Since I have been a victim of several quotes by Christian bigots who believe the good book to be a literal and historic representation of events given by witnesses. I as always would grudgingly have to warn them that they too, are committing the sin of idolatry, The Oxford dictionary defines an idol as a person or thing that is much loved or worshiped. Unfortunately this is a topic for another day. I however accuse them of cultural piracy. A more fitting description would be cultural rape. Which is today’s feed. You see, it happened some donkey years ago, my ancestors made a few wooden or earthen figures, set them up in a modest hut (usually measuring not more than a few feet, height, length and breadth) in a secluded often sun shaded part of the compound or forest, they would once a year take a chicken or goat to the shed to meditate, use fortune stones for divination, ring bells and sing in low tones (not disturbing their neighbours) they danced when they were happy, and cried when sad, complaining at the foot of the raffia decorated altar. It wasn’t uncommon to put a few manilas into the God’s bowl. At the end of the session, lasting not more than twenty minutes, the advocate would exit. And go about business, adhering to the laws of the land and his God. He loved his neighbour, went to war with his enemies, and challenged those who trespassed on his land and wife. Judged his people as fairly as he could or the laws of the land would allow. He was content. Even on rainy days when he couldn’t go to the farm, he sat in the company of his wives and children and told tales of the old wars fought, and justice taken. The nights were blissful, especially on days belonging to his youngest wife. She was fiery. Then came trouble, one day a man unlike any the village had ever seen arrived at the village, and told marvellous tales. He was whiter than the puss that oozed from an infested wound my great grandfather thought. He spoke real funny, as if he was undecided whether to laugh or cry, the white man brought them something he called a book which he explained they could not read, its origins unknown and unexplained, he told them he was a servant of a most high God, took a look at the compounds/forest edge and told my forefathers they could do so much better, he took over the compound and expanded it beyond the neighbours boundaries, three compounds went down to accommodate the unwanted guest, my ancestors were promised a kingdom for their efforts and generosity, as this was the agreement made with the one whose words are written in the kingdom above all kingdoms where even ghost dare to tread, my fathers who suddenly found themselves uncomfortable though accommodating hosts, did not want trouble from that king who breathed fire and moved to the edge of the forest with the mosquitoes and outcast, when they visited the shrine one day it had been torn down, when they asked why, they were sarcastically informed a bigger shrine would be built for the spirit that would dwell and make the land and people fertile, green, and prosperous. On my grandfather’s land was the white man’s shrine built. It was made of stone not mud, bigger even than the chiefs’ house; my great granddad was impressed with the high roof, which shone in the morning sun, he had heard but never beheld such wonder, it was made from a material that crackled when water splashed on it. It was roomy inside. Surely it would accommodate his occasional sacrifice and offering, he would ask. He walked in and saw, the altar, not his simple ragged but sincere clay, branches and hewn log, it was a table made of wood that reflected like the spring, bedecked in finery, velvet, colours that would shame what the wife of the village chief wore at the annual cultural festival. He was stupefied. On it was the thing the white man usually carried. It was where his God would have sat. he wondered if the white man had no carvers until he lifted his eyes and saw it, hanging on the wall, it was beautiful, it looked exactly like a man except smaller. Its hands were stretched out wide. It was beautifully carved. My grandfather looked down and sighed, he then sat down and the white man approached and informed him that livestock sacrifices would be brought live to the white chief priests house, while the money collection would be dropped at the altar as usual, when he gazed on the collection plate it was bigger, richer, finer than the earthen bowl used by anyone in that village. My forefather asked the white chief priest if an audience would be granted for him to see the white God, and was told all dialogue would be through the white man as my people where unworthy. On the same grounds where my grandfather had once stood with pride, he now bowed his head in shame. As my great grandfather walked out, he looked again, where there had once been a small humble shrine, a bigger one stood, though called “ church”, in place of fortune stones was a “bible”, where a carving stood in the shrine, another now hung though more beautifully made, he had noticed it also had a crown of prickly rope on its head, a chief priest served the shrine though white was the colour of his skin, his apprentice were coloured same as natives, more manilas where collected than before as was necessary to fill the new bowl, the sacrifices my grandfather gave annually, he now was told to give every six days to the white chief priest or apprentice , he now slept uncomfortably as the din from the church allowed him nothing but sleepless nights and irate days. He endured, so that the great and powerful white man’s God would not rain fire and brimstone, on him and the village. My great grandfather sighed and walked out. I ask? Have you ever seen what he saw or is it just me?
Posted on: Thu, 17 Oct 2013 12:43:04 +0000
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