She. Is. Just. Like. Mercury.

Perhaps the most frightening thing about a trip to Africa is the damage it will do to your soul. It will force, undoubtedly, you to question, prod, and dissect your previously held notions of what you believe is reality.

My junior year of high school I picked up a book from Starbucks, expecting a good read with a few things I didn’t know about. A few pages in I realized that the words of Ishmael Beah didn’t come from a distant planet, or even the musings of his mind, but they came from the experiences of his body, hardened by the horrors of war. I sped through the book like the Devil was on my back, and, when I finished, I loaned it (and bought more and more copies) to multiple friends. They read it, but nobody seemed to be as touched as myself, or, more accurately, disintegrated. It blew me apart.

I felt the lure of the forbidden continent. I felt its draw. After my senior year, and in large portion due to Ishmael Beah’s book, I took a trip to Nigeria, the most populated country in Africa, split by Christians and Muslims, and corrupted by wealthy government officials. While there, I learned truths I otherwise would be blind to, things to make one shudder in one’s sleep and wake from the solace of the night. Marque, for example, told me a story. Marque is a 37-year-old man, (who looks like he’s 22) who is the tech guy. He can fix anything: radio, TV, car engine, watch, you name it. If it’s electrical and it breaks, give it to Marque. Brilliant guy. More intelligent than most any American I have ever met. Sharp. World-weary, and loving. I spent less than two weeks with Marque, but I would put my life in his hands without a question.

I leaned in closer as Marque produced his tale: he was in the Northern parts of Nigeria, a stronghold of Muslims, and as a Christian preaching the gospel, Marque had plenty reason to fear for his life. Marque and several others were asleep in a house, having just proclaimed the gospel in a Muslim town. Suddenly a cinder block shattered the window in Marque’s room—he heard yells. Marque and his three companions crawled, as quietly as they could, to another window and they took a peak: several men wielding machetes, blood in their eyes, fire in their hearts. They crawled to a new window: more men, the house was surrounded. Adrenaline pumped through Marque’s veins—he had been in sticky situations before, but not like this. Through every window hungry, red eyes searched for movement like sharks in deep waters. Marque and his friends gathered and prayed. There wasn’t much else they could do. The yells continued, but through the drone a new voice arose, different and stronger. It stifled the yells of the machete-wielding warriors. The murmurs died down into nothingness and Marque heard a creak near the front door. The warriors had finally decided to stop the intimidation and start the brawl—but the voice, the stifling voice, told them the men with the machetes were gone. Marque and his friends, still huddled together, looked out the window—the men were gone. The man with the voice showed himself: a tall, barefoot impostor, clothed in a cream-colored tunic, worn red by the dirt. He told Marque he and his friends were free to go. The men were gone.

A desire for tea led to a trip to Starbucks, which in turn led to the purchase of a book, which followed with a trip to Nigeria, which culminated with soul-wrenching experiences, but the journey wasn’t over.

I was pleasantly surprised when I discovered what the school reading would be: A Long Way Gone, Memoirs of a Boy Soldier. And I was even more joyous when I found out Ishmael himself, the one who sent me, would be coming to our campus to speak.

As I filed into the tightly packed church I reflected on how much this author had affected my life, unbeknownst to him. It forced a certain wonder through my brain: how could one man, whose experiences occurred during my first few years of life, affect another so much? As Ishmael took the podium I gawked. There he is, I thought. This is the guy, the guy! This is it!

Despite the complaints of numerous students around me, I listened to what Ishmael had to say. (It was quite disappointing that many of the students complained about being there, they whined that there TAs made them go. I felt like telling them they need to leave their own heads and experience someone else’s worldview.) His talk was shorter than I had hoped for, but he answered questions like a genius. He put Sarah Palin, Joe Biden, Barack Obama, and John McCain to shame.

One thing stood out, above all else. It was small: when he said that he still only sleeps three hours a night. My heart did a loop (like a crazy roller coaster) in my chest. Holy shit, 3 hours. I thought about the students who were actually complaining about being there. I hope you heard that. (Only now do I realize I was being just as snobby and self-righteous as they were.) Ishmael still lives with all of the memories. Every war scene rides his brain like a horseman on a stallion.

After the talk there was a brief book signing. I didn’t have my book, but I wanted to meet the guy. With my new friend Barb the Artist I reached (finally) the table, which Ishmael sat at. My heart pounded, like a caveman on an animal-skinned drum. I shook his hand, and was quickly ushered out the door. Quick, but beautiful.

Every experience either Ishmael or I ever had converged into the meeting of our hands. Two completely different worldviews fusing and then breaking in a moment’s time.