Dende
An Essay by Fred Zucule
Mama, being the woman she was, sent my name to the pastor for a youth retreat. If the pastor knew, there was no way for me to run away. And I hadn’t learned how to tell Mama, or anyone, no. I don’t think I ever will. Katsi didn’t come. She found ways to wiggle out of things. It was not fair that she got away with things and I had to perform happiness for the both of us.
We were heading to Paradise Lost. A picnic park in Kiambu, I could already imagine the green and lack of network. After the usual insane Nairobi traffic and weaving through dirt roads, the trees became taller and the ground was more orange or brown. Here the wind was loud, the trees were so close that branches grew together. Here we were a bunch of teens, as many as the trees, strangers to each other. I only knew these two sisters from Congo. I was sure one of them liked me. But in this forest of strange faces even they were just another pair of faces that looked the same. The ride killed my phone battery so this time I had to make friends or die…of boredom.
The food was sad: oily maandazis, oily samosas, stale chapatis, and stew that was basically vegetarian because I couldn’t see any meat inside of it. I wished that I had carried food but that would’ve been rude. (But shouldn’t self-care come before courtesy and niceness?) I swallowed bits of chapati, feeling them scratch my throat as they sucked up all the moisture they wished they were made with. These were loveless chapatis, made with the stingy hand of a mother-in-law. Maybe I should feel bad for the chapati — they were made defective and could do nothing about it.
I sat alone. By alone I mean me and three girls across and two beside me, eating in silence. If I closed my eyes it would’ve been as if they weren’t there — but in truth I could hear girl #1 beside me chewing. It was disturbing: the tearing of meat (that I didn’t get) and the grinding of defective chapatis. So in truth, it was me and three girls across and one beside me, eating while listening to girl #1 chew her food.
Plates were licked clean, not a single oil streak or grain of flour. An untrained mind would think they were untouched. With bloated stomachs that would get us all diagnosed with pregnancy, we were separated into groups: boys and girls. They brought guest pastors to speak to us about being young and Christian. Something that my generation presumably has a hard time with because we like to touch ourselves and each other.
It was sad to see the girls go. I think the three girls and the two beside me were starting to get close; I mean, we said hello to each other. (Only four hellos because I couldn’t find it in me to look at girl #1). The group of boys made me uncomfortable. They all stiffened their jaws and sat lazily like they knew the ground would not open up to swallow them. It was in circles like these that someone would say, “If I am unrighteous strike me with thunder, fire and lightning.” I sat on the edge of the chair because, if that type of idiot inhabited this circle, I was ready to run.
Then came a youth pastor. He might’ve been 30 (with children). The definition of youth was becoming a bit too loose. He started with a prayer:
“… open our hearts — oh my God — to receive Your words that will come through Your servant — oh my God — Use him — oh my God — to speak to these young minds — oh my God — Let doubtful hearts commit their lives to you today — oh my God — In you we pray and believe — oh my God.”
And all the people said, “Amen.”
I’ve come to learn that prayer punctuation is different from person to person. Some use silence, others say “oh my God.”
I was glad that I wasn’t the only one shocked by the sex talk. Hearing a pastor speak about little and big cassava was enough to bring us all to the edge of our seats. I felt bad for the white boy who could not hide his red cheeks. We, the boys, wore the mask of ignorance because at church we’re meant to be innocent children of God who know nothing about sex — pretending that our cassava don’t move in the morning when we dream of person X.
This was the lesson of being a man: pretend.
The pastor — who I will call Pastor — went on and on and on as pastors do. Perfect globules of sweat grew from his forehead. He was a passionate man; one sentence left him breathless
because each word was intense.
“You must be strong to be the head. Of the. House!”
This would take three loading breaths and two after delivery. He spoke with his arms. He swung his hips and bent his knees. Pastor was visibly moved by the act of speaking. His lecture went on for half an hour, (it was meant to be a 10-minute talk), after which he had to sit and take a couple (many) deep breaths.
I was supposed to believe that this man was 30 with children. Mama would argue that Pastor speaks with the Spirit and that his body was strong to be conscious with the Spirit. To Mama, this breathless man would be a strong man.
Then came the questions — we went through all the archetypal youthful questions: how to stay strong against peer pressure (pray); how to make good, Christian friends (pray); how to not be taken by lustful desire (pray and remember to only use the cassava when it is ripe). The questions went on and on and on. The answers were all different licks of “prayer is the way to go.” I don’t know if the boys were accepting these answers, but if they weren’t, they were really good at looking interested.
I wondered if girl #1 was hungry.
“What about gay people?”
I don’t remember seeing the boy who asked the question. I don’t remember if my breath got louder or if I looked scared. I remember my heart dancing. I remember looking around, searching for surprise or shock.
(What about them?)
“Listen everybody, very good question…” Pastor rose this time; this question required his full upright position. He took his three loading breaths.
“God loves everyone, even the Gays. And listen, you are the only ones who can show them love. You need to show them God’s love. They are not like us but we need to show them love because no one else will.”
I do not know if the altitude increased, if the temperature dropped, but everything felt different. I wasn’t going to do anything. I wasn’t going to scream. I wasn’t going to speak. I would be like the other boys: be a man and pretend.
“Are gay people normal?”
I listened.
“God created all things on Earth, even the Gays. God created them for a reason.”
“But they are sinning.”
That’s when the name-calling began.
“Yes! Their heart, their lifestyle, is of the devil and all we can do is show them love. But! When the time comes, when Jesus returns to take our souls, at the time of judgement, they will all go to — ”
And all the people said, “Hell.”
“They are an abomination, but for now we must love them. If I am lying strike me with — ”
I was climbing stairs two at a time, running away. I told myself that I wouldn’t run away. But I really wanted the ground to swallow me; I wanted the thunder, fire and lightning to hit me. I wouldn’t flinch or run, it couldn’t be worse than hellfire.
It played in my head like music. That day I saw a woman standing in the kitchen, wiping dishes. She was speaking of the Gays and the Lesbians like stains on her porcelain plates. The look of disgust as she called them the agents of the devil. That day, I was scared of Mama.
I could feel my arms growing heavy. My legs stopped listening to me. I could feel gravity calling me to my knees. The tears felt wrong and easy and familiar. There was a boy coming from the circle. I was hoping they would think that I was only going to rid myself of the oily nonsense that I had to consume.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m only going to the washroom.”
I dared to look at the sun. Blindness was not as bad as letting a boy see me cry; I was not going to give him the power to see me hurt.
“The washrooms are downstairs.”
His eyes were brown like polished wood. He was lucky. My eyes could never look as good as his.
“What do you want?” I was gathering myself. These tears were a waste of water; there were chapatis who needed it more.
“Are you alright?” It must’ve been his eyes that made me speak.
“They’re messed up!”
“I know.” He listened.
“I’m tired of pretending that I know that God loves me. I don’t know!”
There was an honesty in his eyes that told me that it was okay to say all this. I don’t know if he understood. “Why did He have to mess me up? All He had to was make me like girls. But he gave me a one-way ticket to hell.”
He listened.
“How am I supposed to love a God who created me so that He could hate me.”
“I get it… this is all messed up.” I saw understanding in his eyes. I hugged him and he rubbed my back. For that moment, I didn’t feel so defective.
He smelled like coconut oil.
“Writing is a conversation with myself. It’s how I know if I’m okay.”
Fred Zucule is a Mozambican from the ALA class of 2015. Email him at fred.zucule@hotmail.com.
