Let us pray our moms stay home from church today
By the time you read this my mother might have disowned me. It has to do with our respective relationships with the bearded carpenter’s son from Nazareth. My mother is a lifelong, dedicated, devout Catholic. And that’s understating her devotion. If truth be told, Rosemary Ngcobo is fanatical about the Roman Catholic Church, the doctrine, the history and the rituals. She prays for us every day and recites the Holy Rosary every opportunity she gets.
Her prayers have not been for naught. In 2005, my younger brother Mxolisi was ordained as a priest. My second-born, Vumezitha, was nine months old at the time and he was my brother’s first baptism. Afterwards, my brother held him up to the Umndeni Oyingcwele congregation the same way Rafiki, the shaman baboon, held up Simba in The Lion King. The only difference is that Circle of Life wasn’t playing in the background.
The reason she might disown me is that I refuse to allow her to attend Holy Mass, after Cyril read from the Freedom Charter, “The doors of worship and speaking in tongues shall be open to all … as long as we shut them after counting to 50.”
She’s 75 and she has a weak chest. My appetite for organising another funeral during the Covid-19 lockdown is rather low. I’m still haunted by the face of Mourner #51 peering through the fence at my dad’s funeral, you see.
I talked to my Facebook friends about this conundrum after the facemask whisperer announced that it was legal again for pensioners to congregate in their starched uniforms to praise the Lord and leave their R350 Sassa Covid-19 grants in the collection plate. (My namesake, Bishop Ngcobo of the Inkanyezi Church of Christ, has been very clear about his priorities during the lockdown: loss of revenue.)
My Facebook friends are savages, but it seems as if everyone has a geriatric mother who is addicted to church. I’m not surprised. It makes sense that they’re obviously hedging their bets on that eternity in heaven/hell scene. When I turn 75, you best believe I’m spending most of my Sundays inside a tent with poor ventilation. I don’t want to experience wailing and gnashing of the nine teeth I’ll have left in the year 2047.
My Facebook friends came up with the most creative solutions to get their mothers to stay at home today. Andile Ncontsa told me to manufacture a pre-existing condition for my mom. Thuba Sibisis wrote her own Covid-19 regulations and told her mom that over 60s are not allowed inside a church building. Kanyisa Ndyondya used tears as blackmail, punctuating her point with, “You must not love me if you want me to experience the pain of losing you.”
Siyanda Ndawo suggested that I
It seems as if everyone has a geriatric mother who is addicted to church. I’m not surprised. They’re obviously hedging their bets
plant one of my friends at St
Dominics, Hillcrest, where my mom worships, as a Covid-19 expert consultant who will chase away all senior citizens.
Nox Galela suggested that I withhold the monthly Black Tax allowance. I won’t be using this advice because my mom would happily put up a Holy Rosary bead stand at Christian’s Village Centre in Hillcrest to raise funds.
Samke Kaula confiscated her mom’s car keys. The magrizza didn’t blink. She said her church mates would pick her up.
Lynette Ntuli posted: “Casually mention that you will be updating family funeral benefits and ask for a copy of her living will because no-one is allowed visitors once they get admitted. Oh, and ask for the priest’s number and a preferred list of the 50.”
My mom is not much of a Bible reader. She surrendered her Biblereading privileges to priests decades ago. In fact, I don’t think she’s forgiven the Church for its Vatican II ecumenical council of 1962 to 1965, which allowed priests to turn around, face the congregants and speak in languages other than Latin. I’m pretty certain, though, that she’s aware of Matthew 18:20: “For where two or three are gathered in my name, I’m in the midst of them.”
Not too many tent prosperity preachers like this verse. I’d put my family jewels on the chopping board to insist that Bishop Ngcobo is not a fan. He wants the sheep to flock to his temple.
I have one gripe with the president, though. He’s opened up churches but not strip clubs. Everyone knows there is no place where the words, “Oh God” are uttered with more meaning than there. When the lockdown is lifted, I’m definitely paying the Summit Club in Hillbrow a visit, for purposes of research. After all, where two or three are gathered in his name, he’s in our midst.