Online Reporter
BACK in the day in New Magwegwe, there were some things you simply knew.
You knew which house had the loudest radio.
You knew which family had the best footballers.
And you knew which church every family in the block belonged to.
Almost every house was a known Christian home. So when Saturday or Sunday came, depending on which church you attended, you knew where your friends were.
You didn’t even bother looking for them.
“Umjida uye echurch.” Case closed.
If he was not at home, he was probably in church, in Sunday School, singing in the choir or being dragged along by umasalu.
In my case, I was, and thankfully still am, part of the United Congregational Church of Southern Africa, better known ekasi as amaLondon.
And growing up ekasi as a church-going youngster came with its own entertainment.
Because church was not just church; it was a competition.
The great New Magwegwe debates could start anywhere, at the street corner, outside koMabhodoko, after street football or while walking home.
Which church is better? Which church sings better? Which choir is the best?
And then came the question that could completely derail the whole debate:
“Kodwa yiyiphi ichurch elamankazana amahle?”
That was the real championship!
When someone brought up the beautiful girls debate, just like that, the theological discussion would become a beauty contest.
We could argue about it for hours. Nobody wanted to lose and nobody had evidence.
It was simply kasi intelligence.
One thing about amaLondon, those hymn books were serious business. Some of us went to church so regularly that, without even planning it, we ended up memorising hymn after hymn.
Eventually, you could hear the opening line and your mouth would automatically continue.
Nobody had sat you down and said, “You must memorise this.”
You simply attended enough services until the hymns entered your bloodstream. Today, remembering a mobile phone number can be a struggle.
Then there was the Sunday outfit. Sunday was different.
For many of us, it was the one day of the week when you were expected to look like you had somewhere very important to go.
And you didn’t choose the clothes, umasalu chose for you.
You would wake up, bath and come out feeling ready to put on whatever you wanted.
Only to discover that your outfit had already been selected.
And if there was a special service? Out came the serious clothes; shirt, trousers, polished shoes and, for some of us, the ultimate weapon: the bow tie.
You would look at yourself in the mirror and suddenly feel like you were going to address a very important gathering. Even your walk changed. You didn’t simply walk to church.
You displayed the Sunday Best. Every step had meaning, you knew your friends were watching, you knew the girls were watching.
After all, what was the point of dressing smart if nobody ekasi saw you?
Then came Sunday School. This was where another competition quietly began; the memory verse.
You would spend the entire week trying to cram that verse into your head, not always because you were preparing for a deep spiritual journey.
Church news also travelled quickly.
Someone would meet you at the street corner and give you the latest.
By the time you got home, you had become the unofficial church correspondent for your household.
And when the services ended, New Magwegwe slowly came alive again.
Children in their Sunday Best would be running around, adults would stand by the gates talking, church members would stop to greet one another.
Young people would walk home in groups, stretching conversations that had probably started before the service.
The church was part of the rhythm of the neighbourhood.
Those were our Sundays. Those were our kasi days!
