New life
Praise the Lord
Zenga Longmore
To surprise Olumba, last Saturday afternoon Omalara and I donned our gladdest rags and visited his church. Olum- ba's place of worship, tucked away
'Sorry, John — our new Japanese owners have asked that you disembowel yourself.' amongst the Victoriana of North London, is an Ibo Pentecostal church.
The service was in full swing by the time we sidled in. Women and men, clad in long white robes, clapped and sang in Ibo, to the accompaniment of wooden sticks, cow- bells and ikes (long wooden drums). Cries of 'Ho-lee' and 'Allelu-ia!' rent the incense-laden air.
Omalara, bouncing in my arms, became possessed with the spirit of joy. At one point, she stood alone on our seat and swayed her tiny frame, waving her hands, as if recognising the music of her ancestors. While Olumba beat the sacred drum, I found myself dancing and singing in an Ibo-less tongue.
How different from the Church of Eng- land, where any mood but one of quiet solemnity is looked upon with disapproval. Here, God was worshipped with laughter, and dance performed with the grace and intricacy of classical ballet.
'Let us welcome our newest member, Baby Omalara,' called the preacher, hold- ing the baby aloft. A few children, cherubs clothed in white, took turns at dancing with Omalara. How they had the energy to do so remains a mystery. The service had begun at 9.30 in the morning, and the final prayer was intoned at six.
On the way back to Brixton, Olumba handed me my morning mail, which con- sisted of a letter from an old school chum, Percival. The contents of this missive, I knew, had to be of a reasonably polite quality to have pased Olumba's virulent vetting system. You see, I have been receiving so many unsavoury letters of late — bills, the odd summons and a note from the hippies next door saying, 'Please tell your baby not to cry' — that I have asked Olumba to vet every scrap of paper which passes through the letter-box. Any letter liable to cause unwarranted stress goes straight into the rubbish chute (when it's not too clogged up).
Percival had written in a shaky hand that his wife had made him into an 'ogre figure'.
'Whenever I come home from work,' he complained, 'the kids hide behind the laundry basket and won't come out until I have promised faithfully not to do whatev- er it was their mother had threatened I'd do.'
I shall write back instantly to tell him that his position as ogre is an enviable one. Oh to be an ogre figure in the life of just one of my child acquaintances! The even- ings when I endeavour to get my nephew and nieces to sleep, an uproarious harle- quinade of jumping and pillow-fighting inevitably ensues. Two hours later, when I'm fast asleep, the children are rampaging around the room, more wide-awake than ever. No wonder my little niece Kuba always pleads, 'Can Aunty put us to bed now, because I want to stay up late tonight?'
Yes, I could definitely do with a bit of Fee Fi Fo Fum.
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