You know, it’s baffling how we’ve got laws against pyramid schemes and campaigns against the evils of cigarettes, yet the scams parading as churches get a free pass in Namibia.
Now, don’t worry about me, I’ve got a confirmed booking in hell, so I can freely vent about these shady church leaders without worrying about my heavenly status.
Take Amushelelo, for instance – one little scheme, and he’s in hot water.
But a self-proclaimed man of God can sell water straight from the city’s sewage plant as holy water, and suddenly he’s in business. Can you spot the hypocrisy here? Both promise rewards, and neither deliver, yet one ends up behind bars, and the other continues peddling dreams.
Sure, I get it. One is all about the money, and the other convinces the flock that a bearded man is chilling 4 000 metres above the clouds, sipping on omaere from a holy cow. The one performing fake magic tricks on earth is apparently fighting demons, while the pyramid scheme founder is just a straightforward criminal.
Remember Da Fonsech?
The saviour of the misled, raiding tin-house synagogues across Namibia?
She herded them into magistrate’s courts, only for the prosecutors to scratch their heads, just to find that it is hard to convince the courts that selling dreams, holy-shit water, snake oil or even armpit sweat from a dancing prophet is against the law.
Oh, and I’ve tasted some of that holy water. It’s like taking a sip from a prophet’s armpit. And before you raise an eyebrow, let me remind you of that time you ended up between the legs of a prophet in front of the cameras.
Ah, good times we’ve all had.
Have you heard about the church making the flock drink pink water to puke out demons? Or the one where unfaithful men get cooked into stew for their wives? And don’t get me started on the church where adult men in robes would baptise young boys with sodomy. Touchy subject, huh?
Oh, how I wish we had a Katt Williams interview on the religious comedians to hang it on the wire for all to see. Tah, many in Namibia would not survive such truth.
A friend once called this whole Jesus business and the faith mafia “vomitously horrid”, and I couldn’t agree more. If there’s a god up there, maybe a three-digit brand on the right wrist for legit disciples and prophets would be a game changer.
Imagine the reckoning – we’d have to rebuild the clergy from the ground up.
We can’t leave it all to divine intervention, though – no, we will introduce one earthly test too.
Each wannabe prophet, pastor or minister would have to visit the hospital where real ill people lie and heal at least one.
The government would then provide each with a monthly allowance and a Toyota bakkie – just like they do with traditional leaders – for community outreach projects.
Yep, call me crazy, but any human activity wreaking havoc on citizens should be regulated or even banned. If the late Hage could pull the plug on alcohol sales on a whim, why not put a stop to another form of intoxication called holy communion? Intoxication is intoxication, no matter the venue.
One last thing. Have you noticed how we all travel to Swakopmund for the holidays with all the checks to ensure the car is safe, the driver is sober and the cool box is tip-top?
The entire B1 would be lined with roadblocks to stop any dangerous vehicles?
Well, some are supposedly on their way to heaven, but their vehicles are not roadworthy, brakes don’t work, the trucks are full of stinky skeletons and the drivers don’t have licences.
Will this bunch arrive alive?
And now that I’ve probably ticked you off deeply, here’s my location: I am sitting at a holy fire at Otjombinde.
Come get a pound of my flesh to ease your conscience. It sure feels safer here; at least I haven’t heard of anyone getting violated at the holy fire.
Funny how seeking sanctuary involves fire and not divine intervention, huh?
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