I did not hear the rest of what the good man said, and not just because the preacher was not using a microphone. Each time there was a pause, I assumed that the sermon was over. Still, he continued. It was when the congregation raised its voice in communal prayer that I realised that, finally, he was finished. He returned to his seat in the front row just as the pregnant woman returned to her seat. The offering basket was going round now, and again, I had to stand to let her through. When the raffia basket arrived in front of us, she dipped into the very same black carrier bag and brought out a green naira note. She mangled it into a tight ball in the palm of her right hand before tossing it into the basket. I watched the container sail past. I had nothing to give.

Towards the end of the service, another man stood up and took the place of the preacher at the front.

‘Are there any people worshipping with us for the first time?’ he asked. ‘Please indicate by raising your hands.’

Some hands in the congregation shot up in the air.

‘Please can you take an extra step by standing up for us to recognise you?’

The congregation was asked to make the visitors – those of them who had stood up – welcome. They did so by walking up to them and shaking their hands, as if congratulating them. The young man beside me sabotaged my plan to ignore the ceremony. I had neither raised my hand nor stood up, but he turned to me and shook my hand almost as soon as the call was given. By some mysterious means, he had identified that today was my first time.

‘Welcome, brother,’ he said.

In total, there were about thirteen of us who had been identified. A lady – the same one who had welcomed me into the church that morning – ushered us all into an adjacent room where a man with an even thicker Bible than the one the preacher had used, came and stood in front of us.