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MY cousin Piri is convinced that Christianity and too much prayer is killing joy, especially among urban women. She has come to this conclusion after attending one baby shower and two kitchen parties.  According to Piri, there is more laughter at a funeral than at the pre-wedding women-only kitchen party or before birth baby shower.
She will not be persuaded to think otherwise because she has the facts.

“Sis, Christianity is killing fun,” Piri whispered when we were at one kitchen party in Borrowdale last month.
This was no ordinary cheap kitchen party with little resources.
No, it was not like that.

It looked more like a wedding with catering, waiters and waitresses, hired tent, chairs and napkins.
There were more than a hundred women mostly dressed in African dresses because this was the dress code that was clearly mentioned on the glossy invitation card.

Women of all ages from around 20 years to over 70, including the grandmother of the bride-to-be, were there. The Master of Ceremony was a pastor’s wife. She looked beautiful in her long African print purple and orange dress and a matching headscarf.

We sat in a tent, outside a huge recently renovated double storey house belonging to the bride-to-be’s aunt, tete vake. We listened quietly to the gospel and words of wisdom from different speakers. In between the preaching, there were a couple of church songs followed by some gentle confessions from one or two women who said they used to be lazy, spending the whole day watching Africa Magic movies waiting for the husband to come home. Then they found Jesus and He made them realise that a good wife does not only subject to her husband, but works hard, she cooks, cleans and cares for him.

He is also the head of the house. Another woman then said these days, we can also add that the wife is the neck who controls where the head goes. Then people laughed gently and the sermons continued.
The next song was about God’s love and our desire to be with Jesus in heaven when we die.

“Sis, see? How can we sit here and think of death? This is meant to be a celebration of marriage,” Piri said again, nudging her friend Chandi, the one who sells second hand clothes from America.

She came to the kitchen party too although she did not know the brideto-be.
I told them both to shut up because they were beginning to attract the attention of the MC.
Misbehaving and showing lack of respect like this could result in a dollar or two dollars fine.

But they were not going to keep quiet.
“We came here to this rich suburb thinking today was the day of quenching beer thirst. We planned to dance and let loose. But we are now in church. Very soon the priest will appear with his flowing purple and white robes and we will be asked to confess and have mass. God help us,” said Chandi.

“We are not close relatives and nobody will miss us if we leave,” Piri said.
I then told her that it was bad manners to arrive at a party, greet everyone, give your present, sit and admire the bride-to-be then disappear without saying good bye.

“Why would I stay here when there is no beer and no men? Who allowed preaching and prayers to take over fun and dance at a kitchen party?”
So, for the third time in two months, Piri forced me to consider leaving a kitchen party half way before it was complete.
During a song interlude, we sneaked away.

As we drove towards the city, Piri turned to Chandi and asked, “Why do we let the Christians take over everything from funerals, birthday parties, baby showers, kitchen parties and weddings?”

“Taura zvako sahwira!” said Chandi, meaning, well-said my friend. “What is wrong in drinking beer or wine? The Bible says drink but do not get too drunk.” Inwai asi musararadze. Chandi gave us a short sermon in the car.

She said there was a passage in the Bible when Jesus went to a wedding at Cana in Galilee and the wine ran out.
According to St John Chapter 2, Jesus Christ himself turned water into wine and people got merry. They enjoyed massive quantities of wine coming out of kegs.

“I think we are becoming a very sad and miserable people,” said Chandi. And Piri agreed saying her visits to church last year made her realise that there were few Christian songs that give you reason to celebrate life.

She sang one of them in which a newly born again Christian tells people to come to God now before they get sick or before they die because after death, there is no prayer. Seri kweguva hakuna muteuro.

“What do you say, Sis?” Piri asked.
I have been thinking about this too, wondering why we celebrate God’s love much less than we should. We seem to connect the idea of worship with death, pain, sin, suffering, hell and begging for forgiveness.

Life was not meant to be about shame and misery because as people, we are not as intrinsically bad and guilty as we sometimes feel.
Surely God did not mean for us to sit and pray for hours on end and ask for forgiveness of sin day after day? And why should we fear death as if one of us has been there and come back to tell us that it’s all fire and brimstone in hell?

There was a time when we used to be a lot happier than we are now. I recall those days back in the village when we played so many games like chidhange chindange, and the hide and seek gwegwegwe gwendurugwegwe.

Under the moonlight in the dry season when the cold spell was over, we helped the elders to prepare mamera, the red millet to use in our week-long beer preparation. Then we did the countdown to the night of the beer drinking and dancing ceremony. I recall, the sound of mbira, the drum and solo pitched voices followed by the many others, each one singing their own way. There was no practice and no song book. And yet we knew the songs passed on from generation to generation.

And in those days, back in the village, most people did not go to church. We went to church only on a Sunday often because the church was connected to the school.

Others, like my grandmother Mbuya VaMandirowesa, avoided the church like the plague. She said it killed our culture. She celebrated the ancestors and participated in ceremonies. Our ancestral spirits lived with us.

Late at night, during bira ceremonies, spirit mediums or masvikiro got possessed and gave us messages from the ancestral spirits. That way, we were given counsel on how to live and behave according to the ancient customs of our people.

If there was shame or guilt for an evil done, that was shared by the extended family. The individual concerned was forced to correct his or her behaviour.

They said the worst crime was to be rude or nasty to your mother. For such a crime, a man or woman dressed up in sacks and moved around the villages begging for grain, kutanda botso. After days of begging, the grain was made into beer, a beast was killed and there was a ceremony in which people sang, danced, drank beer and mocked the offender.

Then the sin against the mother was cleansed forever. The Christian God or Jesus Christ was not involved.
Looking back, I can see that Mbuya VaMandirowesa, my mother and many others in the village were a lot happier than we are now, even though their lives were mostly lived under Rhodesian colonialism.

The government did not allow them to come to the city because this was not a free space for them.
African women had no business to live in Salisbury, Bulawayo, Umtali or any of the major colonial cities. They struggled, but they were happier than we are now, even though they did not talk to Jesus every day.

Varoora, the women who married my mother’s nephews, used to come and play the clowns at funerals in our village.
They did many skits to imitate the deceased, making everyone laugh even if they were in mourning. Years later, they now come and sit there, leading in prayer or song. No more jokes. We feel the seriousness of their polite decorum, their long prayers and soft sadness.

After independence, the baby shower and kitchen parties were places of fun where we shared sexual knowledge, humour and satire in the absence of men.

But we are becoming more restrained, more formal, subdued, behaving like the European women of the Victorian era.
The clock of joy has gone backwards. Maybe, too much prayer is ruining cultural fun, good humour, creativity, dance, songs and jokes. Everything that we used to enjoy is being slaughtered while we kneel down and pray.

Just after we drove past the President’s house and police headquarters, Piri pointed to the shops. “Stop, I need a beer. After two hours of worship with women only on a Saturday afternoon, I need to relax.”

We stopped at Fife Avenue shopping centre.
Piri and Chandi went straight into a liquor centre and grabbed two cans each from the refrigerators. I saw them waiting to pay, talking, laughing and clapping hands together, causing people to turn their heads.

They looked happy. And yet, one would point at them and say they were sinners. How shall we find happiness without thinking of sin?
“I am done with parties that are like church gatherings. Let me go back to my one room any time and I will be happy. And, if possible, throw me a good man for company,” Piri said laughing loudly as they both got back into the car.

Dr Sekai Nzenza is the CEO of Rio Zim Foundation. She writes in her personal capacity.