Married at Namalo Part 1

At the beginning of lent, my mother and sisters shared their photos on the family WhatsApp group flouting the distinctive ash grey cross that marked out Catholics embarking on an annual journey of death and resurrection in Christ.

As a child what I dreaded most about this period was the Good Friday hunger.  I would wake up starving, and I would notice the absence of that metal teapot; those old ones that hold their waist and the other arm points out the tea, and I knew it was Good Friday.

The gnawing hunger would not let me be religious enough and I would sneak out and go to my less religious aunt where I could be saved from the strict observance of catholic doctrine at home.

Memory of lent

Lent also meant abstinence from meat which to our household was translated into a month of eating all kinds of fish, and there were all kind of fish from Inyanja than you can imagine, which was my favorite part of the month. I also enjoyed immensely the thrill of going to night mass where a huge bonfire was lit and would culminate in a series of weekend masses as Jesus observed ritual death and ressurection in three days.

But as and adult sucked into the demands of capitalism and having lost the pull of religion, I have abandoned the experience.

Not that it did not thrust itself on my rearview ever so often. I would come by some frond of palm leaves and feel the urge to shake them the way we did, singing, watoto wa wayahudi walimlaki bwana, wakichukua matawi ya mizeituni...

It brought up memories of how we used make amazing patterns with those palm fronds and they would then be stored in catholic homes until the next year when they would be taken to be burned and used as ash for the Wednesday of the next year.

It never went past that, off course, given that my present temperament for religion is rational.

However this year the invitation for religious experience was inescapable. Even after I resisted the filial pressure reaching out through the mobile phone seeking subtle conformity, I still ended up in church anyway, to celebrate a marriage that brought me full circle in why religion continues to make evolutionary sense, and why we should care about its teachings.

Seamless Studio's first gig

Our first event gig was a chance to shoot my cousins wedding at Namalo in Budalangi.

It offered us a clearer understanding of the business of photography and allowed me to flex my eye for a decent shot.

We were still setting up a studio and were yet to put together the team so we partnered with Elly Qotana and Kevin Omollo and tried to head out into Budalangi on time. My inability to keep time meant that half an hour late, I was still trying to locate the team and coordinate the logistics before leaving Kisumu.

In the misty morning air, the drive waved above the frowns of the A104 highway, along the patched, and potholed road that wound around the hills of Ojolla, Maseno and Luanda. I had heard about a route that cuts through Ugunja all the way to Rwambwa, and as I wrestled time, I took this trail.

We nosed into rural Kenya on good tarmac as sleepy villages raced past us, doing rural things like minding their cows and tending to their farms, cut off from the urgency of the towns and cities. What potential lay latent here, what promise of growth lay unexplored and unexploited.

The deep greenery and expansive vastness felt open and inviting and the smoothness of good tarmac swept beneath us in tempting speed. Besides an incomplete bridge that gapes in the middle of nowhere like a homicidal precipice it was an enviable drive along the borders of the Luo and Luhya living peaceably in small centers with interchanging communal names.

When we arrived in Bunyala, the liberal way in which we sought directions, me in Lunyala and Elly in Dholuo showed how deeply integrated our people were. For me it felt rooted, the black cotton soil the familiarity of the thorny vegetation and the homeliness of kindred spirit.

The altar boy

When we arrived we set immediately to work, with sound advice from the more experienced hands to shoot anything and everything. Behind the camera you see how people want to be seen and when the masks fall off.

Photographers get a glimpse of the moments when we are between thoughts, worried about the anxieties of imminent failure and the promise in the bustle of preparation. The tension as plans disintegrate and time dissolves unnoticeably fast, conspiring to ruin our agendas.

But above all being behind the lens also reveals something to us about ourselves.

At the church ceremony I went liberally clicking away at the bridal party and the groom’s and of course the children who give you the most authentic smiles and disarming looks. You can never go wrong with kids.

I noticed the priest draped in the vestments of prayers and symbolism. He approached the altar and blew out two candles which I later learned were to be lit by the couple in celebration of the wedding mass.

As I clicked and flicked, and roamed between wooden pews and through the isles oblivious of everything outside the focus of my viewfinder, I found myself outside the church. On my way back in the service was already in motion and I could not go in.

Catholicism cultivates high level of discipline when it comes to the time for arrival at mass, if you are late, you waited outside for proceedings until the first bits of mass is observed before you can go in without causing much disruption during proceedings. 

While I am boastfully one of the many rogue city people who jay-walk on my feet and jump lights when driving, I found it unique that with some religious framing, Kenyans could observe high level of discipline as we waited patiently outside.

My colleagues who were oblivious of these religious rules however liberally walked in and out but I was glued by primordial fear.

It took me a minute to realize that because they were not in on these internal rules, they were completely oblivious of the communal sanctions of breaking a norm.

But since they had challenged it without repercussions I realized that with a camera in hand certain immunity is accorded to you.

Your presence moving around during mass is actually welcome with subtle smiles when subjects imagine they are within the camera range.

As the mental inhibitions dropped off I moved more freely and roamed even around the altar itself, stepping up the hallowed pulpit to catch the priest when all about us placated.

I had to break out of the chant of repeated prayers and it was difficult to decide whether I was part of the proceedings or outside it as an observer. When I kneeled to take a picture, I remained bowed, entranced and unable to rise against the communal worship.

Having been an altar boy, part of the ensemble in the middle of the religious experience that creates the veneer of religious frevour, it felt almost like a violation of some basic rules that had up till that moment had defined my life’s outlook.

Read Also: Married at Namalo Part II