Africa Revisited

Journal entries:

 

June 3rd: “Dear Lord, Please give me a foundation of wisdom and love as I mentally and emotionally prepare for Nigeria. I will be changed—I know that much.”

 

June 3rd: “I haven’t slept in a bed in three days, and plane sleep doesn’t really do the trick. This trip will be extremely tiring but I could be changed so much.

Dear Lord, thank you for getting me here, and the wonderful opportunity to serve others for You. I pray that You would change me. Amen.”

 

June 4th: “The air is crisp this morning, promising a day of renewal and change: rebirth in the breaking humility of brotherly human spirit, separated by eons of ocean and time before the fall . . . my whole life has culminated to this trip: to this journey into oblivion, it is here I will realize the power of God. Lord please change me for a lifetime and prepare/enlighten Your will for me . . . Amen.”

 

June 4th: “When people talk about Africa they talk about the jungles and lions and stuff. And the weird thing is that there actually are really sweet jungles and forests—etc . . . On our drive to Jos from Abuja we saw locals growing a certain kind of plant into a fence. There are lots of colors here, but I think I have only seen the reds—the blood of lost human life manifested in the conquest of the evil Europeans, who robbed the Africans of their culture forever.”

 

June 4th: “—visited land for women’s home—Gidan Bege, “House of Hope”—Blind Town, girl with open sores.”

 

June 4th: “Women’s home—that was the first thing we did the first morning. The poverty is simply amazing. Baba drove us along this ridiculously horrid rode to a plot of land that’s gonna be a home for women. We were standing around and a man in an orange shirt came up to us and asked us for money. He actually got on his knees when he was introducing himself. We prayed over the land and then we left.”

 

June 4th: “Wheel chair ministry—we drove straight from the women’s land to the wheel chair thing. Basically it was a group of men who built tricycles for disabled people and gave them out for free. The thing is that the ministry is run by a man who is disabled himself. He was strong, with a deep voice, he had weathered skin and bore a smile adorned with hardship, pain, and experience. His eyes seemed sad—his being was totally in service. It amazes me that in a country of such destitution people can give their full being into service and live. Live. To serve others.”

 

June 4th: “Gidan Bege—“House of Hope”—it’s a place for orphans, or actually street kids, and widows. We sat around in a circle and they (a few of the boys) gave us their testimonies. I sat in between Livinus (left) and Cilas (right). It was really sad. The boys who gave their testimonies were Moses, Samson, and Chinu? It was amazing. Moses’ story: his father was a drunk. His father came home every day and beat Moses and his mom every day. Then Moses’ mother got sick. And Moses’ father still beat her . . . then she died. Moses’ grandmother eventually got him to Gidan Bege. (—they love having their picture taken) Blind Town—Blind Town is basically the poorest are in Jos. Which is saying a lot considering how poor the city is. We (the men) got to meet the chief of the lepers and his wife. They had rooms the size of walk-in closets and they had stubs for hands and feet. Martha laughs after everything she says—good. Night.”

 

June 5th: At this point, my heart couldn’t feel, and my head couldn’t think. I couldn’t even write in my journals. At the end of each day I would scribble down what I did. I remember much of it, and my older blog entries (from July I believe) have much of what I experienced, but I will re-interpret my scribbles, now that it has almost been a year. “Things we did today:—drove from Jos to Makurdi (5 hrs)—knocked down a wall so the orphans don’t have to walk around the compound for water—went to the Makurdi Marketplace to get food, a sledgehammer, sodas—went to a Bad Boyz scrimmage.”

 

June 5th: The drive: It felt odd. Marque drove myself, Bumper, and Papa with Monday to Makurdi. We were the only three white people there—we arrived at the Makurdi Gidan Bege and were introduced to David, who ran the place, with his wife. There were 22 boys at the Makurdi Gidan Bege. David also had a soccer team: Bad Boyz. He did so much. We walked around the place and America seemed to vanish from my head. There were two parts of the orphanage: in one half lived David and his wife, in the other lived the boys and Sebastian, who was basically the house dad. He had five kids and his wife lived there, too. So: 22 Gidan Bege boys + 5 Sebastian’s children + 2 Sebastian and wife = 29 people. A wall separated the two halves, and the well (the only source for water) was on David’s side. So: 3 David, wife, their baby, had the water. And: 29 on the other side had to walk on the outside of the complex, around the outer wall, and into David’s side with a 5-gallon bucket and get water (and then they have to walk back with the full bucket). Then we went to the market place: as we drover the van through the jam-packed marketplace a Nigerian man said, “White man . . . (5 second pause as the van was stopped and the man looked at me through the open van window) . . . how are you?” After the marketplace we went to see the Bad Boyz  play a scrimmage, and that was a unique experience in Africa even. The players were amazing—better than anything I had ever seen. When they were done we got to meet them, and we took like 40 pictures. Felt like the red carpet. It didn’t feel right—they seemingly worshiped us for nothing. What had we done? Done: we lived spoiled American lives and came to their country with a Bible. I know spreading the gospel is good and all, but the interaction with the players was extremely wrong. Why were we worthy? They smiled and shook our hands and took pictures with their cell phones. Why?

 

June 6th: painting the church building with Bad Boyz players. Film at night—

 

June 7th: Dwight said: “It’s a tactic I like to call . . . diversion.”

 

June 8th: The last journal entry that wasn’t a list of things done: “The courtyard defined squalid. No longer was that word associated with photographs—reality has rudely intruded into the realm of meaning: a stray flip-flop, a skinny dog with right ear gnawed to the raw flesh, a pile of dirt and sand three feet high (laying inches from the well), and a gazebo screaming with the moans of a generator returning to Jos with us. The stillness of the air spelled an evil stagnancy, as the people lay robbed of their rights.”

 

June 9th: Luke said, of Obama, “He swore on the Quran to enter the Senate, does that not scare you?” For the record: no. not at all. In the morning we had to go to the immigration office, because something had happened when the three men were in Makurdi, so we went to the immigration office. Dwight was so scared. We answered questions from the immigration officer: who was on a huge power trip. He liked that the white people in front of him were at his mercy, literally. After that we went to EMS, a school for kids whose parents were missionaries (these were Nigerian kids whose Nigerian parents did local missions stuff.) I my journal I say, “EMS=joy (room w/ drum and dancing). Colors: I’m seeing colors besides red.” We went to a small room where the joyful children put on a small drama for us, song us songs, and danced. I also have written down, “Monday—now I feel.” In that room, the dancing room, I actually had feelings. No other part of the trip gave me feelings. Home and slept—

 

June 10th: “Hospital tour, lunch @ Ardill’s—soccer match @ Geiro (we lost 2-1) I broke my toe at the soccer match.

 

June 11th: “Spent 3 hours drawing shit in the morning—Gidan Bege for the last time—(Simon, Samson, Musa)—Bad Boyz (not the soccer team, but the poor area of town where all people do is drink)—went to pubs and handed out tracts to drunks: we need prayer, follow-up, and discipleship.” I could explain Bad Boyz, but I can’t. there is another entry on it. I am tired now this has made me tired

 

goodbye, hunter

 

ps, from june 19th, three days after being home from Nigeria: “reality: what’s real and what isn’t? reality: what matters and what doesn’t?”