In the past few years mobile phone technology has revolutionised life for many a Kenyan. And in one small village this technology has focused lively local interest on what is happening in their pastor’s bedroom.
Almost everybody today can afford a mobile phone, a gadget that was for long associated with the elite. Kenyan communication firms fight it out for subscribers and call rates drop by the day, making it possible for ordinary folk to use phones.
But in Mutito village in the dusty and dry Kitui district in the Eastern Province of Kenya, the 500 or so inhabitants have to queue for long hours to make a call. In the entire village there is no network — except in the homestead of the Man of God, and in a particular spot in his bedroom.
When I got wind of this story some weeks ago I decided to pay the village a visit, which is also in my home district. While there, I tried to make a call — but in vain. So, as I needed to speak to my wife in Nairobi, I dashed to the homestead to try my luck.
There I joined a throng of about 100 people queuing at the entrance of the pastor’s abode. I was mesmerised when informed that, apart from replenishing his congregation with the scriptures every Sunday, the servant of God was also in big-time business.
There is a fee for the service and you must part with 50 Kenyan shillings (about R6) a throw. Now, in a village like Mutito, where the majority of people struggle to make ends meet, this is not a laughing matter. Most can afford to feed a credit of only 20 shillings into their phones — and, as power is another issue here, there’s another 10 shillings to charge their gadgets.
The pastor also operates with mood swings. There are times when he would rather be left in peace without the presence of ‘strangers” in his compound, as he puts it.
That day he suddenly swung into this mood. With his hands on his hips, he stood at the doorstep of his house and loudly proclaimed that he needed to rest, so could we break for the day until tomorrow?
I was taken aback but the locals have learned to handle his moods, I realised. They simply resorted to praising him and informing him, to his apparent joy, how he had become a blessing to the village.
With some sweet talk the holy man finally agreed to let me make my call and ushered me to a corner in his bedroom — the only spot where there was a network signal. There he gave me the rules: ‘Don’t swing around,” he bellowed. ‘Stand upright and don’t dare remove the handset from this position otherwise you might end up breaking down the network.”
I could not move an inch and maintained the same position for almost two minutes until I was through, standing frozen with only my mouth doing the moving.
Some men have been heard admonishing their wives not to go there. The pastor remains present throughout all calls and the men fear that their wives or even daughters may be fancying the Man of God. They also wonder about the holy man’s imagination when he is alone with their soulmates in his bedroom.
However that might be, the pastor has become a walking encyclopedia as far as the personal affairs of the villagers are concerned. He keeps a disturbingly close distance when you’re making a call. And when you’re engaged in an intimate conversation with a soulmate, he has been known to cut the call short unceremoniously, claiming that you’re taking too long while others are waiting in the queue.
Young folk have been complaining bitterly that the pastor has developed an allergy to words such as honey, sweetie, baby and sweet pie, saying he cuts them short when they use them. The youngsters try to beat him at this game, resorting to local slang in such conversations.
But they no longer refer to their loved ones as sweeties and honeys and complain that this has made their conversations flat and dull — and has broken many relationships.
Shadrack Kavilu is a freelance journalist based in Nairobi, Kenya