Of The Preacherman and Saturday Nights

I hate going to church on Sundays.
I know you‘ll probably call me a heathen
Because I'm not religious
But only God can judge me…
Let me tell you the story of the preacher man,
And I'm not talking about the sacraments
Or the 3 hour long sermons
I'm talking about the late night fellowship meetings
When the world is asleep and darkness crawls in.

You see, the preacher man visits my mama on Saturday nights
Right after we are done with choir practice at the church house.
He doesn't come in his black robe or his NIV bible,
but in black jeans, a white shirt
And a funny swagger.
He is always on time,
Never missing his visits

Not like in church 

Always extending the service

because he has been filled with the Spirit.




I wonder why mama calls the preacher man her customer,
I thought he was called the preacher of the Gospel.

Mama says I can’t disturb her during business hours
So she locks me up in the closet.
When the preacher man is in mama’s office
I can’t get any sleep.
Because mama is always moaning
And sometimes screaming.
But  mam is known to be a loud woman, so I reckon
the Preacher man is removing in her all those demons.

In the middle of the night,
Before morning comes
I hear the door shut
And I know the preacher man is gone.
I tiptoe past mama’s room;
She is still asleep
But her clothes are all over the floor.

aren't we supposed to sleep with our clothes on?
The preacher man is good, he normally leaves mama
Notes and coins on her old coffee table,
I guess its because mama gives a lot in the offering plate
And the preacher man is nice enough to bring her back her change.

I asked Little Eric from across the street
What the preacher man does in mama's bedroom,
He said they play grown folk games.
When I grow up and little Eric grows up
I want to play the games mama plays with the preacher man
But I won't remove any of my clothes
Because I don't want Little Eric looking at
The little strawberries growing on my chest.

Sunday morning; mama drags me out of bed
She says I must wear my Sunday best.
I wear my red dress; the one I wear every Sunday.
Yet she has on a new dress with that red blood for her lips.
Today she plaits my hair in cornrows, she plaits them so tight
I won't get a chance to see the preacher man
Sneak a wink at her from the pulpit.

I can hear the church choir singing
They sound like they are filled by the Holy Spirit.
As we walk to the front, the women folk are whispering
I don't like them; they need Jesus.
They like to gossip about my mother,

Because she works at night
And has no legal business permit.
The church women keep their husbands away from mother
But I always see them in our house at night.
The women folk know
That mother and the preacher man have fellowship Saturday nights
But they keep quiet because the preacher man says,
Let him who has no sin cast the first stone.

I don't want to go to Sunday school
Because nobody wants to sit next to me.
Even my friend Angela won’t hold my hand anymore,
She says her mother told her that my mother is a whore,
And if she sits next to me, she might catch the whore virus
I don’t know what the whore virus is….
But of late I’ve been feeling a little sick
Does that mean I have contracted it?

On the pulpit the preacher man doesn't look the same
He is wearing some long robe with a white collar
Looking like he can slay any demon
I look at mother, but her eyes are hidden
Under her huge church hat.
The collection plate passes by;
I look at the coins and notes
I know the church people know that they will end up
On mama's old rusted coffee table.

When the sermon is over
The preacher man stands at the door.
He says praise the Lord to mama 

like he wasn't with her the day before.
Mama is a Christian woman, so she says a loud ‘Amen.’
The preacher man gives mama a Holy kiss,
But I know Jesus never talked about exchanging spit
I don’t like the preacher man
I don’t know why he holds that bible in his hands.
Why can’t be just resign and become mama’s business partner?

Because the church folk know and the preacher man knows
That I know and mama knows what happens
On Saturday nights.

photo by Frank Morrison

Tricia M. ©2010