Why I Asked My Brother If He Masturbates

The lady preaching at the Sunday night service during our annual church conference is a tall, dark skinned woman, from Zimbabwe, could be Zambia, I’m not sure but definitely one of the African countries that start with Z. She walks up the stage, I mean pulpit, with a stride and the confidence she wears on every step is unmatched. You can feel her power, it is almost as if she doesn’t even need to speak for you to get the message. She is ready; ready to demon bast, preach a fervent message and send us home on the next level of our salvation. I admire her before she even picks up the microphone. I decide there and then, that that is who I want to be when I grow up.

She speaks. She doesn’t open with a joke like all the other pastors to get our attention, no. She is not here to make us feel good, she is here to whip us into spiritual shape. I have my bible and notepad ready to go — yes, I am a notes taker at church. I don’t necessarily read the notes when I get home, but I feel that taking notes adds to my look. My “I am the best Christian in the room” look. I open my notepad to a clean page, click my pen and get ready to take notes and underline the scriptures on my bible. “Good evening” she says — not a smile on her face. We reply with a collective “Good evening”. Then instead of speaking, she sings “spirit of masssttuuurrbattiiiiooonnn”. Her voice is still deep; a perfect…