Long time ago, when the trees still listened and the wind carried news faster than drums, our church gathered under a wide tin roof for the induction of newly elected leaders. Women had wrapped their lesos bright as morning, men leaned on their walking sticks, and children sat close to the door, because even silence wanted to hear what would be said.
Among us sat Retired Elder Ng’ang’a. He was the last remaining elder who had seen our church as a seed, as a shoot, and as a shade-giving tree. His hair was white like ash with particles of charcoal here and there after a good fire, and his eyes were calm, the kind that has watched many seasons come and go.
When it was his turn to speak, he did not hurry his words. He stood, cleared his throat, and asked a question the way elders do—like setting a trap for wisdom.
“Tell me,” he said, “What happens when a drunkard has no money?” The new leaders looked at one another, then answered together, their voices confident. “He sells his valuable property—TV, mattress, bed, sofas. He sells cows and goats. He even sells land—at a throwaway price—just to buy another beer.” Elder Ng’ang’a clapped his hands once, sharp and pleased. “Perfect,” he said. “You are good observers of life.”
Then he leaned forward and asked again, his voice lower now, heavier. “What then would happen to a nation whose president is a drunkard? A county whose governor is a drunkard? A constituency whose member of parliament is a drunkard? A ward with an MCA who is a drunkard?”
This time the answer came quickly, like rain after thunder. “They would sell the nation, the county, the constituency, the ward—its valuable resources—at a throwaway price, to buy what they want: beer.”
The elder nodded slowly. You could hear the roof creak, as if it too was thinking. Then he lifted his walking stick and pointed it gently toward the altar. “Now tell me,” he said, “what will happen to this church if you get drunk?”
The people shifted. Some cleared their throats. Elder Ng’ang’a did not wait for an answer. “Being drunk,” he said, “is not only about beer. A person can be drunk with power. Drunk with positions. Drunk with self-interest. Drunk with praise. Drunk with the things of this world.” He paused, letting the words settle like dust after a stampede.
“The biggest problem,” he continued, “is not only giving up what is valuable to the church. The biggest problem is being drunk in the first place. Because a drunkard does not know the value of what he is selling.”
He looked at the new leaders, one by one. “As you take over the leadership of this church,” he said, “purpose to remain sober.” He sat down, and the church stayed quiet, the way it does when truth has arrived.
And now, as the storyteller, I ask you— Are you sober? Or does your behavior show that you are drunk?
Among us sat Retired Elder Ng’ang’a. He was the last remaining elder who had seen our church as a seed, as a shoot, and as a shade-giving tree. His hair was white like ash with particles of charcoal here and there after a good fire, and his eyes were calm, the kind that has watched many seasons come and go.
When it was his turn to speak, he did not hurry his words. He stood, cleared his throat, and asked a question the way elders do—like setting a trap for wisdom.
“Tell me,” he said, “What happens when a drunkard has no money?” The new leaders looked at one another, then answered together, their voices confident. “He sells his valuable property—TV, mattress, bed, sofas. He sells cows and goats. He even sells land—at a throwaway price—just to buy another beer.” Elder Ng’ang’a clapped his hands once, sharp and pleased. “Perfect,” he said. “You are good observers of life.”
Then he leaned forward and asked again, his voice lower now, heavier. “What then would happen to a nation whose president is a drunkard? A county whose governor is a drunkard? A constituency whose member of parliament is a drunkard? A ward with an MCA who is a drunkard?”
This time the answer came quickly, like rain after thunder. “They would sell the nation, the county, the constituency, the ward—its valuable resources—at a throwaway price, to buy what they want: beer.”
The elder nodded slowly. You could hear the roof creak, as if it too was thinking. Then he lifted his walking stick and pointed it gently toward the altar. “Now tell me,” he said, “what will happen to this church if you get drunk?”
The people shifted. Some cleared their throats. Elder Ng’ang’a did not wait for an answer. “Being drunk,” he said, “is not only about beer. A person can be drunk with power. Drunk with positions. Drunk with self-interest. Drunk with praise. Drunk with the things of this world.” He paused, letting the words settle like dust after a stampede.
“The biggest problem,” he continued, “is not only giving up what is valuable to the church. The biggest problem is being drunk in the first place. Because a drunkard does not know the value of what he is selling.”
He looked at the new leaders, one by one. “As you take over the leadership of this church,” he said, “purpose to remain sober.” He sat down, and the church stayed quiet, the way it does when truth has arrived.
And now, as the storyteller, I ask you— Are you sober? Or does your behavior show that you are drunk?
