We were seated at our usual corner, comprising Baba VaTata, Fatso, Rasta, and myself.
The bar was unusually quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling, smoke-filled atmosphere typically found on month-end.
On any other day, I might not have noticed, but the silence on this particular day of the month was conspicuous.
Baba VaTata was the sole drinker among us, a half-full quart of Black Label beer resting before him. We all anticipated his customary generosity, as he usually bought us beer, a habit sustained by his lucrative trade of selling borehole water.
“I think I have a calling,” Baba VaTata declared abruptly. A moment of silence followed. When no one else spoke, I broke the quiet, my gaze involuntarily drawn to his beer. “What calling?” I inquired, assuming it was another one of his amusing notions.
“I want to start my own church,” he stated, a pronouncement that startled me into sitting upright. Fatso and Rasta exchanged sheepish glances, while I questioned if my ears had deceived me.“You want to do what?” I repeated, seeking clarification. “I’ll form a church and call it the Holy Divine Church of God of Latter Day Saints,” Baba VaTata reiterated, eliciting exclamations of surprise from Rasta and Fatso. “You can’t be serious!” Rasta exclaimed.
“Why not?” Baba VaTata retorted, his eyes revealing a genuine earnestness that dispelled any doubt about his sincerity.
“Look at what is in front of you,” Fatso interjected, gesturing at the beer. “You want to be a pastor. Are you going to stop drinking beer?” Baba VaTata paused, then took a long gulp of his beer, which I watched disappear down his throat.
“Who said I will be a pastor? I will be a Bishop,” he corrected. “Don’t play with God,” I finally managed to say.
“Who said I am playing?” he challenged. I was convinced this was merely the effect of the beer. Baba VaTata pushed the beer towards Rasta, who quickly brought it to his lips. “You know what I’ll do? I’ll buy all of you beer for the last time. And you’re the first people I am inviting to my church,” Baba VaTata announced, a distant look in his eyes as he signaled the bartender for more beer.
I observed him carefully. He reminded me of Maponga. At the time Maponga lost his marbles, no one really noticed.
It was only later when he started walking naked in the streets that everyone realised that Maponga had gone clinically mad. The only missing element, common in most mad people was a fanatical glint in the eyes. Baba VaTata did not have that look.
I waited until the beer arrived. “Do you know what a ‘calling’ means?” I asked him, noting his conflicted expression.
“Call or no call, I am going to form my own church,” he insisted stubbornly. I knew the influence of beer on people’s minds and was certain he would forget all about this by morning. But what if he truly started his own evangelical movement? Who would his converts be? Baba VaTata was known for many things in the community, none of them particularly virtuous.
Paul in the Bible met Jesus Christ on the road to Damascus; could this be Baba VaTata’s Damascene moment? I am no judge of character, but Baba VaTata hardly seemed cut out for the cloth. Yet, who was I to say?
Rasta stared at Baba VaTata for a long moment before bursting into laughter.
“You can’t just start a church out of the blue; you need to be a man of prayer first,” Rasta advised. “You think you can make money by starting your own church?”
Rasta pressed Baba VaTata who appeared slightly offended but remained silent, lost in thought. I began to worry, as he seemed to be taking the matter far too seriously. In recent years, new churches had invaded open spaces and turned them into places of worship.
Everyone knew the story of PB, The Fishmonger from Section C who had started his own church not long ago.
He now drove a sleek SUV. And he had moved to Mabelreign, returning to the high density only on Sundays for his flock. “It’s not about the money,” Baba VaTata said.
He rarely convinced me so easily, as his pursuits invariably followed the money.
“You don’t have to start a church; just repent and be a God-fearing man, read your Bible daily, and pray if you want redemption,” I said.
Fatso nodded in agreement.
“You’re right, that’s the first step,” Fatso said. I hoped this was merely a fleeting whim, and that by tomorrow morning, Baba VaTata would have forgotten all about his grand ecclesiastical ambitions.
Only time would tell if this was a drunken fancy or the dawn of a new, unexpected chapter in Baba VaTata's life. I did not know what to make of it. I kept thinking of Maponga, the madman. I shook my head, not Baba VaTata.
Outside the bar, someone using a loudspeaker was inviting people to attend an open air crusade behind Zororo Bar to break the chains of poverty. Baba VaTata listened carefully, as if hearing his own future.
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