Previously
Masaka, Buganda
The hum of the fans gave to transition into song as Jean-Marie closed from rousing speech to a loud evangelical open prayer. It was the furthest Emmanuel had witnessed from a traditional Catholic Sermon. It was more in line to the theatrical episodes and sermons akin to that of the southern baptist churches he had attended while living in America. The wild boar-like priest lead and conducted a chorus of an entire room in praise to God with the energy of a rock star. But there was a certain restraint in his energetic pleading into and singing lead to the congregation that was still as much priestly and holy as it was pop music.
Without a dedicated choir no doubt, this is likely what his church had to use. Or what he preferred. If the level of filming and online distribution was anything to suggest, it was this church wasn't poor in the slightest.
Low and tempered Emmanuel kept place. Miming more the act than actually singing. His voice was too coarse, too wrapped in his own dialect bred between societies to be a singing voice. But then again, so did the rest of the congregation have that flair. None of them were singers. It was reflective of not just the large diversity of the Ugandan people, but of Africa and the world in whole that treated this place as their sort of Mecca. It wasn't hard to tell that this wasn't just a mecca for rising political evangelism. And it wasn't hard to miss how his employers were concerned. But in the service, it was nothing illegal.
Bordering radical. But not evil.
Chorus gave way to prayer and then to restrained reading of a the Gospel of Mathiew. After which, the sermons continued to its finality, some thirty minutes after the speech.
Without any notable ceremony besides the blessings, the day came to a close. There was a light spattering of applause that rained about the room. But the rousing energy subdued itself in spiritual ease with the shuffling of boots. Men climbed out of their seats, leading the brightly clothed women out. Progress was slow, and being at the front of the congregation meant that for Emanuel he'd be one of the last to leave. Light chatter rose in with the fans that circulated the hot dry African air.
Emmanuel watched the crowd funnel out through the door. It was slow and laborious. Like molasses passing through a all-too small hole. But the progress they made was regular. The music he had heard as he approached and climbed the church's mount returned to the speaker system. With a sigh of annoyance the Haitian waited.
“It is often that I see new faces among my flock,” a voice said, spurning Emmanuel. He turned. It was Jean-Marie. “But I've learned to recognize many of the types of people that come through my doors. And you friend, you're different.” he talked with a smile. Though there was a falseness to it as he looked him over.
“I just came ind'a town.” Emmanuel smiled, “I am from the Dominican.”
“I see.” Jean-Marie smiled, “Well your kin had traveled very far from their home in the past no doubt.” he laughed politely, “But now you are home, brother. Welcome to Uganda.”
“Thank you.” Emmanuel smiled.
“But, you know, brother.” the priest continued, “It is not the foreign look I see in you too. But there's a certain hardness. I have seen men shaken in spirit and faith come here to be renewed. But none as hard as you, in your eyes. I've seen such looks in the soldiers.” he added, stressing a realization in his tone of voice. “You were a soldier?” he asked.
“I was.” Emmanuel nodded, “I fought alongside American soldiers in Central America.”
“Such a godless front.” Jean-Marie replied sadly, “My condolences. I have not heard of such loss of life and nature as there. Even as the Moslims blew themselves to bits over India. God with you, brother.”
“Thank you... Thank you.” Emmanual nodded nervously, “I don't like to think about it much.”
“As many of us do not like to.” Jean-Marie added, “But my friend, our leaders may have said the war is over – to what ends we may never know – but it is still in fact continuing. Have you found work?”
“I'm afraid not. It is why I came here.” replied Emmanuel.
“Then you are well aware of the suited-man's war against man's dignity, brother. To tell simply, we men were created for work, as every animal on God's Earth. Surely, you remember my sermon.” he laughed.
“How could I not.” smiled Emmanuel. This close to the priest he felt nervous. Not out of spiritual guilt, he felt too strongly he was on the path to redeeming that. But more the closeness of the priest, and if he could smell his purpose.
“Excellent.” Jean-Marie nodded, “God gave us two hands. As the horse four hooves and the cow a strong back and fresh udders. It would seem some men fear the use of their hands, and want to turn us into slaves of their will.
“The men with suits. It does not matter what race they are: white, yellow, red, brown, or black. But those men in the banks, the executives. Bourgeoisie, capitalists, whatever you want to call them: they want to keep us sedated. They want to deprive man the joys and enlightened fulfillment of a proper day's work. Replace us with machines, or robots. They devalue and deface us!
“The horse may not have been able to fight the car, but we man can fight the machine. That is what I feel. Reclaim our identity, before the machine. Reclaim our wealth, before the executives.”
“I agree.” Nodded Emmanuel.
“Then you see reason!” laughed Jean-Marie, “And a man who does not wish to live a slave of welfare.
“You are unemployed, no?”
“No.”
“Then I may have employment for you. Where are you staying in Masaka?”
“No where yet.” Emmanuel shrugged, “I hope to find a roof soon.”
“Terrible.” Jean-Marie scoffed, “But, I'll tell you what you can do, brother: come back here later tonight. I may give a proud man as yourself proud purpose.”
Masaka, Buganda
The hum of the fans gave to transition into song as Jean-Marie closed from rousing speech to a loud evangelical open prayer. It was the furthest Emmanuel had witnessed from a traditional Catholic Sermon. It was more in line to the theatrical episodes and sermons akin to that of the southern baptist churches he had attended while living in America. The wild boar-like priest lead and conducted a chorus of an entire room in praise to God with the energy of a rock star. But there was a certain restraint in his energetic pleading into and singing lead to the congregation that was still as much priestly and holy as it was pop music.
Without a dedicated choir no doubt, this is likely what his church had to use. Or what he preferred. If the level of filming and online distribution was anything to suggest, it was this church wasn't poor in the slightest.
Low and tempered Emmanuel kept place. Miming more the act than actually singing. His voice was too coarse, too wrapped in his own dialect bred between societies to be a singing voice. But then again, so did the rest of the congregation have that flair. None of them were singers. It was reflective of not just the large diversity of the Ugandan people, but of Africa and the world in whole that treated this place as their sort of Mecca. It wasn't hard to tell that this wasn't just a mecca for rising political evangelism. And it wasn't hard to miss how his employers were concerned. But in the service, it was nothing illegal.
Bordering radical. But not evil.
Chorus gave way to prayer and then to restrained reading of a the Gospel of Mathiew. After which, the sermons continued to its finality, some thirty minutes after the speech.
Without any notable ceremony besides the blessings, the day came to a close. There was a light spattering of applause that rained about the room. But the rousing energy subdued itself in spiritual ease with the shuffling of boots. Men climbed out of their seats, leading the brightly clothed women out. Progress was slow, and being at the front of the congregation meant that for Emanuel he'd be one of the last to leave. Light chatter rose in with the fans that circulated the hot dry African air.
Emmanuel watched the crowd funnel out through the door. It was slow and laborious. Like molasses passing through a all-too small hole. But the progress they made was regular. The music he had heard as he approached and climbed the church's mount returned to the speaker system. With a sigh of annoyance the Haitian waited.
“It is often that I see new faces among my flock,” a voice said, spurning Emmanuel. He turned. It was Jean-Marie. “But I've learned to recognize many of the types of people that come through my doors. And you friend, you're different.” he talked with a smile. Though there was a falseness to it as he looked him over.
“I just came ind'a town.” Emmanuel smiled, “I am from the Dominican.”
“I see.” Jean-Marie smiled, “Well your kin had traveled very far from their home in the past no doubt.” he laughed politely, “But now you are home, brother. Welcome to Uganda.”
“Thank you.” Emmanuel smiled.
“But, you know, brother.” the priest continued, “It is not the foreign look I see in you too. But there's a certain hardness. I have seen men shaken in spirit and faith come here to be renewed. But none as hard as you, in your eyes. I've seen such looks in the soldiers.” he added, stressing a realization in his tone of voice. “You were a soldier?” he asked.
“I was.” Emmanuel nodded, “I fought alongside American soldiers in Central America.”
“Such a godless front.” Jean-Marie replied sadly, “My condolences. I have not heard of such loss of life and nature as there. Even as the Moslims blew themselves to bits over India. God with you, brother.”
“Thank you... Thank you.” Emmanual nodded nervously, “I don't like to think about it much.”
“As many of us do not like to.” Jean-Marie added, “But my friend, our leaders may have said the war is over – to what ends we may never know – but it is still in fact continuing. Have you found work?”
“I'm afraid not. It is why I came here.” replied Emmanuel.
“Then you are well aware of the suited-man's war against man's dignity, brother. To tell simply, we men were created for work, as every animal on God's Earth. Surely, you remember my sermon.” he laughed.
“How could I not.” smiled Emmanuel. This close to the priest he felt nervous. Not out of spiritual guilt, he felt too strongly he was on the path to redeeming that. But more the closeness of the priest, and if he could smell his purpose.
“Excellent.” Jean-Marie nodded, “God gave us two hands. As the horse four hooves and the cow a strong back and fresh udders. It would seem some men fear the use of their hands, and want to turn us into slaves of their will.
“The men with suits. It does not matter what race they are: white, yellow, red, brown, or black. But those men in the banks, the executives. Bourgeoisie, capitalists, whatever you want to call them: they want to keep us sedated. They want to deprive man the joys and enlightened fulfillment of a proper day's work. Replace us with machines, or robots. They devalue and deface us!
“The horse may not have been able to fight the car, but we man can fight the machine. That is what I feel. Reclaim our identity, before the machine. Reclaim our wealth, before the executives.”
“I agree.” Nodded Emmanuel.
“Then you see reason!” laughed Jean-Marie, “And a man who does not wish to live a slave of welfare.
“You are unemployed, no?”
“No.”
“Then I may have employment for you. Where are you staying in Masaka?”
“No where yet.” Emmanuel shrugged, “I hope to find a roof soon.”
“Terrible.” Jean-Marie scoffed, “But, I'll tell you what you can do, brother: come back here later tonight. I may give a proud man as yourself proud purpose.”