Music and worship from the Nazareth temple is enough to drive me to drink
A peaceful Saturday morning in my bedroom is but just a sweet dream
I could literally throw a stone right into the Nazareth temple from my bedroom window.
For the fear of God, I didn’t. Honestly, though, I have been tempted to every Saturday morning, more so because the set-up is entirely al fresco.
Well, it’s a mere 25 metres from here and all my Saturday mornings are spent in praise of God – against all my wishes.
I am now perfectly familiar with about seven hymns and the testimonies of Gumede, Zwide and Cele on the miracles of their leader.
I spend most of my Saturdays in bed, in silence, and read or write and plot all sorts of evils while pretending I’m asleep, so that nobody in my family asks me to cook Oats or do whatever other chore.
I am supposed to enjoy peaceful weekends, but no, not in this part of Eshowe – it being the chosen holy place of praise. So, I always resort to closing curtains and the windows. Not that it helps, but at least I pretend they’re not preaching to me and I don’t recognise them.
As if the Saturday Sabbath were not torturous enough, Sunday afternoons are reserved for the maidens to practice Zulu songs and dance.
That particular routine takes place much closer to home – right next door. I had always consoled myself that at least it is during the day and I can quiet their noise by burying myself in my cooking. The kitchen is a tad further from the maddening noise.
However, I must admit I have somewhat grown accustomed to the madness, and perhaps insensate and oblivious to the jubilations, clangour and choral obscenity.
It is the night rituals that I can never get used to – the gender-specific gathering designed to corrupt the beauty of my dreams.
I cannot decide which is worse between the men’s horn and the women’s cringe-worthy sopranos.
I love music, I swear, but there is something about their choruses that makes me crave an overdose of Mybulen and wine – anything to knock me out.
They start sermons as early as 6pm. By bed time I would have a headache running down to my teeth.
It’s not only just the tonedeafness – treading on amusia – of the lead songstresses who sound terribly hungry and beat. There is also that nagging gong, and the horn that sounds like a chronic fart. Yehheni!
I swear it always feels like they are having the concert right in my wardrobe, running on endless Duracell batteries. The fourteenth, twenty-third and twenty-fifth have all come to burden the neighbourhood with sleepless nights of musical agony.
They take random recesses. Teasing a complete silence, as if to torture me with a hope that they’re leaving.
I would even fall into a good night’s sleep and forget about the ghastly chorale. Then an enthusiast suddenly bursts into song, at high note, inviting a concert of groans and drum.
That is not music. It’s a test of my faith and patience. Too close for comfort, too late in the night, and just too early in the week for church.
And so I would duly pray and ask the same thing “Ngilamuleleni! Uyoshaya nini uthwalofu kusha isigubhu siphelezelwa amabhimbi...” (Somebody intervene! I cannot bear this drumming and outof-tune singing till midnight…)
Such occasions remind me just how unique we are as a people. I live among a people who rejoice in the opportunity to praise and worship all night. They commit to it – to my dismay, of course, but it is what has kept them unified as a church.
Yet, the very gong that opens up the heavens for them is probably the reason I am depressed and grumpy at least three days a month.