(7)

Friday 9:30am – It’s a late start, but after a lazy breakfast and a cup of coffee Lawali and I head out to meet with Soja and Mohammed. We find Soja at his home, buying basic medications from a passing vendor that he will eventually resell to his neighbors. I laugh and joke with Lawali that Soja’s competition might hurt the church supported pharmacy that he and I opened just a few months back. Soja and I sit and he explains all the different small commerce projects he has been doing to earn extra money. He then explains how this year he has been weathering the famine much better than years past thanks to the additional income he has been earning. He smiles and thanks me as he hands over the month’s payment.

10:30am – We find Mohammed waiting at his radio repair station. A young Fulani boy has brought his boom box to be repaired. The boy needs it fixed so he can carry it around the market on his shoulder, circa 1980’s, and impress the young Fulani girls. Mohammed puts down the soldering iron and smiles a toothy smile as we approach. “You see how much work I have?” he says with a laugh. “Before they would have to wait, sometimes weeks, for me to have the parts needed to fix their radios. Now, since I am well stocked, they can have it repaired in the same day.” We talk for a while about his family, his business and the growth of his sheep. “I thank God,” he says conclusively before making his payment plus an advance payment.

11:30am – Having finished our visits, I tell Lawali that I really cannot stay for lunch. I have to make it back by 3pm, in time to drive to the airport, and want to leave myself some extra time. I bid him and his wife farewell then drive over to the mechanic’s tree to buy some fuel and to change my oil. They fill my gas tank and then crack the lug nut to drain the oil. The liquid spills out gray and thin, rather than the normal thick blackness of used motor oil. “You have a bunch of water in your engine,” the mechanic explains to me. “That’s why the oil is so gray. It’s a miracle your bike even started with oil like that.”

“So what do we do about that?” I ask.

“Well, we need to run a round of petrol through the engine to clean it out before we can put new oil in. Then it should be fine.”

They send one of their little trainees off with 1000 francs and an empty bottle to bring back some petrol.

12:00pm – Just as I started getting worried that the boy was lost, he comes around the corner with the bottle of petrol. We run it through the engine for a few minutes before draining it out again. It, too, spills out thin and gray. They fill the newly cleaned motor with oil and then wish me a safe journey back to Niamey. It’s now 12:15. It normally takes an hour and a half to make it to Niamey. That leaves me an hour to shower and change before heading to the airport. Perfect.

12:45pm – Riding down the dirt path to the highway I am enjoying the beautiful, clear day. I can tell by the reddening of my arms that it is plenty hot, but the wind feels cool thanks to yesterday’s rain. I take my right hand off the throttle to scratch my knee, only to realize that the throttle is stuck once again. I try to free the jamb by jerking the throttle a few times, but to no avail. The only way to slow down is to cut power to the bike. This works, but I know if I completely stop I may not be able to start her again. I try not to panic and think, “If I can just make it to Kobadie, I can stop and fix the carburetor before heading on to Niamey.” This seemed like it could work until I remembered the washout in the road just ahead. It’s impossible to cross at any speed above a crawl without falling off the rain torn ridge. I ride until I can see the ravine in the distance and then cut the engine.

I remember Lawali’s lesson on freeing a stuck throttle, but then further remember that I don’t have a screwdriver. I do my best to loosen the jamb manually and then try to start my bike. After a few minutes of attempted kick-starts without success, I hop off and try to push-start. I put the bike in first gear. I then push it till I’m going at a fast jog and pop the clutch. As soon as I pop the clutch the engine roars to life and the bike starts speeding away. I have to sprint to keep up with it and cut the engine before it outpaces my guiding hands. I stop to catch my breath and think a minute. “The rest of the road after the washout is good. There’s only three kilometers left to Kobadie. If I can just make it there I’ll get my bike fixed and be in Niamey by 2:30.” This time there is no hesitation, no digging for the cell phone. I know what I need to do.

1:00pm – I push my bike across the washout to a smooth stretch of road. I feel proud of what I’m about to do: adapting and triumphing despite difficult circumstances. I feel as if I am living the African motto of reacting to anything. I take a deep breath and whisper a short prayer, “God, please don’t let this be the stupidest thing I have ever done.” And with that I lower my shoulder and start pushing the bike. This time I wait till I am at a quick run before popping the clutch. Once again the engine roars to life and I can already feel the bike starting to accelerate. In my head I see myself jumping, expertly swinging my right leg over the back of the bike, sliding gently into the saddle and speeding all the way to Kobadie. I do jump, and gracefully kick my leg over the back of the bike. However, in my estimation I forgot to account for the large overnight pack I had tied to the back of the bike. So, instead of gently sliding into the saddle, my leg collides with the pack. I land awkwardly on my left foot, right on last night’s puncture wound. The shot of pain causes me to fall to my left, pulling the revving motorcycle on top of myself. The left handlebar drags my left hand along the ground, ripping off my pinky nail and tearing a good chunk of flesh with it. Quickly I cut off the engine and pull myself from underneath the wreckage. I pick up my bike to keep the gas from leaking out and put it on its kickstand. The bike looks scraped, but otherwise unharmed. Similarly, I am scraped down my left side and my pinky is bleeding pretty heavily, but I have not suffered any serious injuries.

Now, I like to consider myself a smart guy. I did well in school and generally feel I exercise at least a normal amount of common sense. However, sometimes the voice of pride shouts over those of intelligence and common sense. For a third time I lower my shoulder and start pushing my bike. At just above a jog I pop the clutch and this time do not wait for the engine roar to try and hop into the saddle. Again, I clumsily collide with my overnight pack. Fortunately I am under enough control to keep from falling and am able to cut the engine before the bike takes off. After three failures, the voice of wisdom is finally louder than my pride. I count my blessings and decide not to tempt fate with a fourth push.

Two Fulani ladies, who had apparently witnessed the whole charade, creep out of the millet stalks just as I am ripping off my shirtsleeve to use as a bandage. They don’t speak a word of French, but by their gestures I see that they want to help. They pour some water from their gourd on my shredded pinky, then rip my shirtsleeve into tiny strips and bandage my finger. In the mean time, I pull out my cell phone and see that there is no service. Great. I thank them as best I can, then lower my shoulder and start pushing my bike to Kobadie.

1:45pm – I feel the full weight of the midday sun as I trudge slowly down the road. I have only pushed one of the three kilometers and already my shirt is soaked through with sweat and my hands are starting to cramp on the handlebars. A Fulani boy headed to Kobadie on his bicycle pulls up and dismounts beside me. He follows for a minute, watching me every step, then tries to stop me. He offers to trade loads: my motorcycle for his bike. I look in his eyes and see that it is genuine. I have been humbled greatly this day, but I still have enough pride to bear my own cross. I am not yet ready to suffer the ultimate humility of passing my cross to another. He follows another 100 meters or so before climbing back on his bike and pedaling ahead.

2:00pm – I am now over two thirds of the way to Kobadie. There is still no cell phone reception, so I have little other choice but to plod on. A motorcycle coming in the opposite direction slows as it approaches and eventually stops. “A boy told me somebody was having trouble on the road,” he says as he gets down. “What’s wrong with the bike?” Looks like my Fulani friend sent for help.

“My throttle is stuck open,” I replied.

“Let me take a look at it.” He starts poking around and I start thinking. Even if he does get it started and working, I don’t feel great about riding the last hour to Niamey. I’m exhausted and my hand is throbbing with pain.

“Hey, why don’t you just tow me into Kobadie and then I’ll find a transport to the city,” I suggest.

“No problem. It’s going to be hard on my motor though… it’ll cost you.”

Normally I would negotiate, but I know his price is under what I’m willing to pay and I’m too tired to argue. Plus, he has me by the balls here, so I agree to his $4 tow fee. He pulls a rope out of the bag and ties it to his luggage rack and then around both struts of my front wheel. “Make sure you are in neutral,” he shouts as he slowly drives off with my bike in tow.

2:15pm – We pull into Kobadie just as the afternoon prayer is ending. That means that as we drive by the Mosque on our way into town there is huge crowd to witness my shame. Oh well, they probably think I’m a stupid American anyway. We park at his shop and I leave my bike to start looking for transport to Niamey. I find a beat up Peugeot 504 that is mostly empty. There’s ample space in the bed for my bike, so the owner and I negotiate a price. Twenty bucks to haul my bike and me the 60 kilometers home and thirty if I want to ride in the cab. I give him ten dollars and tell him he’ll get the rest when we arrive in Niamey. His crew helps me load my bike and then I hop in the truck bed with two of them. Just before we pull out I call Brent, “Hey Brent, it’s me. Yea I’m OK but I might be a little late. Will you see if Danika can drive the truck to the airport? Yea, and can you pick me up at the clinic around 3:30? No, it’s nothing serious, just might need a couple stitches. I’ll tell you all about it when you pick me up at the clinic. Alright, see you soon.”

3:00pm – The transport drops me off at Clinique de la Paix and helps me unload my bike. I park it with the guard then hurry in to get my hand looked at. The clinic is relatively empty so I get seen right away. The doctor unwraps the shirtsleeve bandage and winces. “That’s an ugly cut you have there. I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but it might take some time for it to heal and for the nail to grow back. And we definitely need to wash it out well. This might hurt a little.” That’s what I was most afraid of. I ball up my shirttail and stick it in my mouth to bite down on. I grip hard with right hand on the side of the table as the doctor starts cleaning the wound. First he rinses it with water. Then he cuts off the flap of skin that I apparently “Don’t need any more” and starts disinfecting. He scrubs it first with alcohol, then with peroxide, and finally with betadine. Just as he finishes wit the antibiotic ointment and bandage my phone rings. “Hey, Brent. Oh you’re outside. Well I just need to pay and then I’ll be out.”

3:45pm – Riding in the cruiser to the airport I explain to Brent the whole stupid story of my last few hours. I can tell he’s snickering, trying to contain the laughter because he isn’t sure how much teasing my pride can take. When I finish I start laughing and say, “Well at least it’s a good story right?” He can’t hold it back anymore. Laughing hysterically he says, “That was pretty stupid, Daniel. But if it’s any comfort, I can say that it wasn’t the stupidest thing I’ve heard you do.” This makes him laugh even harder.

At the airport I’m forced to retell the story to everyone who notices the bandage on my hand. Dave and Danika laugh at my foolishness, reminding me of how stupid that was. However Dankarami, one of the Africans we work with, listens intently to the story. Before I even explain the part about push starting and hopping on the back of my bike, he is a step ahead of me. He tells me what I did before I get there. I ask how he knew and he responds, “Because that’s the solution. I would have done the same thing. Anybody else here would have tried the same thing.” I am hit simultaneously with equal doses of pride and shame. There is pride that I am beginning to think like an African and assimilating myself into their cultural mindset. For the same reason I feel a little shame, like a little bit of the American in me had died. I still haven’t decided which of those sentiments should rule over the other, probably because I’m still not sure which way of thinking I favor.

Fortunately I don’t have the time to decide because the team starts coming out of the airport. I greet the team members and give Marcia a big hug. “What happened to your finger?” she asks, noticing the bandage.

“It’s a long and stupid story… I’ll tell you sometime soon.”

10:00pm – With the team all settled into their rooms I head over to Brent’s for our usual Friday night game of Rook. A few hands into the game my phone rings. It’s Lawali.

“Daniel, how are you? I heard you had an accident. I just wanted to make sure you were OK.”

Amazing. The Fulani ladies who came to my aid must have passed the news up the road. The Fulani grapevine works faster than most news networks. “Yes, I am fine. Thank you for calling. How did you hear about it, pastor?”

“Someone told me they saw you bleeding and pushing your bike to Kobadie. Even though they don’t know you they recognize you and your bike. They knew you were my friend so they passed the word on to me.”

“Thank you for calling, Pastor. God Bless,” I conclude and hang up the phone.

I am still amazed that Lawali caught word of my accident when, a few hands later, my phone rings again. I don’t recognize the number, but I answer anyway. I am greeted by a familiar voice that I haven’t heard in a while.

“Daniel, it’s Bouba. Do you remember me? I drove you from Chileda to Gueladjo.”

“Yes, I remember. How are you Bouba”

“I am good. Are you OK? I heard you had an accident.”

Incredible. Everyone on the road to Gueladjo must have heard by now. “Yes, Bouba, I am fine. It was just a small accident, so I am fine. Thank you for calling.”

“Thank God. I also wanted to know when you will be coming back to teach us more. Everyone is talking about what you taught us that day. We have lots of questions. Can you please come?”

“Of course I will come. Let me just speak with my pastor and we will find a day to come.”

When I hang up the phone I look at Brent incredulously. He gives me a questioning look that suggests I better spill it. “Brent, you have to come with me to Chileda. They are asking me to come and teach more about Jesus.”

He laughs, remembering the story about Chileda. “Well, Williams,” he responds. “Looks like something good came out of your silly shenanigans. Maybe you should break down in more villages, then the whole country will get saved.”