Church

I attempted church again this Sunday, in fact I went to two. It was not intentional but I was curious - I should know better by now! I had arranged to go to the International Central Gospel Church with one of the pastors, Adolf, with whom I spent last week working on a project at the hospital. I confirmed this the night before, borrowing Marcella's phone to do it, unfortunately not realizing that poor Marcella would receive a wake up call at 6.20 am just to wish me a good morning. She very kindly didn't wake me up to relay this message.

I was to meet Adolf at 8am close to our house and in true Ghana style he arrived in the taxi around 8.30, probably (I have given up carrying the time with me since it is so elastic anyway). There was an errand to run en route so we took a detour - this was fine though I did start to question the logic during our second complete lap of the town. Once we arrived, I was directed to a seat, unfortunately near the front where I sat most conspicuously and was deprived of my opportunity to watch what everybody else was doing.

The service started with a time of worship. The choir - about 5 singers with microphones - was accompanied by a keyboard, regular drum kit (if you are a drummer and there is no such thing, then please excuse me), african drums and electric guitar. The worship alternated between congregational songs (thankfully with fairly repetitive lyrics) and the choir singing for us. I started to wonder whether the speakers and worship group were paid by the decibel: the babies managed to sleep soundly throughout but my ears felt as though they had been thoroughly assaulted.

Since the service was in both English and Ewe. there were 2 speakers, both shouting - into their microphones! I decided that I wouldn't like to be shouted at for 2 hours every Sunday: the emphasis that it might give is lost a bit when there are no interspersed quiet bits. Maybe my communication problems here have nothing to do with the language and I am simply not speaking loudly enough. The service was similar in many respects to what I am used to, with allocated times for prayer, sermon, worship, notices etc. Probably won't be seeing so many waving white handkerchiefs or dancing on the stage or in the aisles at home though.

I walked home, passing many other churches on my way - it is relatively unusual for people not to be going to church on a Sunday here - and as I got closer to home I decided to poke my nose into one of these, whose service was still going on. I had no intention of actually going in but somehow I got pushed through the door and cajoled into a seat. Which was not quite as near the back as I would have liked. There I got pounced on, in fact almost literally sat on, by a large and very friendly lady called Benedicta who should really be adopted into our welcome team at Bellevue - people certainly wouldn't be rushing away.

Benedicta beckons another man over who wants to know why I am there and tells me I must meet the pastor. This now leaves me with the choice of sitting there significantly longer than I had anticipated, listening to a service conducted entirely in Ewe, probably missing my lunch into the bargain, or quite certainly offending the pastor not to mention my welcoming committee. So I wait, hoping that there will be a point where I can meet the pastor quietly and then be allowed to slip out. Sure enough I am soon hustled up towards the front, but it is anything but quiet and inconspicuous. As if being the only white person, and quite possibly non Ewe speaker, in the building isn't enough to damage my chances of blending in, my meeting with the pastor is followed by public introductions to the congregation who chant 'Way-zor' (not the right spelling but don't know how to make the keyboard write Ewe consonants) to which I respond 'Yo'.

I console myself that at least now I will be able to leave when..."Miss Phyllida, I want to talk to you at the end...." I find myself grumpily wondering how the door which is so close (and open) is suddenly so far out of reach and I must confess that as prayers were commenced, mine were much more along the lines of 'please let this finish soon' than anything more edifying. Still, I am entertained by my new companion as she gives me a slightly less than whispered lesson in Ewe and a commentary on the public handing over of money to the 'pastor's house' fund.

However I haven't found myself so relieved to be reciting the familiar end of service blessing for quite some time - 4 hours of church in a morning is quite a lot, and I didn't appear to be the only one to think this, considering the number of sleeping people lying in the pews! The pastor tells me the church will now stay in touch with me and since I don't feel able to refuse or give him a false address, I scribble down my e mail. I just hope he doesn't do house calls.