A Weird Story, That Isn't Finished Yet.

Z waited two days before he told us about Dee. After eating our evening meal together, we all sat around the fire and Z told us what had really been on his mind, the neighboring village of Dee. Dee is a larger village on the main road to the Gold mines; it’s a trade a village. Z told us the story of a crazy man, prophesy, and ensuing chaos after the crazy man’s death.

 

The story goes something like this (we picked up bits and piece from several people), in Dee there was a crazy man who died a few months ago. When the crazy man was young (old enough to be keeping flocks) everyone watched as he climbed a tree in the center of the village all the way to the top and then flung himself off as if he was attempting to fly. He lay on the ground below unconscious under the tree, when he woke up he was never quite the same. From that time on, everyone in Dee called him crazy. That night he told his mother “I don’t know why I climbed the tree but when I got to the top there was a person who looked not like a man or a woman and was dressed all in white and I heard the name ‘Jesus’. I tried to go to him and forgot I was in a tree.”  After the tree incident whenever the man spoke to people they either could not understand him or did not believe what he was saying. In recent month he began to tell anyone who would listen that he was going to die soon. He gave the day and said that when he dies he wanted to be buried by the Christians because only they had the truth. He told many people but they would not listen so him finally he went to his only friend that trusted him, a Catholic priest named Vance. Vance believed him, on the night that the man said he would die, Vance went out to look for him. He saw the man shouting at the sky and praying at the place where the first white men (Catholic missionaries) came to teach. Later when Vance returned, he found the man’s body there in that place. After his death, the perspective towards the crazy man changed in Dee. Suddenly people began to remember things that he said and some of the things started to make since to them.

 

We visited with the crazy man’s two remaining brothers they told of some of his “prophesies.” “He said that after his funeral when everyone returned back to their houses it would begin to rain and it did just like he said. He said also that a very old man in the village would die a week later and an old man did die the next week.” His brothers also reported that years earlier their brother said that when the time of guns and shooting started that it would be time for him to leave, the coup began back in April. He was buried as a Christian per his request. Now all the people in Dee are considering this man’s life and what he said for the first time. Could this crazy man be right? Do the Christians know the best way? His brothers say that now that the man is gone people are beginning to understand his words.  His brother reported that the crazy man said there would be a time of suffering in Dee and then they will all become believers. Z told us that since his death there have been reports of great confusion and even though the crops were good this harvest for some reason the people of Dee are suffering. Z said that people in Dee are poisoning themselves and that there was so much confusion in the village after the man’s death the police had to come out to calm everyone. When I asked why people were poisoning themselves he answered me solemnly, “It is because the prophesy.”

The story is weird isn’t it? I was sitting their asking questions right there in the village and it still does not make a lot of sense to me. A crazy guy jumped off a tree, said he saw Jesus and now people are poisoning themselves? Is this real? But our very well educated translator believed it enough that he would not allow us to accept any tea or buy any food items while we visited Dee.

There is something going on in Dee, but I don’t know what. We asked to share stories in Dee and both the crazy man’s brothers and the chief promised to gather people if we came back a week later on their rest day. We did as they asked but when we returned both the chief and the brothers flatly refused to gather anyone. They were only interested in what monetary support they might be able to procure from the white people.  We were disappointed and angry. Apparently Dee has not suffered enough yet, they refused the Good News when it was brought to them and denied the village access to it stating that “the people here are no good, they would not come even if we asked them.”

 

The Story of a Village

After a few days rest from my taxi ride from Conakry, I am joined in Bamako by Mrs. M.L. a woman from an Engaging congregation from Georgia. Her congregation has been reaching out to the Senufo people over the past 5 years. I am excited to learn from M.L. experience among these rural people out in the bush of Mali close to Ivory Coast. We drive another 8 hours away from Bamako and are received by her friend Z who hosts us during our two weeks in his village.

One day Z asks us to come and greet his uncle, the chief’s younger brother. As we approach, a young man hurries to find us a bench to sit on. Z’s uncle rises from his sprawl on his own bench in order to receive us. After repeating our greetings, we settle in for a visit. M.L. asks, “Are you the chief’s younger brother?” “Oh yes! Much much younger!” The old man laughs. A young grandson comes to sit in the man’s lap. Z’s Uncle continues to brag, “That brother of mine over there does not know all our stories. He spent too many years abroad in Ivory Coast but our father told me all our stories. Besides he is mean and doesn’t like to talk, I always tell Z to come to me and I will tell him our stories.” In Senufo families it is common practice for the head of the family to choose one son to stay in the village and farm while he sends others away to school (the one he hopes to place in charge). Often the son sent abroad or to a larger city for school, does not come home again to stay until he is needed as the leader of the household. Z is like his uncle, Z’s twin brother was chosen to go away to school while he was picked to stay in The Village and farm. However this did not deter Z from continuing his own education, little by little, Z can read both French and Bambara and knows the Bible better than most Xians in the U.S. Z smiles and blushes at his uncles bold bragging against who he call his father. Z’s “Father,” the Chief of The Village, is actually also his uncle. Senufo family relations are varied and hard to understand from a western mindset. Often children from one father will be sent to be raised by his brother’s family. Always they show as much respect or more for their father’s brother as they do their own fathers. Also often their defenders come from their mother’s brothers, those are the uncles they can joke with and speak with freely. This uncle for Z is a safe person; he always comes to his support when Z is in trouble. “So you know the stories of The Village? Would you please tell us one?”  M.L. inquires. Z’s uncle is more than happy to relate a story. He sits up straighter and pulls his grandson snugger in his lap.

This is the story of how The Village came to be. You see this village is different from others; it was founded by a woman! A Long time ago before the French came, there was a Senufo woman who lived over in a village called Yelen in Ivory Coast.  She was given to be married to a man and had two sons but then her first husband died. The village of Yelen gave her again to a second husband but again this husband died. Then the people of Yelen, chased the woman and her two sons away because of the death of these two husbands.  So the woman left with her two sons, the first son named Zie (meaning first son) and her younger son named Zanga (meaning second son). They walked and walked many miles, when they had walked 5 villages from Yelen and were in the bush the woman stopped and began to cry because they were alone but her first son said to her, “Nah fiaa!” which means “Mother do not cry.” He said we can live here and be our own village. And so this is how the village got its name because Zie said “Mother do not cry.” Then Zie said to his brother Zanga, “You are a hunter and you can protect our land and I am a farmer, so you will be the chief of the land and I will be the chief of the village.” So even today there are two chiefs, the chief of the land who owns all the land and the chief of The Village.

We thank Z’s uncle for his story and he glows with pride and will not let us leave without a sack of peanuts as a gift. He continues to remind Z to visit as often as possible to learn all of The Village’s stories. We also exhort Z that the history of his village is important to remember and repeat but Z also knows other very important stories that he can share and teach as well. Z is one of The Village’s few believers.  He has begun a new tradition of stories, stories much older than The Village or even the Senufo people. Z knows the stories found in the good book starting with the creation of the world all the way to the one he knows can save his people. Often Z repeats the stories he knows to his own 9 children and to other young people in The Village. He quizzes the children on the details of the stories to be sure they can remember them. The Village is blessed to have Z, many neighboring villages have no one to tell these stories.

Z needs our pr@yers, pr@y he will reach beyond his own village into other with the good news that he loves. Pr@y also for the young people in his influence that they will grow into adults unafraid to share the good stories in their own village and as far as their feet can take them.

African Transport (Taxi ride from Hell)

We are squished four to a normal car bench seat plus a baby, my new friend Amadou is making comments about how ridiculously packed another slightly fuller vehicle is, “there all stuffed in there” while currently he is sitting on part of my leg and the only way we four can fit on the one bench is if we stagger leaning forward and sitting back. He also makes comments on how dangerous it is for people to ride on tops of cars and large trucks, none of us are wearing seat belts, and there are 11 adults in this 8 passenger vehicle, including two teenage boys sitting on each other in the front seat. There are also three children but kids do not go into the people count in vehicle rides and I have adapted. It’s all relative.

This trip started out yesterday morning, I was up anxiously at 6 am packing and praying that my escort (a national pastor that works with our company) would be on time in picking me up at 7. I knew deep in my heart that this anxiousness was in vain, that my friend would most definitely be at least 30 minutes late, this is Africa. But I have taken this nightmare road between Conakry and Kankan before and I know that if we make good time, it should only take 14 hours. I really want to get a few hours of sleep before I take another taxi 6 hours to Bamako the following day.

My escort arrives right when I expect him and we fight the Conakry traffic to the Madina Market where the taxis line up that are heading out of town. We find a taxi for Kankan almost immediately, and I follow some sound advice of fellow ex-pats and purchase two places in the taxi (those two “places” being the front seat). I make sure my backpack is tied securely to the top of the taxi and settle into wait for the Taxi to fill up. It’s already about 8:30 but no sweat I am sure there are lots of people who need to go to Kankan today and surely these people do not want to be riding that cursed road at night. At 11:30 we pull out from Madina Market only to stop a few blocks down for gas (and so our driver can talk to his friends).  Okay, well at least we are the road now, even if this guy is slow I can still check into the guest house for a few hours and shower before I head to Bamako tomorrow.

Flash forward, we have been on the road (off it more than on if you ask this American) for the past 14 hours we should already be in Kankan yet are still barely over the half way mark. We have stopped for 2 meals, stopped at a Mosque for prayer, stopped to change a flat, stopped twice for engine trouble, stopped to gawk at an over turned vehicle, we have been stopped and hassled at every police stop between Conakry and Kankan (apparently the driver does not have all his papers in order), and we have stopped in between those stops every 30 to 45 minutes so that the driver and 7 men in the back seats can pee (what is with their bladders? I never see them drink anything!). It’s is 2am, we met up with another taxi a few hours ago and have been caravanning since it started getting dark. Thankfully the lead taxi is a little more aggressive in his driving and we are finally beginning to make some time. Suddenly our taxi pulls over; our driver gets out and sprawls out comfortably on the hood of his vehicle. He then naps for the next three hours. Only one person shows any irritation at this abrupt decision by our driver. He walks casually over to the sleeping driver and nudges him, (rough translation this is all in French) “Hey friend, I uh thought we were going to Kankan?” Driver grunts and rolls over. Not satisfied the man begins to nudge him again only to be shouted down by other 7 passengers in the car, “Hey man! Leave the chauffer alone! Can’t you see he is trying to sleep?” I hug my computer bag and fall asleep.

 None of the 8 other passenger show any sign of distress. No one else in the vehicle seems the least surprised or irritated that we have just been on a gruesome fourteen hour ride across cheese grater trails and portions of the moon and that this trip is slowly, oh sooo slowly, turning into 24 hours of misery. On the contrary, after the drivers three hour nap, when the car stops again after having only started 45 minutes previously, everyone leaps from the vehicle as though they thought the driver would never give them a break. Patience is a virtue. It skipped me but not Africa. Africans are extremely patient.

We arrive in Kankan exactly 24 hours after we pulled out from the Madina Market. It’s almost noon I am exhausted but beginning to mentally practice in French how I am going to find a taxi to Bamako. I have already called the World Venture Guest house I had reservations at and told them my story and that I would not be staying there unless I failed to catch a taxi too Bamako today. As we are dropping passengers at different locations in Kankan, I meet someone who speaks English and he tells the Taxi driver for me that I need to go to the Taxi stand and find a Taxi to Bamako. I am the last one in the taxi and I am nervous about finding a taxi to Bamako, my French is weak, very weak. The woman who with her husband runs the World Venture Guest House calls me to find out where I am and how I am doing. “So you are going to catch a taxi today… Do you speak French?” “um well, yeah kind of, no, I don’t.” As soon as I step out of my first Taxi, her husband is there to help find another taxi to Bamako. I am in luck (*cough* God), there is one taxi going to Bamako right at this moment and it has one seat left. Also as I wait for my backpack to get secured to the top of the taxi I meet a man named Amadou who speaks English. He had been in the taxi ahead of me on our journey from Conakry and he is also going to Bamako. This is more than just luck, Amadou is loud, outgoing and has apparently learned most of his English from sitcoms but he takes care of me as we cross the Guinea/Mali border (even when I thought I lost the taxi with my computer in it!) and is conveniently from the same neighborhood that I need to find in Bamako.

After the border and only one stop (a quick tire change), we finally arrive in Bamako. Amadou arranges a second taxi for me and all the other women in our taxi and makes sure everyone gets where they need to go safely. We meet Rita at a gas station in sight of the Tour d’ afrique and I exchange numbers with my new friend.  Deep breath. Mali. It only took 36 hours. My head wrap feels a little crusty and comes off in a solid helmet shape but I am here!

 Okay Lord, what am I here for?

You might live in West Africa If...

You know you live in West Africa when you find a gross looking pussy bite on your side and your first thought is “I hope there is not a worm in that.” You know you’re in West Africa when complete strangers invite you to eat lunch with them on the street. When 80 year old men propose to you but are deterred when you tell them you don’t work in fields. When people call you a bean eater and then laugh good naturedly. When children run up to you like you are Mickey Mouse and shout Tobabou or Forteh (Foreigner!). You know you are in West Africa when people hiss at you to get you attention. When men say “You drive? No, where is your chauffer?” If it acceptable to propose after asking the woman’s name. When people ask you how Obama is doing and you say “I don’t know I’ll ask him some time,” and they believe you. When being told your fat is a compliment. When you buy fabric one day and have a tailor made outfit the next day. When people call and take orders for cheddar cheese because it is so cheap in neighboring countries, meaning it is not $20. When bacon bits is a stellar Christmas gift. You know you live in West Africa when you see a moto (Motorcycle) pass with two people and two goats and you think “what a waist, they could have tied at least three chickens on the back.” You know you live in West Africa when your taxi driver stops at the Mosque so all his passengers can go pray. If you are able to get out of a ticket by telling the police officer “I am sorry but I have no husband to teach me how to drive.” When your taxi breaks down twice and has two flat tires and then the driver decides to take a nap and not one of the 9 passengers (in a 7 seat vehicle) say one word of complaint to the driver. You know you live in West Africa when you realize six flags is just a cheap imitation of African back roading. When you hit a pot hole so hard everyone in the car hits the ceiling, when you apologize all the Africans blame the road, while all the Americans blame you.  When a child pinches you to see if she can get through to the black. When you stop breaking for chickens, honk at goats, swerve for sheep, approach cows with caution (noting their number, position and direction), but always stop for donkeys. When seeing a goat at the beach ceases to be weird. If it is raining you know it is naked day/ bath time for all the kids in the neighborhood. When you don’t think twice about scolding someone else’s kid. If you witness an accident and the first thing you hear is “Oh Allah!” When people give you a live chicken as a welcoming gift, and you genuinely get pretty excited about it. When someone hands you a spoon to eat rice and you feel a little offended. You realize your host really likes you because he included the chicken head in your dish. When you drink out of a plastic bag without spilling juice on yourself. When you ask, “is the monkey a pet or dinner?”

God is Never Random

 

 

      Do you ever feel like God is listening to your thoughts. Like those days when I’m feeling so lonely, and I start to have a bit of a pity party and just as I think, “No one cares…” one of my most favorite persons calls my phone just to say hello. I hang up the phone “Yes Lord, I get it, I’m loved.”  Or the other day when the Guinea heat was getting to me and I was thinking I’d much rather take a car then walk, and then I turned down a street and both the people walking in front of me were lame, they don’t have the car option either. “Okay God I got it, I am blessed.”

 

     There are moments like these that I could take as coincidence or providence. But then there are some moments, like in our travels across Cape Verde that I can really only attribute to providence. Like jumping into the back of a Yassi and just happening to meet a girl, who speaks English, who goes to the church we are about to look for and has time to take us there.

 

     Or the time Rita and I are walking out to a street about to catch a Taxi to go wander around an area in town to locate a denominational office. As we approach the road, I start getting creeped out by this man watching us, there are other people around but he has zoned in on us. He walks forward and back and then asks where we are going. We name the area and he says. “Oh I am going there too. Would you like to share a taxi?” He goes through a big explanation telling us it’s cheaper and faster to share a taxi then to take the bus. “Um okay, we can share a taxi.” In the Taxi we find out he is pastor of an Evangelical church and knows the office we are looking for. When we get out of the taxi he insist on paying the cab driver and then takes us the office we are looking for and introduces us to the man with whom we need to speak. The man gives us the name of another pastor who is Guinea-Bissauan and tells us he is a good contact for finding out about ministry among West Africans in Cape Verde.

 

     The coincidences continue as we leave with a church and a neighborhood name on a piece of paper. Walking down the street we are not sure which way to go, we ask a few people and are being directed towards the ocean. “Can we walk there?” “Oh, yes, it’s not far!” So we keep going we pass a bus stop, just as an overcrowded bus pulls up. Rita wants to get on; I don’t feel like being sweated on. The bus leaves and we start to walk again but suddenly Rita stops. “I want to ask that man!” She exclaims and then walks up to a random guy standing with others at a bus stop, except the word random never really applies with God. This fellow not only knows the neighborhood, he is a Maninka speaker from Guinea, the northern district close to the Mali border. Rita lived in Mali for 9 years and is fluent in Bambara. His Maninka is so close to Bamabara that Rita and our new friend have no trouble understanding one another. This man apparently has plenty of time to take us to the neighborhood. He hails us a taxi and we all set off together. He is obviously enjoying speaking is heart language with Rita but despite his Muslim background, he also seems just as interested as we are in finding this church. When we arrive in the neighborhood he pays for the taxi himself and escorts us to the building, he stays with us through the interview and ask the pastor a few questions of his own. After the interview he suggest a few more evangelical churches we should visit, hails another taxi and takes us into some West African communities. We end the day at his place drinking a cold Fanta and making arrangement to meet again when Rita can Bluetooth some Bambara stories into his phone. At our next meeting, he invites two other West Africans over who speak English (so I won’t be left out), one is from lower Guinea his heart language is Koinyanka, I have a friend working on translation for Koinyanka. I call her up and she sends greetings to him in his native language, huge smile on his face. The other is a Mandingo from Liberia which happens to be the least reached people group in Liberia. He gives me contact so that when I move to Liberia in January I can look up his sister.

 

     This Maninka man and the coincidence of running into such an open person, is what I have heard termed as a “person of peace.” You can read about them in Luke 10:5-6. God not only can and does interact with us even through simple things like a timely call, but he has been at work all over the world long before we gain the initiative to walk into an unreached neighborhood. Many people are afraid to take the step of following God’s lead into overseas missions because they believe they will be beginning with hard soil. But God says, “The harvest is plentiful.” God may not be asking you to lead an entire African village to the Lord, he may just be asking you to go find the person of peace that he has already prepared and invest your time and wisdom with him.  

 

     In closing, God is never random. If you think, “Wow that was a pretty big coincidence,” it probably was not. God has big plans and he reveals them to people who are paying attention. And sometimes even to people who blunder through life like me; who don’t want to inconvenience the girl on the back of the Yassi, who get creeped out by the guy staring across the street, who would have rather passed the man at the bus stop. Stop and pay attention; He is doing stuff.

Maio, Cape Verde

      The last island we were privileged to visit was Maio, named by the Spanish for the month in which it was discovered. Maio is the second smallest inhabited island of Cape Verde (next to Brava) and the least visited by tourist. Up until recent years, many of the inhabitants of Maio lived without any contact with white Europeans. As we drove into the smaller villages in Maio, the children reacted in much the same way they do in West Africa, smiling and waving wildly at us. Along our way, we met and expat from Nebraska and travel author, Bert Lane. Bert moved to Maio when he could claim to be one of three white people on the island, there was also a French man and a German. He chose Maio because it was more relaxed and removed from the rush of life. Tourism is also beginning to make its mark in Maio. The Island has few resources to boost its economy so has begun to accept tourist into its less populated beaches. 

     Maio only has one evangelical church for the entire island, however the pastors of this church are passionate and devoted to the people of Maio. Emmanuel and Celita are reaching out of the capital of Villa Do Maio and into two nearby villages Celita glowed as she recounted that they recently were able to hand out Gospel pamphlets to all the school children in Maio. The faith of the two precious people was humbling to behold. At the beginning of the school year, Celita was approached by dozens of students asking for books for their classes, Celtia did not want to tell them no so she asked them to pray. Within the week, they had more than enough funds to buy all the kids the books they requested. Emanuel and Celita are concerned for the people of Maio because of social oppression coming from the dominate Catholics and also because of a recent  outbreak of suicide on the island.  “In the past 8 months there have been 7 suicides and 1 attempted suicide. People are saying that there is a devil possessing people.” Emanuel grew up in Maio and had never heard of a suicide on the island until this year. Pray for the people of Maio that the villages on the far side of the island will receive a gospel witness. Pray that the spirit of suicide will be banished from the island. And pray for Emanuel and Celita that they will continue faithfully and be encouraged and joined by other believers.

Boa Vista Cape Verde, West Africa

     We finally found them. Since stepping off the plane into this different West African country, where Taxis are clean and yellow and women wear pants, we had been looking hard to see any semblance of the West Africa we find familiar. We found it in Boa Vista.  Probably the most visited island by tourist, Boa Vista holds many beautiful spectacles. But because of the recent influx of tourism, many native Cape Verdeans have left the island and been replaced by West Africans from the continent seeking a better life. They can all be found in a ten block by ten block neighborhood off the main strip in Sal Rei. As we approached the neighborhood, it was like stepping back into Conakry. Little kids ran up to us immediately and put their hands out, expecting something from the white women. People shouted their greetings to us; we begin to shout greetings in French again. There are no cute potted plants out front of these buildings. They are all half-finished, grey, trash in the streets, and everyone is sitting outside on their stoops. I can see people cooking over their little coal burners, probably pepper soup, yes this is West Africa!

     Our first morning is Boa Vista, we head out to the only evangelical church in the city. It is several blocks from out hotel. We walk around the building and can see that the lights are out and it is closed for the day. We talk to bystanders, “oo est Nazareno Pastora maison?” Puzzled looks. Then a boy passing by is motioned to, chattered at, and we are soon following this young man around. “Nazareno Pastora?” we ask quizzically to the woman whose door we are brought too. More chattering, pointing, gesturing.  Soon we are again following this young man down side streets, past shops and to a building clearly marked, “Nazarene Pastor Counseling” I look down one more door and there is the sign for our hotel. We literally made a circle from our hotel around the entire town and back, if we had turned left instead of right, we would have been at his door in two steps.

     Inside we met with a young pastor anxious to bring the truth to Cape Verdeans as well as immigrants into his country. Pastor Ivan played the voice of Jesus in the recent production of the Jesus Film in Cape Verdean Creole. Ivan tells us the West African community we walked into is called Bash Proenza but is better known by the name “Barraca” meaning shanty or shack.  Ivan’s congregation is doing what it can to reach out to this community by holding small groups within this West Africa n community. Please pray for the people of Bash Proenza, both for their living conditions and the conditions of their hearts. Pray that believers will reach out to this predominantly Muslim neighborhood with the truth found in God’s son.