Remembering Africa pt. 2

Moi’s Bridge, Kenya- 2009

The 80’s model flat bed rumbled to a stop. We had been at the school all day and the sound of the clutch catching and the door slamming was unmistakable amidst the roar of children. How it was still running was anyone’s guess. It had wooden railing down the side of the bed and had probably been used to taxi an untold number of fruits, vegetables, people, and even animals through the years. For us it was a welcomed sight. It meant a 15 minute ride to the home of the pastor we were staying with and a freshly cooked meal of choice Kenyan cuisine: ugali, rice, kelp, avocados, probably some chicken and definitely the sweetest, milkiest tea you have ever tasted. At this point, 10 days into my first East-African adventure, the sight of the entire chicken head in the pot no longer turned my stomach. I was starving.

We were exhausted. We had spent the better part of ten days being shuttled in between a school, orphanage, and church. Our goal was simply to love. Sometimes that meant meeting a practical need like providing clothing and sometimes that meant sitting with a child or grandparent and engaging in a meaningful conversation. We wanted each individual we came in contact with to know the love of the Father. To know they weren’t forgotten. So we prayed, and hugged, and laughed, and cried, and played a ton of soccer and, as it turns out, Kenyans don’t tire easily. We were spent physically, emotionally, and spiritually in the best way possible.

The ride home wasn’t long and had quickly become my favorite part of the day. The sight of a pick-up full of Americans driving through town was sure to elicit shouts, thumbs up, and a parade of children in chase squealing in laughter every time we waved or shouted “Jambo”, hello in Swahili. My favorite part though was the sunset. It was as if each evening the Creator delighted to display his majesty and creativity through a living painting that would last just minutes only to be swallowed again by the blackest night and the brightest stars I have ever seen. To this day, if I close my eyes, I can remember the breathtaking sight of the sun setting behind Mt. Elgon, framed it in the richest assortment of reds, oranges, yellows, and even pinks.

The truck groaned as it slowed to make the turn into the compound where we were staying. As I looked around at my teammates I realized for the first time how filthy we were. The red African soil had covered every inch of our bodies and clothing. Streams of sweat looked like tiny muddy rivers flowing down shins and foreheads. I wiped my forehead with a bandana I was carrying for the hundredth time that day and noticed a group silhouettes playing soccer. As we approached I recognized the boys to be the Sudanese refugees who lived a few doors down.

In spite of my exhaustion I banged on the side of the truck causing it to lurch to a halt. I had to play soccer with those boys. I don’t know why, I just did. It was one of those rare moments in life you know you will never forget—playing soccer with Sudanese refugees in the shadow of Mt. Elgon. I convinced my hungry, tired teammates to join me as they reluctantly climbed out of the truck.

Nervous smiles greeted our arrival at the pitch.  Tiny eyes peeked out behind hands that covered shy faces. Their apprehension quickly faded as we began to kick the ball. Nervous smiles quickly turned to peels of laughter at the clumsy Americans’ expense.