100 whips

I entered a mosque

I spent the evening at a mosque.

Unintentionally.

I went for my first ever evangelism outreach today. Our church was having a crusade and I thought it a good avenue to actually put my faith to work.

So I strapped my backpack — because I had just closed from work — and followed the older evangelist to the field. We parked the car, got out, and agreed to return in forty-five minutes.

What could I possibly do in 45 minutes? Alas, I decided to trust God.

It was cute, actually. I did the cute-girl routine of grinning and inviting.

It was a great tactic, actually: I'd ask the locals for directions to the venue of our crusade, which was somewhere in the area, and after they'd finish explaining, I'd tell them we were having a program there tomorrow — and I was glad they knew exactly where it would be.

I learnt some names. I made a few children laugh. Some women smiled politely; most men smiled enthusiastically. And sooner than later, the tracts in my hands had finished.

And then I saw a man sitting with his phone and decided to invite him too.

Malam Buhari was his name — but I didn't find that out until I waved him goodbye to return to the church bus.

You see, Malam Buhari was Hausa. I could tell the way you could tell an Igbo man just by the air, or the Anambraness surrounding him.

Knowing fully well that 90% of Hausa people in Nigeria are Muslim, I asked Malam Buhari what church he attended.

And because I was a girl, and my smile was bright, he politely shook his head and said he didn't go to church.

I asked why, and he said he went to a mosque.

Ahhh.

So I asked which mosque he attended, and that's when he told me the building we were sitting in front of was a mosque.

A quick glance inside the small room, and I could see colourful prayer mats draping across the tiles.

Ten minutes into our conversation, I had gathered that Malam Buhari was a mechanic who only dealt with keke brakes, that his second-in-command could change tyres, and that he couldn't come for my crusade the next day because it was at 4:30 and he would be very busy around that time — and besides, "you Christians" always wasted time in service, and the only people who went to church were people who had time to spare.

Malam Buhari was on break. The time read 4:50 pm and he was going to return to his mechanic shop in a few minutes and work till 7 or 8:30. He probably needed rest, and maybe a bottle of Sprite. But I was cute, so he indulged me.

He explained how church services took too long — all the singing and dancing and collecting of money. That in his mosque, Friday prayers could be as minimal as ten minutes and he could go about his day. It was just a prayer between him and God, without other things people wouldn't even understand.

Aside from the time-wasting perspective, Malam Buhari also mentioned how church wasn't accessible to people like him — Hausas, or Muslims. We didn't quite get around to defining that distinction.

In his words, if he were to walk up to Saint Matthew's — the biggest church on his street — he wouldn't be let in.

By this time, three other Hausa men had joined us.

Alhaji (I can't remember his name), Malam Suleman, and Alhaji Muhammed.

Alhaji Muhammed was the Imam of this particular mosque. He asked Malam Buhari if I was trying to invite him to my church.

I said yes.

Alhaji Muhammed said they wouldn't be allowed in.

And I asked why.

This was a topic Malam Buhari and I had been debating for at least three minutes before the other men joined.

Alhaji I- can't-remember-his-name said if he dressed with his jalamia and entered a church that my own pastor will chase him out. I told him that he could wear his Jalamia , that my dad had something similar (which he does) and that Mr Suleman could even come with his scalp cap.

Completely flabbergasted by the conversation, yet respectful, I told them that I was inviting them to my church, and I could vouch that nobody would turn them away. I would, in fact, welcome them myself.

At this, they all laughed and asked what would happen if I wasn't there.

"100 whips," Malam Suleman interjected. He then narrated how a girl from Christ's Embassy had told him he'd have to receive 100 whips before a church would accept him — and that if he flinched, they'd have to start the count again. That story had scared him completely from our religion.

Alhaji Muhammed had gone silent at this point, and so had I.

But one thing was clear: all four of them believed they were not welcome in a Christian church.

I don't know if what they told me was true, if they were just indulging me, or if they were simply looking for reasons not to come to my crusade. But it was an interesting conversation — and if my church bus hadn't been waiting, I may have stayed as long as the conversation warranted.

Talking to other humans will always be my favourite thing to do.

Sometimes.