Stephen T-B

Sunday morning, walking along the red-dirt path between an avenue of trees which runs as a wide central reservation down Independence road, Lusaka, Zambia.
There�s a church on the left from which voices raised in a pulsing hymn can be heard. Further on is another Church, and more ecstatic voices.
Half an hour later, we�re returning as the preacher in that last church is haranguing his congregation, reminding them of the Christian message that they are worthless sinners, and unless they mend their ways, headed for hell and damnation.
By the time we reach the first church we�d passed, the congregation is spilling out, the good people clutching their Bibles as they re-enter the real world of:
dirt;
poverty;
ubiquitous, unrelenting shabbiness;
chronic insecurity, so much so that people in the �communes� brick up the windows in their mean little breeze-block huts so their neighbours can�t get in and �share� what few possessions they�ve managed to collect;
contaminated drinking water;
festering garbage and open cess pits;
colossal, energy-sapping inefficiencies in every walk of life;
absence of schooling for all but those who can afford to pay for it, which is a majority of the population;
Orphans on every street corner, and
rampant AIDS.

What did those people come away with after their hour or so in church that Sunday morning?

Reinforced delusions, and a thickened layer of superstitions.