chapter 8: jesus christ!

“blah blah blah praise jesus, blah blah hallelujah amen!”

i have mistakenly wandered onto a rolling sixth ring of hell. or heaven, i'm not really sure. either way, there's no escape.

disclaimer: if you are a born-again christian, don't understand sarcasm, or have no sense of humour about your religion, you should stop reading now. fair warning.

everywhere i go in ghana, i hear about god. or jesus. for fellow minions of satan out there, he was apparently some sort of saviour who dabbled in carpentry.

i've never really had a problem with christians before. i left them alone, they returned the favour. we both liked it that way. we had a deal, dammit! but it seems to be void here. the magic daddy in the sky is everywhere. on taxi dashboards and back windows, on tro-tros, on signs outside all manner of businesses. Every day on the ride into work, a billboard reminds me jesus is coming back, and am i prepared? hell no! the invocation of the holy name is so frequent and casual, i`m not sure even the big guy would approve. “god willing, the black stars will win the african cup.” “god willing, the traffic won't delay us.” “god willing, it won't rain today.”

even the supreme being needs a break, no?

so i'm on a bus from kumasi to tema, where i'll be covering the us navy`s curious new commitment to helping west african countries secure their waters against maritime threats. after waiting an hour for the bus to depart, i settle in for a long ride, hoping to do some research and maybe get some rest. suddenly, a man who's apparently a preacher stands up and starts slinging hellfire and brimstone.

that's right kids, an impromptu sermon! wheeee!

as impromptu events go, it ranks right up there with emergency root canals and passport lineups. i'm flabbergasted. i've had my share of weird religious eperiences here, like faith healers/snake oil salesmen, (get the full story here: http://www.jhr.ca/fieldnotes/index.php?view=section&iid=9447&sid=72) but the randomness of this one tops them all. i turn to my friend gloria who's riding with me and ask her what's going on. “he always does it,” she replies matter-of-factly. “for how long,” i ask. she shrugs.

with internal temperature rising, i consider my options:
1- be quiet and suck it up.
2- tell him to shut up.
3- get the slingshot out and get biblical on his ass.

option three is the most attractive, but unfortunately, i've neglected to pack my emergency giant-killing kit. i seriously consider option two, but i remember my gramma's sage advice to occasionally think before i open my big fat mouth. see gramma? i do listen! so i satisfy myself with childishly shooting the jerk dirty looks for the next hour. it has no effect whatsoever.

look, i'm not completely without spirituality, but what about my right to not have god jammed down my throat? it's a bus, not a church, and i'm a complete captive. it's one of the things that bugs me about this otherwise wonderful country. admit you don't go to church, and you can expect people to cluck disapprovingly and try to save you. i don't want to be saved, okay? that's not religious freedom, it's christianity run amok.

anyway, next thing i know the “preacher” is leading about half the passengers in the singing of hymns. the other half stare out the window blankly, presumably waiting for it to stop. and the “preacher” actually has the nerve to go down the aisle collecting money!

blood now boiling, i reconsider option three. turning my shoe into a projectile as a substitute for the slingshot is looking pretty attractive. may god have mercy on my black little soul.