When Jorge Mario Bergoglio, the Argentinian Pope known to Twitterati as @Pontifex died, I was shooting the breeze in my little flat in Athi River, Kenya.

My first reflex, as an African, was to scramble for the phone to confirm his time of death: Monday, 7.35 am. Not bad at all! Right there, I knew that reading obituaries crafted by world leaders’ press desks would be pointless. Time of death was sufficient proof that Pope Francis was a righteous man.

In these parts, an elder whose spirit is pure sets off with the sunset or the rising sun to the land yonder. But the evildoer who oozes corruption? The cursed scumbag goes kicking and screaming in the blazing midday sun. African gods are ruthless. They dispatch the bastard off in broad daylight so that all-knowing neighbours can whisper, “Told you.”

The time of death is such a deeply ingrained sin-metre that scandalised kin have been known to keep a tight lid on such deaths by not dashing about in frenzied wails from huts reeking of fresh death. They maintain, instead, a pretense that all is well – until dusk when they run hither and thither, screaming luwere – it is over and done with.

But Africa being a massive wall with gigantic ears spread all over, what happens at midday never remains hidden in the glare of the midday sun. There is always a herdsman, a woman gathering firewood, or a merry drunk loitering within spitting distance of the dying man’s hut. They hear the evil spirit depart, and they whisper.  

And so, the purveyors of evil are cursed to skulk through life knowing that African Gods are unforgiving; and that they discharge comeuppance on one’s deathbed – wham! – unlike the Christian God who allows you to live in sinful comfort, confident that judgment day will be a zillion years away when everyone who knows you will be long dead and buried.

Waiting for white smoke

The sudden death of this pious Man of God, however, saddened and worried me, much as it was expected following his long ailment. What kind of man would the white smoke billowing out of the Vatican’s Sistine Chapel unveil to replace him? Would he be a sissy and conniving charlatan or a fearless shepherd with the spine to resolutely poke fingers into the devil’s nose, even when it sat on gilded thrones in the promised land or the palaces of the most powerful empires in the world?

I, however, found comfort in the knowledge that my country, Kenya, has had five black Popes in 60 years – and counting.

At the turn of independence, in the Lake Victoria region, catechist Simeo Ondeto and his wife, Gaundencia Aoko, claimed to have undergone “prophetic experiences” that invested them with “divine authority and directed them to reject traditional magic and divine healers.” The church took one listen and kicked their backsides out. Excommunicated!

Unbowed, the couple, perhaps after a sumptuous meal of kuon gi rech (ugali and fish), sat down and said, “How about we fashion a religion based on Catholic principles that incorporates African traditions?”

That is how Legio Maria was formed. Ondeto declared himself “Messiah” and henceforth became known as Molour Mogik Mesia Melkio Simeo Ondeto. According to Britannica, this was a new all-African church that offered free healing by prayer and the exorcism of evil spirits. It drew an estimated 90,000 members in its first year of existence. Not bad at all. Evil spirits have always been big in Africa.

Miracle babies

More intriguing, the Legio mass is conducted in Latin and vernacular languages. If they didn’t frown upon polygamy, traditional medicines, alcohol, tobacco, and dancing, I probably would have thrown in my lot with them.

Decades after Legio Maria was founded, a miracle bishop in the mould of Jesus Christ arose from the same shores of Lake Victoria. A charismatic televangelist, he had his moment in the sun, dining with the high and mighty, until he was “crucified” for making “miracle babies”. The police claimed he was a child trafficker; that he stole babies and handed them to women who were desperate for a child in Nairobi’s seedy backstreets. Of course, he was acquitted for lack of evidence. It takes years of dedicated research for the Catholic Church to prove that a miracle occurred, and here were Kenyan police dreaming that they could refute one by merely mumbling “copy that” in their walkie-talkies.

While this saga was simmering, a prophet – a mighty one – arose from the same land. An Israeli-trained and distinguished man of letters with an impressive beard, he isn’t your run-of-the-mill preacher. The self-styled mightiest prophet of the Lord considers himself more badass than the prophet Elijah; a man whose arrival was pronounced in the Old Testament, he has been to heaven and back – no kidding – where he broke bread with Jesus Christ and the Vicar of Vicars, the First Pope of the Catholic Church, the fisher of men and rock of the church himself, the apostle Peter.

Now, if you chug up the hills in search of the source of River Nzoia, Lake Victoria’s largest tributary, high up there on the hills reside Gods, Messiahs and Christs – some alive, others long dead.

First was Jehovah Wanyonyi, the self-proclaimed god and leader of the Lost Israelites. Wanyonyi was a god styled in the manner of King Solomon, dispensing wisdom while presiding over a 70-wife harem, the majority aged between 14 and 18, at Chemororoch village in Uasin Gishu County. Jehovah Wanyonyi could cure Aids, cancer, and hypertension, he said.

Crucify him!

Unfortunately, he inexplicably got fed up with life and died in 2015 aged only 98. His bereft followers were instructed by his family to fast and await his resurrection after three days, but it turned out to be a long wait for Godot.

And then there is Eliud Wekesa, the “Jesus of Tongaren”. His followers dance seven times around his church to “wash away the sins committed in Africa, Europe, Asia, South America, North America, the Arctic and Antarctica.”

The jolly chap was becoming something of a media celebrity, until online wags said, “You are Jesus, right? We have to crucify you this Easter!” Recognising that in Kenya, innocent men have been crucified after being mistaken for chicken thieves, Jesus of Tongaren went underground. His spirit, I guess, was willing, but the body? Alas!

Not too far from Jesus of Tongaren in Nandolia Village, Bungoma County, lives Nabii Yohana (V), the reincarnated John the Baptist. Like most Kenyan gods and prophets, he too sprouts a long, bushy beard. What makes him special, however, is that he can resurrect the dead by stepping five times on their backs. Cool, yeah?

“I am the way, the truth and the last prophet sent by God to save mankind from corruption, homosexuality and bad governance. When Jesus Christ was crucified, he gave me the power to raise the dead,” he says. Indeed, if the Vatican had gotten off its high horse and called Nabii Yohana (V), Pope Francis would be alive today.

These things crossed my mind as I, like millions of people across the world, sat gripped by sadness as we watched the Pontiff’s funeral on television. When they sealed his coffin shut, I, however, felt a strange comfort.

“Papa, you have gone, but your trusty stalwarts here in Kenya will ably hold the fort till we meet again,” I prayed.

But then, I came to my senses. Till we meet again? Was I out of my freaking mind? Good grief!

First of all, I never met the man – at least not in person. Second, Pope Francis was a man who trod the narrow path with dogged determination his entire adult life, while I, the grandson of Ibrahim, have swaggered down the wide path with unruly enthusiasm since facing the circumciser.

There is, therefore, a snowball’s chance in hell of Pope Francis and I ever bumping into each other in the hereafter. Come to think of it, I might just kick the proverbial bucket in the blazing heat of the midday sun.

Bloody hell.

Ted Malanda is an environmental journalist and former editor at The Standard in Nairobi. Email: ted.malanda@gmail.com