great moral driver for positive change here in Kenya. Much vital and brilliant work is being done by people and organisations motivated and guided by their faith. This applies to many of my colleagues, who share the same principles and attitudes to others that I recognise in those members of my family who were raised in the British Sunday School tradition.
The central role of the Church in people's lives gives it an immense power; it must be and often is the trusted communication channel that delivers incredibly important messages and services which are improving the lives of tens of thousands of people. But the hardest thing to come to terms with is the level of religion mixed in with just about everything else, including sales (shops are often called God is Able and religious verse appears everywhere) and – of greatest concern to my life – on public transport. You only truly understand the full context when driving down the wrong side of the road in a Matatu, reading the sticker on the window which states that 'we do our best, God does the rest'.
One hears references to God's will so often it has the same hollow ring to it as my nephew's 'sorry' after he's just been caught playing football in the house ten minutes after he was last told off for it (my sister should read on for some advice on how to stop this happening in the future!). The ubiquity of the references – and the fact that Christian values are often not reflected in the subsequent actions of those invoking the name of the Lord – means its impossible not to be cynical. It was the same in UK local government for a while, but instead of the Almighty it became impossible to have a conversation or meeting without using 'no child left behind, multi-agency approach' or whatever the latest 'on-message' term was.
When you hear a prayer at the beginning of meetings asking God to support the team in responding to emails, delivering their actions and meeting deadlines, or even a senior politician with a rather colourful track record encouraging God to 'deliver us from corruption', I do often compose my own internal prayer, but for obvious reason have not delivered it:
“Thankyou God for giving us all a brain and the capacity to take responsibility for our actions, and to tell right from wrong. I note from scripture that the incompetent, the lazy and the feckless are not promised a wonderful deal in this or the afterlife – may they be performance managed on earth as they shall be judged in Heaven. We would, therefore, of course prefer that our Lord Almighty prioritised answering the prayers of the 1 in 5 children who are dying before the age of 5 years old outside our office doors, and I'll make sure I reply to my emails before the end of the day.”
To try and understand a bit more about this, I went to a church recently. For the first time since school, I was in a place of worship without a wedding or a funeral to attend. I went because I was very curious about something which plays such a central role in most Kenyan's lives. Almost everyone goes to church, and pastors are revered and respected figures. A few weeks ago I started asking colleagues about their churches to try and find one I could attend; my criteria was that I would not be invited to introduce myself to the congregation, be the only white face, or that they would expect this to be anything other than a one Sunday stand.
My colleague Philo obviously understood this and did her research for me, finding a suitable candidate a couple of miles from my house. The scale was very impressive. A huge marquee, staffed by 5 teams of ushers and technicians, full professional lighting rigs, sound systems and plasma screens beaming the action in close-up I counted about 40 rows of 72 seats each, most of which were full by the time the opening 'concert' by the faith team (a band and seven or eight singers playing songs I didn't recognise in a mix of English and kiSwahilli) had finished. The concert, with its choreographed dancing and singalongs, was a stroke of organisational genius – it provided cover for all those who were inevitably filtering in up to 45 minutes after the start time. I did remark to my colleague that it's a blessing for Kenyans that there is no commandment demanding punctuality.
The band itself was more Coldplay than the gospel I'd hoped for. They reserved their 'lighters in the air' number for the finale, just before the collection boxes went round. Its easy to return to the default cynical setting, but after that I understood what the literature I'd been handed as we walked in meant when it said that this wanted to be a relevant, contemporary church. A team took to the stage to perform a sketch, which advertised the church's services, up-coming charity events, a new radio programme they'd started (and of course informed people how they could support the church's events and services), before the main event was announced. I don't know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. A husband and wife team, Pastors Oscar and Beatrice, emerged and settled into the latest in a series of seminars on parenting. They say in Britain that you are never more than ten metres away from a rat; in Nairobi, the same applies to a powerpoint presentation, and Microsoft's package reared its head once again here. The Pastors delivered it in an easy, jocular, anecdote-driven style; the pentecostal Anne and Nick. Much of it was entertaining, and contained really sensible and strong messages (no-one is perfect, be consistent, teach your children to take responsibility for themselves). Indeed, only the occasional reference to biblical verses – which many in the audience feverishly wrote down – reminded me I was in church. There was only one rather large issue which I found unsavoury – the fact that the congregation was encouraged to hit their children. Whose truth do we choose to believe, asked Pastor Oscar, the many pyschiatrists who will tell you that it damages a child's self esteem, or the Lord who says: A rod and a reprimand teaches a child wisdom, but an undisciplined child disgraces its mother?' But I chose not to stand up and contradict him. Instead, when offered the time for personal prayer at the end of the service, I thanked the Lord for giving me parents who did not hit me.
In truth, I am no closer to understanding the central role the church plays in life here, or being able to spot who is motivated by belief, who is just undertaking the ritual they've been raised with and who is using faith to manipulate others. It is another reminder to anyone going to live in another culture, even for a year or two – you are not going to understand it.
