THE CHOIR RETREAT

Pictures of a day well spent conjure up in my mind every time I remember the 16^th of November. It was a day that I had anticipated with bated breath. The choir had organized a spiritual retreat at Hekima College. Hitherto, Hekima College was unknown to me. I had heard of it from clergymen but never had I set my feet into the institution. I feared it, in fact I revered it. I always thought that it was inhabited by holy men who walk with bibles in hand and chant the rosary every single minute. You would also hold it in awe if you thought angels lived there, wouldn’t you?

Pictures of a day well spent conjure up in my mind every time I remember the 16^th of November. It was a day that I had anticipated with bated breath. The choir had organized a spiritual retreat at Hekima College. Hitherto, Hekima College was unknown to me. I had heard of it from clergymen but never had I set my feet into the institution. I feared it, in fact I revered it. I always thought that it was inhabited by holy men who walk with bibles in hand and chant the rosary every single minute. You would also hold it in awe if you thought angels lived there, wouldn’t you?

Anyway, I dismissed the ‘holy thoughts’ and boarded a matatu. I remember it was a chilly morning with a drizzle drenching me. I stoically braved it-- if I were to tread ‘holy land’; mere dampness would do nothing to intimidate me. Arriving at 9.30 am, I thought I was the first but little did I know that there are some choristers who get irked and even nauseated at the mere thought of lateness. The early birds were none other than the ubiquitous Reginald Nalugala, Richard Njoroge and some two elderly ladies whose names, I do not remember. The two ladies however look alike. Methinks they are twins. Let’s call them Flo and Fro.

With a lot of gusto, the four adults were discussing the trees outside the chapel saying that they form a nice canopy which is a good parking space. Flo thought that the trees look cute. Fro on the other hand was quick to describe them as lovely. (You now get why I christened them as Flo and Fro? They are just synonymous, even in the description of trees).

 Adults are funny; they can discuss anything under the sun and make it sound so interesting. Listening to them, one would have thought that they were regaling a thrilling and bombastic movie by Stephen Terrill. No matter how hard I tried to join the discussion, I failed miserably. I could not get kind words to describe trees. To me, trees are just trees; tall, shady, intimidating and boring. Even if these four said nice things about them, the trees just stood. They did not burst into applause to appreciate their reviewers. Neither will they will read this article. I digress.

The other choristers slowly trickled in smiling mischievously for being late. I didn’t nauseate at their lateness. Nobody did; not because we embrace lateness. Nay, their lateness was justified by the big paper bags they carried. (Mind you, these paper bags were not the Westgate ones. Most were from Uchumi.)  At the sight of these big paper bags, the early birds felt content and hopeful--lunchtime would be a light bulb moment.

Bishop Rotich started the retreat at 10.00am in the College hall. The bishop cuts an awe-inspiring figure. He is well-built and tall (maybe as tall as those trees the adults had been discussing outside). Interestingly, he is an army ex-cadet. I found this hard to swallow. Why, the man is so soft spoken that the thought of him being in the disciplined forces, where voice is king, is quite hazy.

He is picky on words--he would not dream of mincing them. One thing dawned on me, the chap loves literature. During the morning session, he shared a captivating poem about a dance. Not the literal dance that you and I know of that plays in Simmers pub. Nope, his was dancing that involves doing your part in God’s work. The Lord, he said, calls upon all of us to a dance. We need not feel incompetent or unworthy of partaking in this dance. The dance could be: your career, your business, your family, your worship, your singing--anything that you do to glorify his name. I take my writing to be a dance. Haven’t you noticed the way my prose jumps from one step to the other, banjukaing with you all along. Hehehe. Arrogance blinds me.

After the morning session, we went for a short break. As I strolled in the college compound, Reginald gave me his camera. He wanted me to capture all events in the retreat. Honestly, I had never touched a camera such as his before. It is heavy, ebony black with a high zooming power that could capture Nelson Mandela’s burial all the way from Kenya.

 I spent almost an hour locating the power button. You see, I am used to film cameras-- those village film cameras that stay locked in a closet all year round till Christmas when they are fished out and forced into action. My father has one-- a thing that makes him a village hero. Why? With it, he can miraculously refer people to their past using pictures. I have never touched my dad’s camera-- he won’t let me. Though I could be a fourth year at the university, he still considers me too young to touch such objects of sanctity. From where I come, a camera is sacred. It is not to be touched or soiled by kids. Anyway, let’s go back to Reginald’s camera.

At first, snapping was not a bed of roses. There were so many buttons on the camera that I had to practically guess which to use. With time however, I was pro. I was snapping everything. Flowers, grass, the chapel, thingira, men talking, women giggling… everything!

The second session was on silence. The bishop talked about the power of doing things calmly with caution as you meditate upon each activity. Silence, he said, has a unique way of winning. You do not have to be rowdy to be noticed. Nope. Be calm and do what you love wholeheartedly. Being the attentive choir we are, we listened and followed his advice. Silently, we won for lunch time soon came. At last! I sighed.

Food was in plenty: cakes, loaves, apples, milk, sodas, githeri, rice and most of all boiled bananas. The latter intrigued me. Never had I seen raw bananas boiled with the peelings on. I satisfied my curiosity by eating lots of them and you know what--they were very sweet, sweeter than ripe bananas. Even after we were full, there was still plenty of food remaining. The late comers and their big paper bags had indeed, not disappointed-- they had done a good job. Somebody clap for them.

A sombre mass marked the end of the day. Alvin Mulinge, that plump and outgoing student served mass. Seeing him on the altar, one would never think that he is a student. He looked like a priest to me. What with his colossal stature and most of all, his passion for God’s work?

After mass, we had a group photo session before departing for home. Indeed, that was a day well spent.