The church of St. Peter in Kijiji had been painted white, but on that Sunday it was painted with politics. From far, it looked holy. The cross on top shone, the iron sheets were new, the mango tree outside provided shade for sinners and saints alike. Inside, the floor was made of cement that had been donated by a politician in 2019 who never came back. The benches were old, written with names of children who had sat there and become bodaboda riders because there were no jobs. The altar was covered with a white cloth that Wanjiku had washed on Saturday. God was ready for His service. The problem was that the county was also ready for its service, and the county had three V8s. At eight o'clock, the real service began. The pastor, a good man called Pastor Musa, who had a small stomach and a large Bible, opened with a prayer. The choir sang. They sang off-key, but they sang with heart. The old mamas who sit in front, who have been sitting in front since Moi was president, clapped. The youth who sit at the back, who only come to church because their mothers force them, checked their phones under the benches. Pastor Musa preached from the book of Matthew, chapter twenty-three, about hypocrites who love to be greeted in marketplaces and love the best seats in the synagogue. It was a perfect sermon for what was about to happen, but nobody knew it yet. At ten o'clock, just when he was about to make his final point about humility, his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was on silent, but it vibrated like a sin. He looked at it. The message said, "His Excellency is at the shopping centre. He is walking. Prepare the church." Pastor Musa stopped preaching about hypocrites. He looked at the choir and said, "Let us sing a welcome song. A special welcome." The choir did not have a special welcome song, so they sang the same song again, but louder. The drummer beat the drums as if the drums owed him money. Outside, you could hear them coming. First the bodabodas, fifteen of them, hired at five hundred shillings each to make noise. They revved at the church gate, vroom vroom, as if the church was a racetrack. Then the V8s, white, polished, with flags that were bigger than the church flag. They hooted, not once, but three times, long hoots that said, "We have arrived, stop praying." The whole congregation turned. In a normal church, heads turn when the Holy Spirit enters. In a pre-election church, heads turn when a V8 hoots. Honourable Nyandu stepped out. If you had seen Nyandu on Monday in Nairobi, you would not recognize him on Sunday in Kijiji. On Monday, he wore a blue blazer that cost more than a dairy cow, Italian shoes that feared dust, and a watch that could pay school fees for ten children. On Sunday, he wore a Kaunda suit bought in Gikomba, Bata Ngoma shoes that had been dusted artificially that morning by his personal assistant Mwamba, and a Bible that was still in its cellophane wrapper. He carried the Bible like a man carrying a brick for the first time. Behind him came his entourage, his chairman who clapped even before Nyandu spoke, his women leader who shouted "Our Governor!" even when Nyandu was just sneezing, his youth leader who had a whistle, and Mwamba, the small man with a large forehead who carried a black notebook where all promises were written and later erased. The gate man, who had been given strict instructions by the church elders to keep order, opened the gate with both hands and bowed so low that his head nearly touched the ground. For four years, he had opened the gate for wheelbarrows and for Mama Mboga. Now he was opening it for power. The pastor left the pulpit. This is something that should never happen. The pulpit is for the word of God. But in election season, the pulpit is for the word of the governor. Pastor Musa ran down the three steps from the altar. He ran like a man running to receive a parcel. He shook Nyandu's hand with both hands, as if one hand was not enough respect. "Karibu sana, Your Excellency! Karibu sana! The father of this county has arrived! Our Joshua! Our David!" he shouted. The congregation stood up. The old mama who had sat in the front bench since 1987, who had arthritis and who had come early to get that seat, was gently but firmly removed by the protocol team and taken to the back. She did not complain. She was told the governor would see her later. She had been told that in 2017 also. Nyandu waved. He waved at everyone as if he knew them, although he knew no one except Mwamba. He waved at the choir, he waved at the children, he waved at the cross itself, as if the cross was also a voter. He was led to the front row, which had been covered with a red cloth that morning. The red cloth was the same one used for weddings and funerals. It had been washed. He sat. He did not kneel. He did not pray. He did not say sorry for being late. He sat and crossed his legs and opened his Bible upside down. Akinyi, the Form Three girl who sat two rows behind and wanted to be a journalist, saw it. She wrote in her small notebook, "The governor is reading the Bible upside down. Maybe he is reading heaven from earth." The service continued, but it was no longer a service. It was a waiting lounge for a political rally. Pastor Musa tried to finish his sermon about hypocrites, but his mind was on the envelope that was promised. He preached faster. He said, "And finally, brethren," three times, but he did not finally finish, because the choir was already singing another welcome song to keep the governor awake. Then the offering came. The offering basket went around. People gave twenty shillings, fifty shillings, a hundred shillings, money that had been folded many times. Wanjiku gave fifty shillings that was meant for sugar. When the basket reached Nyandu, he did not put money. He put his hand inside and waved at the people, as if his wave was an offering. Mwamba would put money later, on his behalf, and would announce it loudly. After offering, Pastor Musa looked at Nyandu, Nyandu looked at Mwamba, Mwamba nodded, and Pastor Musa said the words that change a church into a campaign ground. "Brethren, we are blessed today. We have among us His Excellency, our governor, who has been a great friend of this church. He has always supported the work of God. Let us give him a few minutes to greet us." A few minutes in Kenyan church language means you should go and cook lunch, come back, and he will still be speaking. Nyandu stood up. He held the microphone as if he had paid for it. He held the Bible as if it was evidence. "Praise the Lord!" he finally said. He remembered that one. "Praise Him!" the church answered, happy that he remembered God. "My people!" he said. That was the second greeting, the political one. "My people, I am happy to be here today. When I was in Nairobi, in my big office where I serve you, God spoke to me. He said, Nyandu, go back to Kijiji. Your people are there." God had not spoken to Nyandu. Mwamba had spoken to Nyandu and told him that Kijiji had two thousand votes. "I have come to worship with you," he said, although he had come with three V8s, two cameramen, and a loudspeaker in the boot. "I am one of you. I ate mandazi with Otieno at the stage, I rode bodaboda with Kevo, I ate githeri at Wanjiku's house. I am your son!" Mama Kamera, who had been allowed inside the church even though the usher had said no phones, was recording everything. Her red light blinked on the cross. "As your governor, I have done a lot," he continued. "I built roads." He had not built roads. He had repaired one road that led to his hotel. "I brought water." The water was still in a poster. "I gave bursaries." The bursaries had been given to his nieces and nephews. Then he did what every governor does in church. He announced money. "For this church, I will give fifty thousand shillings!" The church exploded. People clapped inside the house of God as if they were in a stadium. The choir shouted, "Amen!" The drums beat. The youth shouted, "Nyandu Tena!" Tena means again. The pastor nearly fell from the pulpit with joy. Fifty thousand would buy iron sheets for the Sunday school toilet that had been without a roof since El Nino. What people did not hear was Mwamba whispering to the pastor, "Mheshimiwa will send it next week. Minus transport." Nyandu continued. He spoke about his opponent, who was also a Christian and was also sitting in another church that morning doing the same thing. He called him a man who has no vision. He spoke about the county assembly, about how they were fighting him because he was working too hard. He spoke for thirty-five minutes inside a place that was built for prayer, and he never once asked for forgiveness. He spoke about unga, about fertilizer, about jobs, about things that have nothing to do with Matthew chapter twenty-three but have everything to do with votes. He promised that unga would go down to fifty shillings, although he was not the one who sells unga. The old mamas who had come to pray for their sick grandchildren were now listening to a manifesto. The youth who had come to ask God for jobs were now being promised jobs by a man who had not given them jobs for four years. It was disrespect, but it was dressed in a suit and a Bible. Finally, he finished. He said, "Let us pray," and he prayed for two minutes, a prayer that mentioned his name four times and God's name once. The pastor, who had been holding his breath, quickly said the benediction. He said it very fast, because he knew what was coming next. The church service ended at 11:30. The real service began at 11:31. Outside, under the big mango tree where children normally played after church, Nyandu's team had already set up a stage. A loudspeaker, bigger than the one used inside the church, was mounted on top of a V8. A red carpet that had been carried in the boot for just this purpose was rolled on the dust. T-shirts written "NYANDU TENA - THE PEOPLE'S CHOICE" were being thrown into the crowd. "My people, remain! Do not go home! His Excellency has a small message for you outside!" shouted the youth leader with a whistle. So the congregation that had just said "Go in peace" inside now remained outside in the sun. Inside the church, God had been given one hour. Outside, Nyandu gave himself two hours. He stood on a plastic chair under the mango tree. He removed his Kaunda suit jacket. Underneath he had a t-shirt written "NYANDU TENA." He looked less like a worshipper and more like a wrestler. "Now, let us talk as politicians!" he shouted, and the crowd that had said Amen inside now shouted, "Yes!" He spoke louder outside than inside, because outside there was no cross to make him shy. He abused his opponent. He said his opponent was a thief, although both of them were being investigated for the same tender. He said his opponent had no wife, had no home, had no respect. The crowd laughed. The laughter of the palace had started. He promised everything again. He promised that if they voted for him, he would build a factory for tomatoes, although there were no tomatoes in Kijiji because there was no water. He promised a stadium, although the primary school had no balls. Then he started giving handouts. Five hundred shillings to the youth who shouted loudest. Reflector jackets to the bodaboda riders. Lessos written "Governor Nyandu Loves You" to the mamas. The church compound, which Wanjiku had swept on Saturday for holiness, was now full of plastic and dust and campaign papers. Mama Mboga, who had come to church to pray for her child who had a fever, now queued to get a lesso. Otieno, who had come to pray for a job, now queued to get five hundred shillings that would finish before evening. The pastor stood at the church door, watching his church become a market. In the Bible, Jesus chased traders from the temple. In Kijiji, the pastor watched traders being welcomed into the temple because one of the traders had promised fifty thousand shillings. Mwamba came to the pastor and whispered, "Mheshimiwa will add another twenty thousand for your fuel, Pastor. For your support." The pastor smiled. Fuel is important. God understands fuel. At one o'clock, Nyandu finished. He entered his V8. The V8 that had brought him to worship now played loud music, campaign music that said "Nyandu ni wetu!" He left dust, plastic papers, and a congregation that was now more confused than blessed. He was going to another church, St. Mark, ten kilometres away, where the same acting would be repeated. The same welcome song, the same upside-down Bible, the same fifty thousand promise, the same campaign under another mango tree. Behind him, St. Peter's church remained. The offering basket still had three thousand, two hundred shillings. The toilet still had no roof. The old mama returned to her front bench and sat down, her knees paining. And old Mzee Kongo, who had refused to enter the church that day because he said, "A church that has two masters will serve the one with the V8," sat under a small tree with Akinyi, the girl who wanted to be a journalist. Akinyi had written everything in her notebook. She read it aloud: "Today, God was given one hour. The governor was given forty minutes inside and two hours outside. The Bible was held upside down. The church was used as a waiting room for a rally. The pastor sold the pulpit for fifty thousand." Mzee Kongo laughed, a laugh that had no teeth but had truth. "My daughter," he said, "When a man uses the house of God to sell himself, ask him what he will do with the house of the people if you give it to him. When a man has no respect for the altar where he kneels, will he respect the office where he sits?" Mama Kamera drove away with the V8s, already editing the video for the nine o'clock news. That night, the whole county would see Nyandu holding a Bible, giving fifty thousand, and they would say, "He is a God-fearing leader." No one would see what happened under the mango tree, because Mama Kamera had been told not to record outside. Outside was not holy enough for television, but it was holy enough for votes. The season of pretending had officially begun, and the church bell, which had rung for worship in the morning, now rang for votes in the afternoon.

PRE-ELECTION COMPAIGNS