After a quiet Saturday morning, I meet Catherine at her place. I have never been in this part of Cape Coast before and probably wouldn’t be able to find the place on my own again. Catherine lives on a hill, with a great view across parts of Cape Coast. That does not mean it is a desirable area, though. We sit together in a room with a table, chairs, a fridge, couches. There is a picture of her dad on the wall, one of Jesus and a poster with a Ghanaian woman saying ‘Akwaaba’. On the floor is a pile with school books and a bible. I look at the books and we talk about school, learning, education. Catherine says she wants continue her education at university, if God permits. But life is hard right now. We talk about God and Catherine recites verses from the bible. Jesus loves everybody, God’s kingdom will come. Trust in Him and He will help you. He never disappoints anybody. I try to discuss with her what I learned in school. About opposing views in the bible. I receive an answer to everything. My disbelief and insecurity in religious questions worry Catherine. She calls her pastor, maybe he can talk to me. Fortunately for me, he is busy right now. When I come to church the following day, he will pray for me, he promises. I want to know why Catherine attends services at this particular church despite the distance to her home. ‘They helped me. They supported me when I asked them for help.’ I promise that I will meet her Sunday morning to accompany her to church. Her brother comes and she explains to him who I am and what we are doing. I am curious what his view is. He joins us and supports Catherine in what she says, bringing forward quotes that she recited earlier.
Sunday morning, as agreed I wait at Master Sam Junction. I am on time. Catherine is not there. I call her. ‘You are there? Okay, I am coming.’ While I wait for her, I watch people in nice dresses going to their churches. I wonder who of them I will meet again at the service. They will definitely recognize me, a white girl sitting in the sun on a low wall at the corner of a street. Catherine also wears a beautiful, yellow dress, sewn especially for her. A Sunday dress. The church we go to takes place in a classroom. The walls are covered with cloth to hide paintings and posters of the alphabet and numbers. Catherine wants me to meet the pastor, before the service. When she spots him, we go outside to greet him. He is a young man and also concerned about my spiritual welfare when I have to tell him, that I have problems with steadfastly believing in God. Catherine watches us with a look worried but full of expectation. Will I be saved? The pastor leads me behind the building, takes both of my hands, closes his eyes and prays for me. Prays for strength, for guidance, that Jesus may help me find to God and trust in him. When he is finished, he gives me a hug and together we go back inside where everybody is waiting. Of course, the service is in Fanti. There almost only women with some children. Most men, Catherine explains, attend the service on Tuesdays. We sing a lot. Catherine is a front singer and very passionate about it. I didn’t know about that. I don’t know what they are singing and preaching. When they pray, some of the women are almost frenzied. Hands raised, eyes shut closely, they sway forward and backward, murmuring intensely. I am glad that I sit in the back row. Suddenly, everybody turns, kneels down, buries their head in their arms on the plastic chairs and the praying starts again. I have no choice than join them. The pastor is striding through the rows of chairs, encouraging his flock with a loud voice. ‘One more minute hard prayer!’ It is the only time he uses English words. I am getting sick of all this shouting. It is too much for me. ‘We are finishing right now.’ Catherine is reassuring me. Now they pray with oranges in their hand. Apparently, last time they had salt, this time they were told to bring oranges. They want to make a drink out of it. I can’t really follow. Everyone who is born on a Wednesday is called forward and the pastor blesses them. Now everyone is stepping forward and the pastor puts something on each person’s forehead. Some of them he pushes so hard that they stumble backwards. I want to refuse, Catherine is at the front already, singing. However, other women urge me to join them with demanding looks and gestures. I join the queue and allow the pastor to put something slimy, greasy on my brow. It runs into my eyes. ‘What is it?’ - ‘Oil of God.’ I am really uncomfortable now and can’t wait for the service to be over. It has already been three hours. A woman shows around a piece of white cloth with a black pattern, funeral cloth. The pastor’s mother died and for the funeral, everyone is told to buy this cloth. This looks like the end of the service. I want to go, but Catherine wants me to see the pastor again. She pushes me to the front, where the pastor is still talking to other women. It is one of the small boys birthdays. Then it is my turn. My forehead is again covered with more of God’s Oil, the pastor takes my hands into his and prays. In his community, he is sure, I will find God. I can’t tell Catherine how uncomfortable I am, but I can’t hide it completely either. She is sorry for that and apologizes again and again. Maybe it was worth the experience. I don’t need to repeat it, though.
