It was Sunday. I noticed everywhere I’ve lived that, Sundays were always different from the other days of the week.

The weather was usually cool and calm. The roads were often empty or less busy. And many shops were closed.

You find groups of families at restaurants, beaches or on the compound of their homes, relaxing around some bottles of good wine and good food. This was mostly late afternoons after church.

Early Sunday mornings, many young men, instead of going to church, trained for matches on football parks. Sometimes, seated on the borders of the park will be a player’s girlfriend and fan, or a brother keeping watch over a player’s phone and spare clothes, or some passers-by who had suddenly developed interest in what was going on on the park.

Ordinary and lanky as these players might seem, some of them rise to become star players in local and international leagues despite political and financial obstacles in their path.

This morning as I head to church, I get a chance to see the neighborhood properly. Since we’ve arrived, we haven’t gone out many times. We’ve only been to the beach, school and the Trade Fair a few metres from the house. My parents and my siblings went to a branch of our church in main town. I was to go to one nearby so that I can return early to keep an eye on the house. If my parents were not back by 3pm, I was to put yam on fire and get some garden eggs from a nearby grocery.

I soon discovered to my displeasure the dark side of the beautiful city of Accra. Our neighborhood was quite filthy. Smelly gutters here and there, children or women emptying chamberpots into gutters close to their homes or places food was being sold.

Some houses were wooden. I think they were kiosks made of plywood. People slept in them. I wonder which part of those minihouses were living rooms, bedrooms and washrooms.

Father, mother and children slept on one mat. I didn’t want to imagine things the children mistakenly saw at night. No wonder the area was notorious for having spoilt children.

Children insulted adults freely and skilfully as if they were born with those abilities.

I kept my eyes on the tall beautiful buildings in the distance so I wouldn’t get lost. Those were the headquarters of our church and one of its very first chapels built during the colonial days.

At some point, I saw the buildings alright, but it seemed the distance between me and those buildings were widening. Finally, I had to ask for directions.

At the church’s premises, I bumped into an usher, a gentleman who took me to a certain lady teaching Sunday school. Because the usher was preoccupied, the Sunday school teacher left the children in the care of an assistant and led me to where the youth service was being held. All along the way, she spoke about how interesting the youth service was and how I was going to enjoy the fellowship.

I smiled in cheerful anticipation, all the while thinking about the usher. The gentleman. He wore a necklace and his skin color wasn’t natural. Bleaching.

Before I had time to further scrutinize the usher, we were already at the youth centre, a separate building some distance from the main church auditorium.

Where I came from, the youth service was made up of seven and half members. The halfth member was one irregular guy I had to visit every week to get fake promises that he’ll be in church the following day. He only showed up during end of year church parties.

The youth here were different. They attended church in their numbers and their services started very early. It was almost 9am when I got there but service was nearly over. The place was so packed that some were standing outside.

A good Samritan had to vacate a seat so I could get a place to sit.

They had already taken tithes and offerings and I began contemplating what to do with the money in my pocket. Give or spend? I saw some cool stuff displayed in the shops I bypassed on my way to church.

“If you’re a first timer, please come forward and introduce yourself…” a voice interrupted my thoughts.

I looked up, and looked around to see if I was the only newcomer. I was. My heart sank as I rose, clearing my throat in anticipation of what I would say.

” Praise the Lord” I began

“Hallelujah!” they all responded, except two or three people beside a table at the back who were busy counting and recording some money.

Silence.

“My name is Patrick.. I…I… I am from Believers Assembly in Bolgatanga. My dad was transferred to Accra so I am here to fellowship you.”

“You mean you’ll be fellowshipping with us every Sunday henceforth” the MC sought clarification.

“Yes.” I assured him.

The church gave a big shout of joy upon hearing that. I was excited to see them excited.

I was then led to a corridor where my details were taken. For phone number, I gave my dad’s number. I had none.

I was hoping when leaving for the house, I would be given a little bag of snacks like they do in some churches for newcomers. But nothing of the sort happened. All the same I was happy to find a new congregation to fellowship with.