“Me: ‘We could go to the real church, the one where the dead boy had his funeral. It’s only round the corner.’
Mamma: ‘It’s the wrong kind of church.’
Me: ‘How?’
Mamma: ‘Just because. They sing different songs. They’re not the songs we know.’
Me: ‘We can learn them. They might be better.’
Mamma: ‘They’re not better. We don’t know them.’
Me: ‘But I don’t get it. It’s even a real church. They had the dead boy’s funeral there. It must be good.’
Mamma: ‘It’s just the wrong kind, that’s all.’
Mr Frimpong: ‘Bleddy Catholics. They want to give us all Aids so they can steal our land back again. It’s true.’
I still don’t get it. It has a cross and everything. It must be the right one if it has a cross.”
