When the alter became an enterprise

That evening found me alone in the room, wrestling with school assignments and the familiar boredom of campus life. Then the door creaked open and Rotich walked in. My roommate, now late. He had that usual boyish excitement written all over his face. He always smiled innocently; the kind of smile that gave away nothing. You would never know when Rotich was angry.

Francis Rotich Kangogo hailed from Baringo County. We met during admission at Kenyatta University and quickly discovered we had been admitted for the same course. Friendship became inevitable. On campus, friendship meant survival, showing each other directions when lost, alerting one another of impromptu CATs, and sharing news faster than any noticeboard. I even picked up a little Kalenjin along the way. Words like “Imiano?” which loosely meant where are you? and I’d reply, “Ami Computer Center,” meaning I was at the computer center.

Rotich didn’t have a room, so I invited him to stay with me. That’s when culture shocks began to show themselves. He couldn’t understand why I preferred my ugali hard, while he cooked his soft. I couldn’t understand why he ate ugali with a fork when, back home, fingers did the job perfectly. Two young men, different corners of the country, learning each other one meal at a time.

That evening, Rotich announced he had just come from a fellowship at Block 844.

“844?” I asked. “That’s not AZ39. That doesn’t sound like C.U.”

He explained vaguely that he had met two ladies near Cassandra Crossing who convinced him to attend a fellowship. The church, he said, was called Christ Embassy Ministries. At the end of the fellowship, everyone had to refer a friend. Rotich chose me.

Soon after, my phone rang. A soft-spoken lady introduced herself as a member of Christ Embassy. She was gentle, persuasive, and careful not to say too much yet somehow said enough. She asked us to meet the following day, Sunday. Rotich and I would come together.

Early Sunday morning, that same sweet, sonorous voice woke me up with a reminder about our “appointment.” I couldn't resist. We hurriedly prepared and left. Along the way, she kept calling, assuring us of the blessings awaiting us that day.

At the meeting point stood luxurious tourist vans. That was our transport to church. Just like that, we forgot our usual Paradiso buses. It was Sunday; Thika Road was calm. The superhighway was only an idea then, not yet dust and traffic. In no time, we were crossing town toward Baricho Road.

As we approached, a large banner came into view. On it was a light-skinned, black-haired man in a well-tailored suit, confidently posing. Above him read Christ Embassy Ministries. Below, in bold letters: Pastor Chris. That image ushered us in.

We alighted and were received like royalty. Ushers embraced us warmly, showering us with hugs and welcome messages I had never experienced, not even in the famous Urehesho Ministries. We were led straight to the front seats. The praise and worship team paused mid-song just to acknowledge us. We were VIPs.

They were impeccably dressed. Ladies in black pants, white tops, and red scarves. Men in black suits with red ties. The singing was heavenly, well-coordinated voices, perfect instruments, music that could lift your spirit without permission. Joyous praise melted into deep, emotional worship. Prayers flowed in, punctuated with speaking in tongues.

Then Pastor Chris arrived.

Before preaching, he asked members to welcome the guests. “Hug your neighbor,” he said. I turned to a plus-size woman beside me. She smelled like wealth with strong, expensive perfume. Her long weave flowed like something borrowed from a magazine, her face glowing under layers of makeup. She hugged me tightly, whispered a warm welcome, then sat back attentively.

As the sermon went on, she would occasionally dip her hand into her purse, pull out a bundle of notes, stand up, and drop them into the offering box at the altar. The message? Giving. The power of giving. The blessings of giving.

Rotich and I exchanged glances. Our entire financial strength lay in two twenty-shilling coins, carefully preserved for offering.

The piano would suddenly play soft, emotional notes. People broke into tongues. Prayers went on for what felt like hours. We tried. Nothing came out. We watched others pray for thirty minutes while ours barely survived one.

Then offering time came.

The woman next to me pulled out yet another bundle of one-thousand-shilling notes, peeled one off, and handed it to her son to drop in the offering bag. She gathered the remaining notes and passed the bag to me. I dropped my twenty-shilling coin and passed it to Rotich.

He dropped his coin.

The sound echoed.

Coins clinking together.

We were the only ones.

By midday, hunger had begun to preach its own sermon. We had left home without tea, and long church services were not our tradition.

An usher soon invited us upstairs. The congregation cheered as we were escorted upstairs. In the room, we were offered soft drinks of our choice. Teachings on giving continued. Then came lessons on speaking in tongues and long prayers. I tried again. Nothing. Rotich, under pressure, began fumbling sounds that vaguely resembled tongues.

Finally, we were released.

Before leaving, each of us was handed one thousand shillings for fare.

Heaven-sent.

God knew how broke we were.

We walked across the railway line toward Kenya Polytechnic, then into town, and boarded our familiar twenty-bob Githurai-bound buses. We were full, satisfied, and quietly amazed by the Sunday we would never forget. . That Sunday taught us a hard truth: faith should draw people to God, not to a performance. Our simple twenty shillings carried more honesty than all the staged abundance around us.