I tip-toed into the back of the large sheet metal building and found a seat on the last wooden bench. Children were restless and whining, but as soon as they caught sight of me they shut up. The congregation was listening intently to the pastor in front of the room, who gave a nod as soon as he saw me, thus detracting from my subtle entry. The message “Deliverance is here, so what will you do for Him?” was written on a chalkboard in the front of the church, most likely to drive home the message.

I soon learned that I would not be able to remain hidden, as the wife of the pastor grabbed a plastic chair, dramatically dusted it clean, and set it in the front of the room and gestured me to come sit. Not seeing any way around it, I made my way to the front of the room via the center aisle and tried to act natural, which I naturally failed at doing.

The cassette player was switched on high and the microphone was set directly in front of the speakers, and this produced the exact effect that you would expect. A blaring song about Jesus came on and the pastor started preaching at lightning-speed, seemingly without breathing, about the message of the day. Catcalls and clapping came from the congregation, and then when the song intensified, the priest shouted out “LET US PRAY!” and suddenly the mood of the room drastically changed. I turned around to look at the congregation and couldn’t help but stare. People of all ages were in every possible position- sitting, standing, kneeling, laying on the floor, standing on the pews, leaning on the walls- all with their eyes closed, and were muttering. No, not muttering, shouting. They were clearly shouting words, but they were words that I have never heard in my whole life. This, I realized, was my first experience with tongues.

This lasted for about ten minutes, and during this time I had no choice but to observe a few things. First, mamas doing this had completely abandoned the thought of their children. Kids were scattered between the pews and kind of just sitting there, waiting for the whole ordeal to be done. They didn’t seem phased at all by the distress or intensity in their mamas or everyone else in the room. Second was the pastor and his actions. He used this time as a chance to do some housekeeping business around the altar. He re-tied his shoes,organized his briefcase on the pulpit, plugged his phone charger in, and whispered something to his wife. He then pulled out a bottle of extra virgin olive oil, a pricey luxury here in Kenya that I was quite unaccustomed to seeing, and poured a bit on his hands and rubbed it in. Ten church members made their way up to the altar and did the same with their hands. They then took turns shouting petitions into the microphone, some lasting thirty seconds and some lasting six or seven minutes. The service ended with a riveting song similar to the one before.

And then I was introduced and called up to the altar.

I was invited to the service to talk about HIV and a general overview. We were taught in training that when addressing churches about the spread of HIV, just allude to using condoms and don’t actually say the word, mpira (rubber) due to the conservative atmosphere. I talked about the basics of HIV- ways it is spread, who is susceptible, and the importance of getting tested- and managed to just use “unprotected sex” as a way it spreads. Thinking I was off the hook on the controversial material, I answered a few questions from the women along the lines of, “If my husband is HIV positive, and I am negative, and then I have children and they are positive, it means I am still okay?”

And then the men started asking questions. “How old are you? How long will you be in Kenya? What will you do after that? Do you have a fiancé?” I powered through these and thought I was finished being interrogated, but as it turned out, bado (not yet).

“So you are 22. How do you protect yourself from HIV” asked the pastor. I was a bit taken off guard, especially because the question was wielded from the pastor himself, so I hesitated for a second. The entire congregation burst into laughter. “No no, it is important for us to know,” the pastor shouted over the laughter, “Because then we will learn.”

“Well,” as I carefully chose my next words, I use condoms to practice safe sex, as do all of my fellow volunteers that teach about public health. That is the only way to be safe.”

“Okay,” said the pastor. “Now there are male condoms and female condoms. Which do you use?”

“Uhh… male condoms are easier to use correctly and more common.”

“What if the act is too intense and the condom breaks? Then what?”

Well, so much for avoiding the topic.