I was raised up by the loud, West
African ‘hallelujahs’, in stone, cold Hackney Pentecostal churches, attended mostly by Nigerian/Yoruba women, who duly pledged their 10% in crisp, white envelopes to be
deposited into the pastor’s basket at the altar. The discreet, tokenistic
passing of the collection plate usually followed, where everybody became your
audience as you placed your money in the deep recess of the plate. You see, the pastor did not want to hear
the jingling sharp echo of the coins when they fell into the plate, but the
soft, fluttering sound of pound notes as they landed inside. The pastor’s
facial expressions truly defied gravity when this
occurred. It was definitely a sight to see.
There these women were, getting down
with the tribal beat and sensuous sounds of the talking drum; the twanging of the rhythm guitar, that
sounded so much like Sonny Ade, ‘back home’.
There these women were, singing in
loud, and out of tune voices, but clapping and snapping gold ringed fingers in
sanctified rhythms for Jesus.
There these women were, getting down
and *‘owambe’
for Jesus, as though they were manically dancing in Fela’s shrine.
There these women were, sweating and wiping dripping
foundation stained melting faces. Helmets of Afros wigs awkwardly awry and
flipped relaxed hair that had sizzled back into their au natural states.
There, these women were fanning their cheap cardboard fans, brought from the local Woolworths, creating their own DIY air conditioning
moment for Jesus.
There these women were, throwing themselves on
cold tiled floors for the love of the Holy Spirit, and speaking in undetectable
tongues, interspersed with their
mother’s tongue,
There these women were, playing their roles of
spirit filled women without their absent husbands by their holy sides .
There these women were, showing off their
sartorial styling, as they smoothly
undulated down the wide church aisles: using it as their own personal catwalk with fresh, brightly coloured, patterned
Dutch wax materials, fashioned into contemporary **eros and bubas, accompanied by
their stiff, obedient ***gelees pointed
towards a satisfied and receptive heaven.
These are some of the memories that I dearly hold of attending
church as a young girl. My Yoruba influenced church memories of my childhood.
* Partying
**Traditional top and wrapper
***Stiff head wrap
****Disclaimer: All the Yoruba language purists, please forgive me if I have spelt some of the terms incorrectly. I do not have my people around me; I am just surrounded by the Caribbean Sea!****
