God in Ghana

One evening David and I decided to take a walk to Jamestown, probably the poorest area in Accra. Walking down the dirty dark streets, past make-shift houses, playing children and staring people who were genuinely confused as to why two white people were just wandering around this area.

At dusk in Accra the streets are always full of noise. My favourite thing about African culture is that life is lived outside the house, so this night like all others, the streets were filled with people bathing, cooking and eating, drinking and even dancing. But there was a noise quite distinct from the general chatter and laughter and it was coming from a few blocks ahead.

It was a noise that by then I knew well. A man's deep voice that often bellows through the alleys of Accra. Although it comes from  different men, it somehow always sounds the same - a unique mix of deep and scratchy yet also shrill and hysterical. Always that same elusive tone that trembles down the microphone and sounds like an inaudible screeching foreign language except occasionally you hear the words "jeeeezus charissst" and "haaaaallelujah" and "pa-raise tha loooord".

Sometimes it comes from lone preachers in the street babbling in a microphone, sometimes it blares from megaphones on top of cars that glide past at a painfully slow pace, even louder than the usual steady strum of the market place. Or often you hear the tinny noise racketing out of crappy car radios turned up full blast (especially disturbing when you are a passenger in that car). This preaching had become the chorus to my Ghana soundtrack. But this time it had the distinct echo of a large hall, and the sound of a large and energetic audience playing along noisily. I skipped up the street following the sound with excitement.

We arrived at a huge white wall and large steal bars. A building that is so big and so grand it dwarfs anything else in the area. A woman appears at the gate and welcomes us in. I want to stand at the back and watch but she insists on moving another lady to the back so that we can take her seat. I sat and I tried to take it all in but it was a sensory overload.

In no particular order this is what I witnessed.

We were in a huge square white hall. No crosses or art works or stain-glass windows like your typical Catholic church (the only church I have been in and can compare it to). The only similarity to a more traditional church was the narrow wooden benches that pained me in my childhood. There was a large stage up the front where a four-piece band was vaguely audible in the background of all the screaming chanting voices. On either side of the stage were large flat-screened televisions and above the stage another projection screen.

Most people were standing most of the time. Arms outstretched, fingers splayed, bodies swaying. Some people were rocking back and forth. A few people paced up and down whatever space was near them. In the isle people dropped to their knees and pounded the floor with their fists.  People were grabbing and pulling at their own hair, hiding their faces in their hands, they would mutter under their breaths and then when encouraged they would scream out "hallelujah", "yesss", "Praise the lord".

There was one young boy wearing a lime-green 'Milo' t-shirt who would take two steps forward, two steps back, two steps forward, two steps back.... the whole time he was screaming at the top of his lungs. One man across the aisle from us was crying. One woman had her face pressed up against the wall, she slapped the wall repeatedly with the palms of her hand and this is where she stayed the whole time we were there.

You know, some of this behaviour is not that different to what I've seen at rock concerts or football games, but even the drug-induced, alcohol-spurred behaviour there is far more sane than what I was witnessing here. The few times I have walked passed individuals on the streets at home acting this way, I kept walking, pondering the complexities of mental illness.

But this frenzied panic was carefully created. It was worked up and encouraged and fed by the real estate agent up the front. That was my first impression of him. A stereotypical real estate agent or car salesman. A smarmy looking guy in a pin-striped suit with a cheesy-grin flashing snow-white teeth looking down on us from the projection stating 'Rev. Pastor Robert Koofie populating heaven'. A chill ran down my spine whenever I looked up at him.

Practically eating he microphone he screeched:
"The power in you... I said [even louder] THE P-O-W-E-R I-N Y-O-U"
To which everyone in the audience jumps to their feet and screams and stamps their feet and waves their arms in the air. The boy in the green Milo shirt is doubled over as he squeezes the last bubble of air out of his lungs.

The screen projects a number of bible verses one at a time. One of them stated this:

"Luke 10:18: And he said unto them, I behold Satan as lightening falls from heaven".

... Whatever that means.

The smarmy real estate agent reads it out loud. Then he raises his voice and repeats it.

"AND HE SAID UNTO THEM"

And the audience roars.

Even louder he yells.

"AND HE SAID UNTO THEM"

And again people scream and stamp and and wave their limbs around.

"I BEHOLD SATAN"

And the roar around me is so loud my body is reverberating.

"I SAID I B-E-H-O-L-D S-A-T-A-N"

And he pauses, either for greater effect or because he cant remember the next line.

"AS LIGHTENING FALLS FROM HEAVEN"

And the crowd is really berserk. They jump up and down and slap the person beside them on the back and hug each other and drop to their knees like that last line really hit them in the guts.

Clearly I missed something, cause to me that sentence doesn't really make much sense. But despite my bitter cynicism I too decided to get to my feet. I jumped up and down with my arms waving in the air. I plastered a huge grin on my face and did my best "I can see God" face. David sat beside me in an open-mouthed state of wonder. I think for a second he was actually worried that I had found Jesus.

I even politely accepted the greasy bottle of cheap vegetable oil from the guy beside me. I allowed him to pour some in my cupped hands and as I had seen other people do I rubbed it through my hair, and across my arms and I continued to do my 'life is better cause I am accepting the power of Jesus in my heart' kind of smile. Even David rubbed the oil in his hair. I started to think that this isn't so bad after all. These people are poor, working themselves to an early grave and usually probably don't have any other reason to cheer and stamp their feet.... That is what I thought at first.

That was until Mr Smarmy says: "Who has 50 cedi for God? Come up here and put 50 cedi in the basket for God!"

50 cedi!!!! In the poorest part of Accra this man wants 50 cedi! That would be more than double what most of the people in this part of town would make in a week.

About half a dozen people walk up to the stage and drop 50 cedi into the basket. I am relieved that it isn't any more people. At least the other 150 people here aren't throwing away their weeks earnings.

"Who has 40 cedi for God? ... 30 even?"

I think steam blew out my ears!

"Everyone come quick. Your gift to God. Give your thanks and praise to God so that he can take care of you... 20 cedi... even just 10 cedi... whatever you can give to God"

People streamed down the isle, like flood waters rising they poured down there. I watched in utter disbelief as every single person flew up there to give at least a whole days earnings but quite likely more. I actually buried my face in my hands, I couldn't watch. It was not like a car crash where I couldn't help but peek, this was doom that I couldn't bare to face. What exactly is 'God' going to do with the money from the poorest people in Ghana? I nearly took up believing in a God just so that I could pray that this would end. To think that I waved my arms in the air for this guy... well for him and a vain attempt at blending in.

It gets better... or worse... hard to say which.

Mr Smarmy asks "Who is here for the first time?" I stupidly and cockily raise my hand, wrongly assuming that being in the back row no one will notice. The old man in the pale pink suit beside me starts nudging me and trying to force me to go on stage. I jam my heals into the ground and try to reason and then beg him not to send me up there. "I'm shy" I say "Tomorrow" I plead.

"It is for Jesus" he insists "It is the only way to get forgiveness". I manipulate his blind beliefs and promise him that instead of going up on stage I will allow him to show me how to accept Jesus. I say that "I promise I will stay back after the show... errr... I mean service".

When people start to pile out of the hall me and the man in pink sit down together, he tells me to repeat after him.

"I accept Jesus... He died for me... I reject Satan..." It goes on and on. Initially I am impressed with his ability to regurgitate these learned lines on the spot and I wonder how many times in his life he has been spooned the same speech.

I am aware that I have just silently been nodding along and that I should really be feeling God by now. So I decide to get into it. I clutch my chest with both hands and solemnly nod along. I dramatize the words as I repeat after him. I occasionally pause like I am really processing the prophetic-ness of what he is saying. I even surprise myself by declaring "it feels like a warmth inside of me". He tells me that is the Holy Spirit. He told me that even though he was always a Christian life was hard for him until he said those exact words and now everything is light. Good for him. Personally I am as heavy as ever. Though he did say I will wake tomorrow and be lighter.

As I collect David to leave a man named Solomon pulls us aside and says that the preacher wants to speak to us. For some reason I was surprised that he had noticed the only two white people awkwardly plonked up the back of the church refusing to give money like everyone else. We get taken in to his office. Again no crosses or images of Jesus, just a big screen TV, a solid wood desk and leather arm chairs and leather lounges.

The pastor flashes his pearly whites and tells us he is glad we came. He picks our accents straight away and says "so now you have a story for your friends". Not a stupid man. Blinded by greed perhaps, but not blinded like his congregation. He asks if we think he could go to Australia to share his message. He asked for our numbers. We promise him that we will back for tomorrow nights twelve hour service.

Within minutes of leaving David gets a call from Solomon, my guess is he was checking that we gave real numbers not fake ones. I check my phone and see that I have a missed call from him... I decide not to call back.