Something’s about to happen. I lay the pamphlet in my lap as the hall goes quiet. An older soprano in a white satin dress begins to sing a high melody with a long vibrato. A pianist in a suit and tie accompanies her for the next pieces. After several slow, nostalgic songs, the woman bids us farewell, falling slightly out of tune as we applaud. The bespectacled host announces the second part of the programme: the church choir. The piano introduces them, we clap, and I hear a clean harmony of voices, falling like divinely misty rain from who knows where. A group of people – the ones I’d seen earlier – file in through one of the doors by the altar, draped in colourfully patterned tunics; their radiant attire gives them an effortless elegance. I slide down a bit against the back of the pew. The white light of the church comes from very high up, and it sets me on edge; I wish I could float with the notes of the piano into a state of exaltation. Suddenly the church is chock-full of people, even the upper floor; photographers flit about and I can hear the voices rise in pitch and volume, almost shouting, higher, higher, lift me higher! A wave surges inside me from my hips to the crown of my head, the light shifts at last from purple to green, green to pink: Oh Aleluja Akekh ‘ofana naye, I serve a very big God, oh! I turn to look at Philip Jr. and it’s like he can see how stripped down I feel. That’s what this is: a stripping-down. I lean into it. The crowd rises, summoned by the lead voice and the long-legged man. I see faces among them. Once again, I’m the palest person in the group, as I always was at school. I hum what I can make out of the chorus and furtively search for traces of Ms Rebecca, her oblique gaze, her thin-pressed mouth. The children of her contemporaries are probably here, people whose story I share, if told from another angle.