34

DIVINE WIND

THE PROPHET HALLELUJAH HAD WRESTLED WITH THE problem in his study all afternoon. How could he outshine an encounter with a brown Madonna? One journalist was already sniffing round. Even if it turned out to be a hoax, the media would descend en masse for a sensational story like this. And the Catholics would get all the credit.

It was infuriating. He had spent years focusing his energies on building a reputation as the most dynamic spiritual showman in the province, only to be finessed by a schoolgirl who claimed to have seen Ma-Jesu. Without a shred of corroborating evidence, yet people already believed her. If he couldn’t think of something better, his followers and their tithes might decamp to the opposition.

But what?

A mass pilgrimage up the nearby koppie to the holy rock would take too long to arrange. Baptisms and gospel choir competitions needed weeks of advance preparation. A foot-washing ceremony would be too corny. Casting out spirits wasn’t in the same league. A competing miracle like a bleeding statue (available from a firm in Florence that specialised in trick tear-duct devices) would be too obvious. Perhaps he should hire an events organiser from Joburg? In his days as a PR executive for a firm that produced skin-lightening creams, Harold Jabula had learnt the value of events organisers. His Cream Queen for a Day festivals had attracted thousands of women who’d spent weeks slathering on creams with dangerous levels of hydroquinone to achieve paleness.

He had chosen his junior wives from the festival finalists, and a fine bunch they were – after they’d been weaned off the scarring creams. All agreed that he was an excellent husband, provider and patriarch. His tribe of children had grown and flourished; the oldest were at private boarding schools and university now, as were a number of local kids on his scholarships. The Prophet Hallelujah had achieved the ultimate good life rooted in service to the community, and was prepared to fight hard to maintain it.

But mega-events were expensive and took a lot of preparation. So what, then? He needed a quick, effective, Correct Baptised-friendly marvel to deflect attention from the Catholic vision.

‘Hal, are you busy?’ The voice came from behind him. His first wife, Violet, who knew all his secrets, was the only person allowed to enter the inner sanctum without knocking.

‘Yes. Trawling for ideas.’ He indicated his computer screen where he’d been revisiting past triumphs for inspiration.

‘Worried about the brown Madonna?’

‘Absolutely. It’s a disaster. Divine happenings are our thing and this one will outshine us. The media can’t resist Virgin Mary manifestations.’

‘Lourdes has a lot to answer for.’

She came up behind him and put her arms round his shoulders, an elegant woman in a cream linen designer two piece and imported shoes. Violet had stood by her Hal from the time they escaped the hovels their families lived in, through arduous jobs and night school and correspondence college, and been amply rewarded. She may not have been a Cream Queen for a Day beauty, but she was the matriarch of the mansion.

He nuzzled his head against hers. ‘You understand me so well. This is a crisis. We’re in danger of losing our big advantage: people’s conviction that I have a direct line to the Almighty. I do it better than all those honky padres.’

‘Except for Father Liam. I like him. Doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.’

The prophet ignored the praise for his rival. ‘Have you arranged the photo shoot to publicise my new vestments for the singalong baptisms?’

Violet had helped him design a range of robes based on Nigerian national dress: metres of lustrous cottons tucked on the bodice, flowing sleeves edged with tribal-looking embroidery, many-layered skirts billowing as he walked or raised both arms in blessing. On his head he wore round caps with intricate gold-thread motifs and swaying silk tassels. Ropes of knuckle-sized amber and silver beads hung about his neck, weighed down with Ethiopian crosses. The Prophet Hallelujah prided himself on giving the faithful good value.

When she didn’t answer, he tried another tack. ‘My new vestments are impressive, eh?’

‘That’s for sure, my lovey.’ She gave him a cheery squeeze.

‘So help me think of a spectacular happening for the Sabbath. We need some real dynamite. A new prophecy?’

‘You did one two months ago,’ she reminded him. ‘A cure for AIDS will be found in the jungle where it originated, remember?’

‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten.’

‘Hardly surprising. You were in a deep trance.’ She let him go and walked round the custom-built mahogany desk to her chair on the far side. ‘Concentrate now, Hal. Your flock needs you. The Catholics could be a real threat. It’s such a pretty religion, nè? All those colourful statues and banks of candles and the wisps of perfumed smoke curling out when the censers are swung back and forth.’

They’d tried burning dagga for a more mystical ambience at an early gathering, but only once. The congregation had gone all giggly before mellowing into a genial haze of goodwill which lacked the usual foot-stomping zeal.

‘How about this, then? I announce a new ritual for making contact with the ancestors.’

‘Rituals aren’t dramatic enough,’ she objected. ‘We need to think of a big way to turn the vision to advantage, so the Correctly Baptised perceive it as a warning from which you will deliver them. Say, by calling on some greater force. Faith can move mountains, the power of love, etcetera. How about a wind of change?’

‘That’s it!’ he cried. ‘A divine wind. uMoya.’ He lumbered to his feet and went round the desk to embrace her. ‘You’re a genius, Vi.’

‘It’s nothing,’ she murmured, disengaging herself after a few moments so he wouldn’t crush her jacket. ‘So run the concept past me.’

He perched his backside on the desk and bent to grasp her hands, radiating the thrill of fresh inspiration as he reasoned out the process.

‘This is what we’ll do: start by spreading the word that Ma-Jesu has appeared because there are sinners and evil in our community. She came as an African to save Africans, okay? But the Catholics are trying to hush up the manifestation because it doesn’t accord with their dogma. So I step into the breach by summoning uMoya, the wind of the Holy Spirit, at a Sabbath cleansing ceremony. The idea will be to absolve the members of our congregation from their sins and armour them against the forces of evil that brought Ma-Jesu to warn us. How’s that for sweet logic?’

‘Brilliant,’ she breathed. ‘And the stage management?’

‘We’ll ask SABC News and the community radio stations to announce an emergency gathering on Sunday and give it all the trimmings: thunder and lightning sermon, gospel hymns, drums, clapping, chanting and of course a feast. You organise the details and I’ll invite the Hot Gospellers. We’ll give those Catholics an African revelation.’

With a contented smile she watched his enthusiasm take fire. Dear Hal was the genius, of course. She couldn’t believe her luck in having such an exceptional husband. She didn’t object at all to the younger wives. They did all the cooking, housework, childminding, secretarial duties and nighttime pleasuring, leaving her free to pursue her own interests: taking good care of their provider, shopping in the best malls and running the business side of the family enterprise.

Jabula Incorporated had come a long way from its humble beginnings when they’d made their phone calls from the tickey box outside the post office.