A novelist’s childhood memories of exuberant church services and rows of shopfronts with religious names reflect the myriad ways in which everyday life in Ghana is suffused with faith

The pews to the left of the aisle fill with women dressed in celebratory white cloth. They have brought with them percussion instruments and an effervescent, spring-like joy. It is transferred through hugs as they greet each other warmly. There are a few men scattered among them, in matching white shirts. I don’t recognise them; they are not regular attendees.

The resident choir, which normally occupies these pews, has been temporarily displaced. They steal glances with other members of the congregation from their new seats around the church. A panorama of faces, reflecting Brixton’s diverse demographic in the mid-1990s, looks on in anticipation. Everybody knows. Everyone is excited. Everyone is waiting. For the Ghanaian choir to sing.

When the bell rings to signal the beginning of Mass, the choir erupts into song and the congregation rises to its feet. A Eucharistic minister doubles up as the choir’s conductor. She is my Auntie – in the African sense: I call her, and any woman old enough to have given birth to me, “Auntie” as a sign of respect.