Dancin' to God

I love to dance - cumbia, rap, reggaeton, 80s, folk, polka, ska or swing - I can't claim talent but I've got the spirit, and if it's got a beat I'm ready to go. Africa has definitely got that, and I can't buy enough pirated cds to take back to the States... but given how African cities typically become at night, all-out clubbing has been kind of, er, difficult.

But there are other types of fun, I've learned... and the closest I've ever come to a nightclub in Africa is a Nigerian evangelical mass.

It started quietly; there was some congregational Bible study under the direction of a be-hatted woman who had a lot more to say about mutually satisfying marital relations than you might have suspected of a pious church lady. After we closed in prayer, during which I silently but fervently prayed no one would assume David and I were 'together' and ask about our relations, the choir started up an emotional praise song. Everyone else seemed to know the words, and as the skirted and suited men and women my age crooned and swayed at the front, the audience crooned and swayed along with them. As the room began to fill with the regular (and Bible-study truant) church-goers, the choir got more and more into the song. The energy swelled to a pitch, the congregation threw up their arms, the drummers kicked up the tempo, and dancing broke out like a fever among us. Feet stamping up and down, arms waving about, children jumping up and down: it was an impromptu party. The usher danced a two-step up the aisle as he passed out hymnals no one seemed to need. The woman across the row kicked off her high heels to better get into what looked like the Charleston. I saw versions of the jitterbug, bachata, merengue, and tap, all executed with admirable spirit and infectious energy. All around me women were bent double, bobbing their heads and pumping their arms, shaking their booties to the music of the Lord. It was absolutely fantastic - the true dance club I've been missing - and only my consciousness of the need to lie low as a secret non-believer kept me from joining in with the best of them.

Sadly, all good things come to an end.. but not always a disappointing one. As we reclaimed our seats, Madame No-High-Heels became sufficiently possessed of the holy spirit to begin proclaiming something or other to the world at large. Her eyes were squeezed shut and words flowed from her mouth in a continual stream no amount of smacking could have stopped, and the direction wasted no time in getting her a mike. Soon her prophetic words - none of which I could make out, sadly - were amplified for the benefit of the respectfully listening congregation. It is my impression, though, that she was actually speaking English, despite the evangelical pamphlet I found in my hotel room that morning advocating the neccessity (yes, necessity) of praying in tongues. (Did you know, your words are actually much more meaningful to God if you don't understand them yourself.)

After an hour of singing, dancing, and the odd holy possession, the choir sat down and a middle-aged man in a suit stepped up, and I knew we were bringing out the big guns. He delivered some announcements, and a bit of public scolding to all the married men who had neglected to attend Bible study that morning. Immediately after there began an interesting form of public prayer in which the congregation was exhorted to offer up their personal requests to God right now, for Ask and Ye Shall Receive. Everyone obediently began to talk, yell, or cry their various requests at once, our leader all the while bellowing "ASK! ASK!!" into his microphone. Once exhausted, we were informed that all our requests that day would immediately be answered, and we cheered Hallelujah! Then we were exhorted to offer up some money into a plastic basket, and after another moving song we all settled down to hear the sermon. Which I forget.

Admittedly the message was lost on my spiritual soul, but the experience was definitely edifying on another level. Namely, that religion is a heck of a lot more fun here in Africa, even if it is more likely to get you killed. (Want something to pray for, how about no more religious riots in Nigeria..)

Edification aside, we enjoyed amazing luck in the service length, for church abruptly broke up a mere three hours after starting. (There's something to give praise about.) I was expecting communion with the usual wafer and juice, but instead we first-time-visitors were offered Fanta and a Welcome! card to fill out. Usually, a Nigerian church service goes for five, seven, even ten hours, and I had been plotting under what circumstances I might sneak out if it was still going strong at 1 p.m. Which, normally, it would be.. but when there's no power, water, or restaurants, and everything else is closed for the day, what else is there to do? Heck, gettin' down for Jesus ain't a bad way to spend the day...