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Soja and Mohammed received their loans on the 16 May, 2009. They were given two months to put the money to work before making the first payment. I visited them in June to see how their businesses were progressing and to offer my prayers and advice. On July 25 I returned to Gueladjo to visit them once more and to collect the first payment.

The afternoon of the 25^th, the pastor and I ride to meet with El Hajji to discuss his progress. At his shop he shows me the stock of radio parts he had bought. We then walk to his home where the young rams are munching on baobab leaves. He had wasted no time, investing the full loan amount into his inventory. Returning to the shop, we sit down and talk about how the business was progressing. “I thank God,” he says. “Little by little I am gaining more clients, and I know these rams will fetch a high price come November.” He then hands me his first payment of 10,000 CFA plus an additional 2,000 CFA advance. “I want to finish payments as soon as possible,” he tells me. With a sly smile he adds, “I already have plans for the next loan.”

Excited and encouraged, Lawali and I ride on to visit Soja at his home. Soja pulls out a mat and invites us to sit while he goes to get milk from his cows for us to drink while we talk. Sipping the fresh cow’s milk from the gourd I ask him how the millet trade has been going. The conversation takes a while to be translated between French and Fufulde, but the pastor is extremely thorough. “He says that he has lots of clients,” relates Lawali. “Already he has sold over five sacks of millet to his village. His price is lower than the competition and he is closer than other markets. However, this is a hard time for the village. People do not have much money. The majority of the millet has been sold on credit. Some people have started to pay their credit, but most have not paid back. He has made some money, but most of it is still tied up in unpaid debt. Consequently, he cannot make the full payment this month. He can only pay 4,000 of the 7,500.”

Meet kindness, one of the fruits of the spirit, but also the killer of good business plans. My business mind wants to tell Soja that he has to stop the credit. I want to explain how, in such a small commerce, the credit will keep him from rebuilding his inventory and stall his business. I even start to explain these things, but something in me stops Lawali from translating the lecture. Instead I say, “Soja, I think you have seen how credit can slow your business. If you really trust that your neighbors will repay you, then I will not tell you stop. Right now, I think we should pray that your debtors make good on their word and that God would provide a new way for you to make profit out of your commerce. You still owe the 3,500, but we will worry about that later. For next month, let’s focus on making a full payment.” With that we spent some time in prayer before Lawali and I head back to the church.

Following a night of cards and stories with Lawali and his neighbors, we wake up early to prepare for the Sunday service. Soja shows up early to arrange the benches and Mohammed arrives just as the pastor starts tapping the drum. I don’t understand a word of the Fufulde worship, but I love the way Soja leads it and the way the rest of the congregation responds. After worship I preached a brief message on the Holy Spirit. I taught about the first Pentecost in Acts and how God sends his Spirit to help us share the good news. I explained that the Holy Spirit, though a mystical concept, doesn’t have to be spooky. When Jesus left, he knew it would be difficult to preach the gospel to Jews and Gentiles who were hostile to Christians. That’s why God sent the Holy Spirit, “the Helper,” to aid them in proclaiming the message of hope in dark world. Being a Christian in a Muslim country, especially in a small Muslim village, can be difficult. That is why God still sends His Spirit, to help us in the most difficult of places. We finished with a time of prayer, asking God to embolden and empower us with His Spirit, so we could be His witnesses in this village and this country.

After visiting with the members and lunch with the pastor, I load my bike to head home. I thank the pastor and his wife for their generosity and hit the road. I make it back to the highway without any problem. As is my habit, I stop in Kobadie for a pack of water and to send Brent a text. I let him know I’m on the road and a best guess of when I should be back. My bike is running great as I power on to Niamey.

Just 20km outside Niamey there is a village called Boulaba. It rests in a small valley between plateaus. Descending into the valley, my engine crescendos to a high-pitched whine as the RPM’s increase. This is normal and I think nothing of it until, “POP!” and my bike halts as abruptly as if I had slammed the brakes. This causes me to lurch forward and, on such a steep decline, the rear wheel starts lifting up. I pull the clutch to keep from flipping over the handlebars and coast down into the valley. At this point my engine trouble experience is limited to bad spark plugs and running out of gas. The spark plug is still good and I can hear the fuel sloshing in the tank, so that eliminates those possibilities. I can’t get a kick-start, so I ask a villager to help me push start. We are able to coax out a low rumble, but the engine never revs to life. “Sounds like you blew a piston,” he offers. I don’t know enough to validate or refute his words, but there is wisdom and experience in his voice. I pull out my cell phone to look for service. “There isn’t service down in the valley,” he tells me. “For that you have to climb the plateau.”

I park my bike and climb the small mountain of a plateau in search of service. My quest renders one bar. I call Brent and try to explain the situation. “Brent, I’m 20km outside of Niamey and my bike broke down. Can you come with the truck and pick me up?” The signal is so weak that all Brent hears is “Brent, *** 20km ****ide ** Nia*** *** my **ke broke do**. Can *** *** with the truck *** pi** me *p?” That’s all I could get out before the call was dropped. My solo journey that started with adventure has now deteriorated into frustration. I’m frustrated with the dropped call. I’m frustrated that I’m stuck just 20km from home. And, as I think on the situation, I become increasingly frustrated with myself. In March I had resolved not to ask for rescue any more, yet at the first trouble I revert to my old MO and call Brent. Just then I get a text from Brent, “You OK? Do I need to come and get you?” I think a moment and text back “No. I’ll call you when I get to the city,” and descend into the valley.

I ask the villagers if there is a transport going to Niamey anytime soon. It’s Sunday, so this means nothing is coming or going. The guy that helped me push start speaks up, “I can give you a tow into Niamey.”

“How?” I ask.

“We’ll tie your bike to the back of mine and you’ll just ride on it behind me.”

My first thought is that this is a terrible idea. Motorcycles aren’t cars. One sharp turn and I could pull his rear end out from under him. Then we’ll both be ripped off the road in a tandem of death. If he slams the breaks I could crash into him or fly past, ripping his tail around as I go. But then I start to wonder if it’s just my inexperience that makes his suggestion seem foolish. After all, he’s probably done this before. Eventually my American concerns surrender to the African problem solving and I agree to the suggestion.

He ties a rope around his luggage rack and then ties the other end around both struts of my front wheel. He leaves a good meter and a half of slack between the two bikes. “Put it in neutral and follow me as straight as possible,” he directs. “Try and keep the rope taut, even if you have to ride the brake. That’ll keep the rope from snapping and keep you from jerking me around.” Slowly he pulls out onto the highway, with my bike in tow. Not wanting to strain the engine, we cruise at a gentle speed all the way to the roundabout in Niamey. He drops me at the station where I fill up his tank, thank him and wish him a safe return.

Now I call Brent, and he comes across the river with the pickup to haul me the last bit to my mechanic. “I was worried about you, dude. How’d you make it in?”

“African code,” I respond. “React to anything.”