In the highlands of Eldoret, where the air is crisp and the mornings bite just enough to remind you it’s time for school assembly, I attended a strict Christian boarding school. The kind where discipline was measured in silence, beans and maize were dinner staples, and Psalm 119:105 was not just our motto — it was practically our anthem:
“Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.”
Our uniforms were modest — green skirts or trousers, white shirts, and no room for flair. The school followed the traditions of the African Inland Church (A.I.C), so our days began with morning devotions, and Sundays were reserved for full-on spiritual soaking. That meant chapel, hymns, and a rotating lineup of guest preachers from nearby churches.
And that’s where our story begins.
It was a Sunday morning, just after the usual breakfast of sweet, starch-heavy maize porridge and maybe a single banana if luck was on your side. The bell rang for chapel, and we all trooped in — boys on one side, girls on the other, all drowsy-eyed but dressed in our best.
This Sunday, we were told, we’d be blessed by a “firebrand preacher” from a neighboring A.I.C congregation. The teachers seemed excited, which made us a little nervous. Firebrand usually meant long, loud, and sweaty.
They weren’t wrong.
The preacher arrived — tall, booming, dressed in a slightly oversized navy suit that had clearly seen many pulpits. He carried a Bible the size of a small briefcase, and from the moment he stepped onto the stage, he launched into a sermon with the fury of Elijah calling down fire.
“Young people must flee sin! Flee like Joseph fled Potiphar’s wife! You, young man—yes YOU—leave that Jezebel alone!”
He was energetic. Animated. He shouted, he stomped, he wagged fingers. He jumped. He howled. And by the halfway point of his sermon, he was absolutely drenched in sweat.
Naturally, he reached into his coat pocket, rummaged briefly, and triumphantly pulled out what we all assumed would be a trusty handkerchief.
Except…
It wasn’t.
From the front rows to the back, a ripple of confusion ran through the congregation.
He dabbed his forehead. He wiped his neck. But something… something wasn’t right.
A few students squinted. Whispers began. Shoulders shook. Eyes widened.
The “handkerchief” was… not a handkerchief.
It was, in fact, a bright pink, lacy, unmistakably feminine thong.
Not even the kind you could mistake for something else.
This was a deliberately tiny, unapologetically cheeky piece of lingerie.
Now, imagine 300 high school students in a church service, trying not to burst into laughter. It was like trying to keep a lid on boiling beans.
Some bit their lips. Others faked coughing fits.
A few were clearly about to explode.
The preacher, fully unaware, continued wiping sweat off his face with the garment — now clearly in full view of the front rows. That’s when a concerned, red-faced teacher — bless her heart — hurried to the pulpit and whispered in his ear:
“Pastor… that’s not your handkerchief. That’s a woman’s undergarment.”
Time froze.
His eyes widened. He blinked once. Then looked down.
You could hear the entire chapel trying to hold in a collective scream-laugh.
The pastor turned beet red, gave a nervous chuckle, and swiftly stuffed the thong back into his pocket like it was radioactive.
“Eh… uh… my apologies, church… the devil is a liar!”
He attempted to continue the sermon, but the damage was done. Even the teachers were chuckling under their breath. No one heard anything after that point. The Lord might have still been speaking, but the students were long gone — mentally and emotionally.
To this day, whenever I hear Psalm 119:105, I don’t think of lamps or paths.
I think of one poor pastor, one lacy pink thong, and one unforgettable Sunday morning in Eldoret.