The Stench That Broke the Church

When the altar lost its holiness, the village lost its way.

In the village, religion was always sacred, its leaders were held in the highest regard. Those were not just preachers; they were the chosen ones, as respected as the village elders, andû ago, ahonia ithemithû, and even the feared witches. The villagers saw their pastors as anointed messengers of God, untouchable, like the graves of their ancestors. Pointing fingers at them, questioning their ways, was believed to bring misfortune upon oneself.

The religious leaders in Gitithia weren’t simply chosen—they emerged, called by a higher power. They guided the people, not with arrogance but with humility, embodying the will of God. They stayed out of petty village squabbles and never let their personal desires taint the divine oil that had been poured over them during their consecration ceremonies, known as kíamûro. Their lives were an embodiment of the faith they preached, and in return, the villagers honored them as living symbols of God’s will.

The villagers never probed into the lives of these religious leaders. They knew these men and women were human, yet divinely called. They didn’t gossip about them, or worse, plot their downfall. Protecting these leaders was a collective responsibility, for they represented the moral and spiritual fabric of Gitithia. The village thrived in peace, united under a common belief in their sanctified leadership.

But then, a new generation of religious leaders arrived. Some hailed from within the village, while others came from faraway places like Ukambani. The winds of change blew through the village, and with it came a shift in how religion was practiced. What had once been a calling became a profession. Preaching was no longer about guiding souls but about filling pockets. Sermons were now punctuated by subtle pleas for money, and politics began to seep into the sacred grounds.

Politicians and the rich villagers, ever mindful of power and influence, started dishing out money in the churches, buying the loyalty of the very religious leaders the village had once revered. The holy grounds, where the village pioneers once walked barefoot in reverence, were now being trampled by those seeking worldly gains. The divine call that had once guided the leaders of Gitithia had faded, replaced by greed and ambition.

The breaking point came one Sunday morning, when an old woman, Wa Karanja, who the villagers whispered was under the influence of unknown spirits, walked into one of the village’s churches. Without a word, she made her way to the altar, defecated on it, made a holy noise and left as quickly as she had arrived. The sight was shocking enough, but the stench was worse. The pile she left behind was enormous, resembling the elephant dung the villagers occasionally saw in Kiriita forest. The foul odor filled the church, lingering long after Wa Karanja had gone.

As the congregation sat in stunned silence, the village elders knew this was not just an act of madness. Wa Karanja’s defilement of the altar was a sign—an omen that something had gone terribly wrong in Gitithia. The sacred had been soiled, not just physically, but spiritually.

From that day on, things began to fall apart. The village churches, once united in their purpose, began to split. Leaders fought for control, not just over the pulpit but over money and power. It was war—war for leadership, war for wealth, and war for the soul of the village itself. What had once been a refuge of faith became a battlefield, and the villagers, confused and disillusioned, wondered if their days of true religion had been forever lost.

As the churches fractured, some villagers longed for the days when faith was pure, when calling was genuine, and when the sacred oil still had its power. But those days seemed far away, buried under the weight of greed, pride, and the stench of betrayal.