Chapter Four: The Letter, the Loaf, and the Laughter of Goats
Late evening had settled over the village like a heavy woolen blanket. Crickets chirped lazily outside, and the occasional cough of a cow echoed through the hills. Inside the tiny, wooden church office, a flickering kerosene lamp cast long shadows on the walls. Muthoka sat at his desk, the envelope still sealed in front of him. He had stared at it for hours, hoping it would vanish, hoping it would become just another leaflet about overseas tithing campaigns.
But it didn't. With a shaky breath, he peeled the seal.
The paper was thick, unnaturally white, and the typed ink smelled faintly of toner. The language was clipped and formal:
"Dear Pastor Muthoka,
We, the undersigned, writing on behalf of the Committee of Purity, have reviewed your leadership with concern. The influence of local culture—syncretism, in fact—has been deemed incompatible with the biblical standards of the Ridgeway Mission. Your recent emphasis on local music, attire, and non-standard homiletics has alarmed donors and leaders abroad.
By a unanimous vote, it is the Committee's recommendation that you step down and make way for internationally trained personnel. This transition will ensure the continued sanctity and purity of worship.
Yours in Christ, Rev. Alistair Greenway Committee of Purity (International Oversight Wing)"
Muthoka's hand trembled. His chest tightened, but he did not cry. Instead, he folded the letter slowly and tucked it into his Bible—between the pages of Psalm 23.
He knelt by his wooden chair, forehead to the floor.
"Lord," he whispered, "if this is the fire, walk me through it."
By morning, the entire village knew. Nobody had read the letter, but everyone had something to say.
Kamami stormed into the compound with a broom in one hand and a dishrag in the other.
"Muthoka! Bring that letter! I dated a man from Nairobi once. Pure English. I will translate it for you!"
Mama Kasevi slammed a sufuria on the stove and declared it a day of fasting.
"This is oppression," she hissed. "Even Pharaoh tried such tricks."
Old Mutuku stood on a rock near the cattle dip and announced the formation of the "Men's Christian Defense Council." Unfortunately, only his two oldest drinking friends showed up—both carrying gourds of kaluvu and asking for biscuits.
At midweek service, Tobias mounted the pulpit and read from the book of Numbers. He didn't smile. He didn't greet anyone. His sermon—titled "The Call to Order"—sounded more like a military briefing than a message of grace. He spoke of "standardized liturgy," "global doctrine alignment," and "decentralized pastoral accountability."
Half the congregation stared blankly. The other half silently counted how many goats they had left unsupervised.
Then, it happened.
A sudden rustle from the roof.
A blue-headed agama lizard—likely sunbathing too long—fell from the rafters, landing directly in Kamami's handbag.
She screamed.
Her bag flew—spinning in the air—until it landed squarely in a basket of offertory chickens. One of them, a particularly fat rooster, leapt in panic and landed—claws-first—on Tobias's shoulder.
He flailed. The rooster crowed.
In the chaos, Kamami's wig was dislodged and flung into the air, only to land perfectly atop the large wooden cross behind the altar. For a moment, the congregation sat frozen.
Then, like water breaking a dam, laughter erupted. Even the stone-faced elders chuckled.
Tobias stormed out, feathers on his cassock.
That evening, the mango tree became a sanctuary once again.
Villagers gathered, roasting maize, sharing boiled cassava, and exchanging tales. Someone brought a nyatiti, and an old man played tunes from forgotten childhoods.
Mbula sat a few feet away, praying silently. She didn't join in the laughter, but her presence brought peace.
Muthoka approached slowly. Kamami, now wearing a scarf instead of her usual wig, offered him a roasted cob.
"For once," she muttered, "they listened more to a chicken than a missionary."
They all laughed again.
Muthoka took a bite. It was sweet. Earthy. Real.
Later that night, as the fires died and stars reclaimed the sky, a knock echoed on Muthoka's door.
He opened it.
Mama Mbula stood silently.
She looked older. Or maybe the moonlight made her weariness clearer.
"They think they are fighting you," she said softly. "But even the spirits know better. This land chose you. You mustn't let the foreigners uproot what you planted with tears."
Before he could respond, she turned and walked away.
The night felt colder after she left.
Just before midnight, Muthoka walked into the dark church.
The same pews. The same altar. The same silence.
But something felt different.
A suitcase stood by the pulpit.
Tobias was there, folding his collar into a small travel bag.
"There will be a meeting tomorrow," Tobias said without turning. "The decision has been made."
Muthoka said nothing. He walked to the pulpit, ran his fingers along the worn wood.
He prayed without words.
Then, a child's voice behind him:
"Will you leave us too?"
He turned.
No one was there.