You Prepare a Table

Sitting on my motorcycle under the Saturday sun I listened to speech after speech praising the courageous soldiers who brought an end to President Tandja’s rule and his short-lived 6^th Republic. Al-Hassan and Al-Husseini, my twin companions, and I had ridden out to Rond Point de L’armée to witness the rally being organized in honor of Thursday’s coup d’état. We found ourselves on the fringes of a crowd that numbered well over 50,000. Men and women of all ages and all tribes came to celebrate what they considered the rebirth of democracy. The assembly encircled a 19-place van whose luggage rack held four speakers and a makeshift podium for the day’s orators. The leaders of the Supreme Council for the Restoration of Democracy, the interim governing body, were scheduled to appear, but had not yet arrived. In the mean time, each of Niger’s political parties expressed their pleasure in the coup’s success and their wishes for a speedy return to order. Many of the speeches were repetitive and redundant, but there was one statement that stuck in my mind:

“The 6^th Republic left just as it came; by force! It forced its way in through the back door, and through the back door it was forced out!”

He spoke well when he used the word “force.” I heard the force of which he spoke. There was no finesse to their tanks and no stealth to their cannon fire. Their force was deployed without hesitation or reserve. The sounds of their force shook the house where I had taken refuge.

At 1pm on the 18 of February I was at the Teague house, a Google Earth-measured ¾ mile from the Presidential offices. I had just finished changing the oil on their generator when Pastor Adamou, who had left only a few minutes prior, came running back through the gate warning us to go inside. Ten seconds had not passed before we heard the first cannons and machine guns. I ran to the front gate to pull in my motorcycle and lock the gate behind me. The dust flew in the street as husbands raced home to wives and fathers raced home to children. After locking the gate, I ran back into the Teague house, joining Brent, Shelley, Julie, Pastor Adamou, Dankarami and Pastor Terah. Each was shouting over the gun blasts into their cell phones, locating friends and family and cautioning them to stay inside. At the conclusion of each call, updates were shouted to the others in the room:

“Jeremy (my roommate) and the girls (Ashley and Amber Teague) are at Sahel! They heard the shots and are locking down the school!” exclaimed a very relieved Shelley.

“The dorm students heard the shots and are locked down!” came Brent’s update.

“Danika isn’t answering her phone! I hope she isn’t on her motorcycle!” shouted a very concerned Julie.

“I just called Moumouni (the day guard at Julie and Danika’s house) and he says they heard the shots and are locked in the house!” I added, seeing instant relief on her roommate’s face.

“Rodrigo and Juanita are safe at home!” came Shelley’s second update.

“Isn’t Rod supposed to be in Alambare till tomorrow?” asked Brent.

“Yeah, he said for some strange reason he felt the need to come back this morning. He just got in 30 minutes ago,” Shelley explained. We all stopped at this, acknowledging God’s protection and provision. We all knew that neither of those lovebirds would tolerate being separate from their other half during such a crisis.

By the time all friends and family were accounted for the Armageddon explosions had ceased. All that could be heard were the occasional spurts of machine gun fire. Dankarami and Adamou, confident that the worst was over, headed in the opposite direction of the battle to join their families. Our cell phones were put aside in favor of laptops, tapping out hurried messages to the loved ones in the states. After Facebook and Twitter had been sufficiently updated with our statuses and emails were sent to close friends and families, we all gathered around Pastor Terah. He was vigilantly scanning the radio. The first thing successful over throwers do is take control of communications. They broadcast their military march on all radio and TV channels before making a statement announcing their new regime. All stations were continuing with their normal programming. This, combined with the rattling gunfire, assured us that the attackers had not yet been successful.

After listening to the radio and spending some time in collective prayer, Shelley beckoned us to the table. “Lunch is ready,” she said. “Seeing as we can’t go anywhere and there is nothing else we can do, we might as well eat.” So we all heeded her call and sat down to a feast of pasta casserole complete with bread and salad. Brent prayed a special prayer of blessings and thanks before we started to eat.

That was one of the strangest parts of the whole experience. Not a mile from our location a battle for control of the country was unfolding, and we gathered around a table to eat. The dogs were barking at the sound of machine guns and we hushed them so we could eat in peace. We sipped sweet tea and passed the salad dressing while people died on the streets. We talked about the coup like it was something we heard on the news, but it was still happening. My problem was not a fear of danger or anxiety over the outcome. I was troubled that we were going on with ordinary life while extraordinary circumstances were afoot.

After lunch I spent some time alone in prayer. I could not shake the aftertaste of lunch’s situational irony. All of my thoughts on the subject led me to the same question: What is the appropriate response? After chasing all the answers down their rabbit holes, I arrived at a Psalm that most churchgoers will recognize.

Psalm 23

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in still pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

I have a new appreciation for David’s sentiments, which share the same irony as our lunch. I wonder how many times, while surrounded by the enemy, David and his men sat down to a meal. When the battle raged in the distance the Lord prepared a table. I wonder how many times David ate at the same table as those who conspired against him. In the face of sedition and mutiny the Lord prepared a table. Did David refuse to eat because his enemies were present? Did he fast because there was chaos all around him? No. With his confidence in the shepherd, David would sit and partake in the feast because “you prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.”

On February 18 those verses came to life in Niamey. While the army was forcing President Tandja’s regime out the back door, the Lord prepared a table for us. At around 5pm the fighting had waned to where Jeremy, Danika and the girls were able to make it home. That evening, to the sound of the military march playing on the radio, the Lord prepared a table once more.

The Lamb is Risen

Political cartoons are a fantastic glimpse into the public opinion. On Saturday the 20th, when I went to the rally for the new regime, copies of the cartoon below were being sold on every street corner. Before we get to the cartoon, however, you need a little history.

Last May, President Mamadou Tandja wanted to pass a referendum to amend the constitution of Niger. His second term as President was due to end on December 22 of 2009. The constitution at the time had a two term limit for the president, much like America's. Should the referendum be successful he would be allowed a third mandate of 3 years. Parliament ruled that such a referendum would be unconstitutional and therefore illegal. Tandja shocked the nation by dissolving parliament on May 26, 2009. His actions were condemned by the Supreme Court, which was swiftly dissolved as well. On August 4, 2009, the referendum for the constitutional amendment was put to a vote. It passed with 92% approval.

Everyone expected that December 23, 2009, would be a day of action and intrigue. Since December 22 was Tandja's last day in office per the old constitution, the 23 marked the birth of Niger's 6th Republic. The protestors rested and the demonstrators sat silent. On February 2nd Tandja issued the following statement in reference to the bygone 5th Republic during a radio broadcast:

"The lamb has been slaughtered. It is finished. Nigeriens who are outside the country have nothing more to wait for. They should return. The lamb has been slaughtered."

Now the political cartoon. Tandja is drawn on the right and the military leaders are on the left. The military men are saying, "You thought the lamb was dead. He has risen and his coming for you."

Tandja, who has left a shoe behind as he flees, is responding, "Oh no, I didn't do a good job of killing the lamb."

This is Africa

Africans have an unusual way of greeting you after returning from vacation. After spending a month in the states most of my friends and acquaintances welcomed me back with the same phrases:

“What’s the news from America?”

“How is the family?”

“You look refreshed. You have become young again!”

“Wow, home must have been good! You have gained so much weight! Really, you look great!”

To Nigeriens, a vacation’s worth is measured in pounds gained. Gaining weight is a compliment to the voyage. It shows that work was exchanged for relaxation and stress for indulgence. Like most compliments given in any culture, it can be used regardless of truth. Some people, particularly American women, have a hard time handling this compliment. I, on the other hand, embrace it. After all, it would be a terrible shame to come back to Africa from an American holiday lighter than when you left. Thanks to Slurpees, barbeque, burritos and the #1 combo at Chik-Fil’A, I successfully traded in my cares for a couple additional pounds.

I had forgotten how much social activity in America revolves around meals and beverages. I spent a lot of my time catching up with old friends at familiar restaurants. My daily routine was breakfast, then coffee, to lunch, afternoon coffee, to dinner and finally out for desert, usually with a different person/group of people at each place. While doing my restaurant and coffee shop circuit, most people would eventually ask how it felt to be back. I knew that it felt great to be in America, but I had the hardest time explaining why. Most people were ready to fill in the blank for me, noting that 15 months in Africa is a long time. The simple answer was usually the burger in my hand or the friend across the table. It was not until I returned to Niger that I was able to put my finger on the exact reason America was so refreshing.

When I started this blog I titled it “Fruit Growing in the Desert: Ministry in a Muslim Nation, Business in an Impoverished Nation.” The title shows my desire to encourage spiritual and economic growth in a country where it is so desperately needed. These are also the two areas where change is hardest to affect. Aware of the challenges, or at least aware that there would be challenges, I came to Niger with hope for change. However, as months went by that hope was replaced by an acceptance of the status quo, or what I like to call “DiCapprio Syndrone.”

In the 2006 film Blood Diamond, Leonardo DiCaprio damns the continent with three words:

This

Is

Africa.

This statement of defeat is used to acknowledge everything he knows needs fixing but will never be fixed. Outrage at government corruption, child soldiers, AIDS, starvation and a general sense of injustice are silenced with each repetition of “This is Africa.” Speaking as a resident of Niger, I can attest that this attitude begins to settle in with each month passed in Africa. The status quo becomes at first tolerable, then acceptable, and finally the standard. Hope for change still exists, but hope is slowly rocked to sleep with the gentle lullaby of “This is Africa.”

The best part of my month spent in America was that my hope for change was shook awake. This reveille was inspired by a variety of people and circumstances, but is ultimately boiled down to a fresh encounter with the power of the gospel. Can Africa change? I have to believe so. To deny Africa the possibility of change is to deny the very gospel I preach. To accept the status quo is to reduce Jesus to a teacher and the Bible to moral code. This is Africa… This is Niger… This is Niamey. Were it left up to men those places would be like the phrases in which they are mentioned: defeated and incomplete. But in Christ we have hope for change. We have hope that those places can be redeemed and transformed. Things will not always be as they have been. This is Africa… ready to be made new.

(1)

“Sometimes a man wants to be stupid if it lets him do a thing his cleverness forbids.” – John Steinbeck

One of the Boy Scout mottos is “Ready for anything.” My dad was an Eagle Scout and to this day still embodies that motto. My siblings and I would sometimes get annoyed with his seeming over preparedness, but we were inevitably grateful when extraneous precautionary items became essentials. Before the days of GPS there were always VA, NC, MD and DC roadmaps in the glove boxes of Williams family vehicles. He always has both a bottle of sunscreen and an umbrella in his golf bag and he always has a band-aid in his wallet. I was never a very good Boy Scout. In truth I didn’t even make it to Boy Scouts; I dropped out around WEBLOS.

I make a much better African than I do a Boy Scout. Africans tend to operate under a different mantra: “React to anything.” Preparedness is not appreciated as much as adaptation. Nigerien unpreparedness is more attributed to a lack of means than a lack of foresight. Consequently, an African ambulance would probably arrive late to the scene because they would have to stop and get gas on the way. Repairs on vehicles and tools are always in reaction to a problem. Preventive maintenance is a luxury only the rich can afford. Being prepared in Niger means driving a four-wheel drive Land Cruiser with sand tracks, an engine snorkel, tow rope and Gerry can filled with fuel. Being Nigerien means driving a beat-up motorcycle with a half tank of gas and a prayer.

These past few months I have had a series of adventures on my motorcycle. I have become skilled, if not expert at doing simple bush repairs on my bike to get it home in one piece. Spark plugs, tire plugs, dead batteries and carburetor repairs are things I’ve learned to deal with out of necessity. Despite my basic understanding of motors and how to get them running properly, I still have found myself broken down in the bush frequently of late. However, 8 months ago when I had to be rescued by Rodrigo just because my spark plug was spent (a three minute fix when you carry a spare) I resolved to never seek rescue when I break down or the road seems impassable. Prepared or not I am determined to make it to and from my destination without having to call Niamey for rescue. On several occasions I have paid the price for unpreparedness. Sometimes seeking help amongst villagers costs more than it would to call Brent or Rod. However, embracing the Nigerien mindset of reacting to anything, I have been rewarded with experiences and relationships that would not have been otherwise.

(2)

One of my favorite projects that I have become involved with has been microloans amongst church members. I work through the arm of the local churches to find clients who need a small loan to reinforce their existing businesses. Usually these loans are between $100-$200 and their uses can range from pharmacies to farms, from hair salons to sheep herding. The project is still in the pilot phase, and three of my five clients live in the city. I follow up with those clients at least once a month, but usually more often due to their proximity. However, two of my clients live way off the beaten path in a village called Gueladjo.

First there is Soja, the spiritual lion of Gueladjo. He used his loan to buy millet in the Gueladjo market and resell in his village, which is two miles farther up the road. Then there is Mohammed El Hajji, a converted Muslim who has once made the sacred pilgrimage to Mecca. For the past 60 years (yes, that’s right, 60) he has been running a small radio repair business. He used his loan to stock his radio repair shop and to fatten a few rams before Tabaski, the Muslim holiday celebrated by mass ram slaughtering. These two have faithfully attended the Gueladjo church for years.

Gueladjo is a Fulani village a little over 80km from Niamey. The first 60km are along a paved highway, but the remaining 20km are down an eroded dirt road. It is populated by 400 herders and farmers. Its distance and remoteness make it difficult to visit more than once a month. The roundtrip can be done in one day, but I usually prefer to overnight at the church to split up the driving and to spend time with the pastor.

Pastor Lawali is a man who infects all he meets with his contagious smiles and joyful laughter. He is a simple man who matches each spoonful of instant coffee with two spoonfuls of sugar, a ritual repeated four to five times a day. He loves to trade stories, especially if it is over a game of spades. He is a good card player and would probably be better if he could keep his hands from shaking with excitement when he holds all the aces. He is passionate about evangelism, especially when a long and winding motorcycle ride is required to reach the unreached. He is an expert bush rider, whose instincts and experiences have taught him how to negotiate the most difficult of trails and how to overcome the most difficult of engine troubles. If he is guilty of a sin it is coveting my mosquito-netted hammock that I spread in his yard the nights I stay. It was he who noticed Soja and Mohammed’s need for a small loan and asked me to come and evaluate their proposals.

(3)

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.”

(4)

It’s late August and I still haven’t been able to make it out to Gueladjo to visit Soja and Mohammed. The early part of the month was split between Niamey and Maradi, helping with the three different weeklong children’s camps. Just after the camps Mike Thaler came to visit from the states with his family. The camps have been amazing, and I am enjoying rest and time with the Thalers, but I am feeling a little guilty about being late on my visit to Gueladjo. I decide to make a quick daytrip on the morning of the 28^th. Mike wants to meet with Brent, Dave and I in the afternoon, so Brent offers me his truck to be sure I’ll make it back in time. While I love my motorcycle, it’s hard to refuse an offer of air conditioning and a reliable engine. So at 6:00am Friday morning I climb into the truck and head out for Gueladjo.

Travel in the rainy season is always unpredictable. All the lessons on erosion I learned in 6^th grade Earth Science come to life at this time of year. What was once a smoothly graded road can be worn into a washboard or cratered with potholes. Sandy floodplains can turn into rushing rivers and flash floods can rip apart bridges of concrete and steel. Entire sections of road disappear after a hard rain. Consequently, even a familiar road can be altered beyond recognition overnight.

Turning left at Kobadie towards Gueladjo, I send Brent my usual text message that I am leaving cell service. This also marks the transition from paved highway to dirt path. Immediately I start to notice the changes in the road. Sections of road that were formerly smooth and even are now rough and bumpy. Sections that were rough before now put the truck’s shocks and suspension to a test that could be showcased in Toyota commercials. All of this is, however, is foreplay leading to the challenge ahead.

Halfway between Kobadie and Gueladjo there is a valley village called Chileda. I descend into this small valley that normally troughs into a dried and sandy floodplain. On this day, however, the valley is filled with a stream that is over 200 meters across. This area is normally quiet and vacant, but today it is alive with activity. Women are washing clothes and pots at the rivers edge. Farther out there are men with nets and fishing lines. And on both sides there is a group of opportunistic men, ready to help carry bikes, motorcycles and baggage across. I pull up to the water’s edge and get out of the truck. A group of men in the water come sprinting to my assistance. They tell me they can help push the truck across, for a price. “How deep is it at the center?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s only waist high,” they assure me. “We can push you across no problem.” I measure waist height against the side of the truck, and that makes it midway up the driver door. Even if the water doesn’t destroy the engine at that depth, it’s bound to flood the cab. I am not about to ruin Brent’s truck, so I tell them no and hop back in to go home.

About a kilometer up the road I stop the car. I am frustrated that the road is flooded, but even more frustrated that I have no foreseeable opening in my schedule to make another trip. Plus, the river could be there for another week before drying. As I ponder my options my frustration slowly turns into adventurous determination. By the time I turn the truck around I have decided to make it to Gueladjo, one way or another.

The men in the water see my truck coming back into the valley and think I have finally succumbed to their plan. They rush to the bank to meet me as I climb out of the truck again. “You want us to push the truck?” they ask.

“No, I want you to guard the truck. Is there somebody here that has a motorcycle?” One of the guys steps forward. “Good, I’ll pay you to drive me to Gueladjo. I only need to stay a couple hours and then we’ll come back. Does that work?”

“It all depends on how much you are willing to pay.”

We agree on a price and the motorcycle owner runs off in search of his bike. The rest of the men, and growing crowd of children, start chattering excitedly in Fufulde. I don’t understand, but it sounds as if they are mentally spending the exorbitant amount they just charged me. I take my bag out of the truck and lock all the doors, making sure first that everything of value is either with me or concealed. My ride is coming down into the valley just as I lock the last door. The other guys start splashing water on the motorcycle’s engine to cool it before lifting. I take off my pants to put them in my bag and the women respond with shrieks of laughter. I must have scandalized them with my pasty white legs that have hardly seen sunlight since leaving America. Either way, we are ready and start crossing the rushing stream.

It took a team of six guys to lift the bike on to its front tire and push it across the stream. I follow behind them, watching their steps to avoid falling in the many sinkholes. Midway across, the water is at my waist and the current is flowing strong. I pat myself on the back for not trying to push the truck across and continue on to the other side.

My chauffeur to Gueladjo is named Bouba. He looks around 18 years old and speaks broken French. After a few hundred yards I realize that this is not his bike. In fact, I don’t think he even has a license. At every sandy section he makes me dismount and run to the other side because he is afraid of tipping. This makes for slow progress, but eventually we arrive at the church door.

Lawali laughs hysterically when he sees me on the back of another person’s bike. “I was wondering how you were going to get across that river,” he says. “Looks like you found a way.” I tell him all about the adventure, but then remind him that I only have a few hours before I need to be back in Niamey. “No problem. Soja and El Hajji are expecting us.” We hop on his DT and head out to make our rounds.

Mohammed’s business continues to thrive. He again pays 12,000 CFA, 2,000 over the minimum. His sheep are already looking older and fatter, showing promise of a large profit in a few months. After a quick visit we ride on to Soja’s house. Soja tells me that his debtors have started paying him back. He is no longer selling millet on credit and is experimenting with reselling simple medications. He not only makes a full payment of 7,500, but also an arrears for last month’s missing 3,500. We rejoice together at the success of his business and spend time in prayer, thanking God for his provision and for answering our prayers.

We get so caught up in the moment that we lose track of time. “Lawali, it’s 11:15. We told Bouba I’d be back by 11:00.” We quickly say farewell to Soja and his family and then speed back to Gueladjo. Bouba is waiting for me at the door so I say goodbye to the pastor and hop on with Bouba. The ride back to the Chileda stream is as unnerving as the ride from it. I have to give Bouba credit, though, because despite all the near tips and slides he manages to keep us both upright the whole way there. At the stream, I once again strip down to my briefs before crossing back to the truck.

When I arrive at the truck it seems as if the whole village has gathered to witness the mysterious white boy that left his truck and traversed their stream. There are over 30 men gathered, not counting women and children. Feeling extremely self-conscious, I put my pants on before asking why there were so many people.

“We heard about what you did,” their leader, Hamadou, explained. “Most white people either drive by or don’t come at all. They almost never stop. We wanted to see what kind of man would trust us so much.”

“Well, now you see me,” I say a little impatiently. My mind is still on the fast approaching afternoon rendezvous.

“What does ‘AD’ mean?” he asks, referring to the large logos that cover the hood and sides of the truck.

“Well, it is a church, les Assemblées de Dieu (Assemblies of God),” I explain. “I am a missionary from America and I work with the AD church.”

“What is your work that you come so far out here?” he prods further.

“Well I work with a few small business projects in Gueladjo, but I also preach there from time to time. Wait a second, have any of you heard of a man called Jesus?” I get nothing but blank stares and shaking heads in response.

The lunch date is forgotten. Suddenly there is something more important in my schedule. “Well part of the reason I am here in Niger is to share the good news of Jesus Christ. Would you like to hear a little about him?” They look at each other and nod in agreement, as if to say, “We have nothing better to do.”

For the next 20 minutes I gave a simple Gospel presentation. Hamadou translated from French into Fufulde. I use the river as an example, explaining how the river separated me from my destination. By myself, I could not get to my destination. But they had saved me. With their help I was able to cross and get to Gueladjo. Without their help it would have been impossible. Similarly, our sin separates us from God. We all have done something bad in our lives, and this darkness separates us from a perfect God. By ourselves we are unable to be reunited with God. We need somebody to save us, to help us cross the river of sin and reunite us with our heavenly father. Jesus is a man who came to save us. He was God’s only son, but more than that, He was God. He lived a perfect life, without sin. He died on a cross as a sacrifice, so that we could be reunited with God. I explained how he was the only way to be reunited with God. All you must do is believe with your heart and confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and you will be saved.

At the end of my sermonette the large audience applauds for me. Nobody accepts the Gospel in that moment, but they invite me to come back and share more. Bouba and Hamadou ask for my phone number so they could call if they had more questions. I give them my number, thank them again for their help then climb into the truck and head home.

When I finally meet up with Mike, Brent and Dave at the restaurant they give me a hard time for being late. Dave notices that my pants are wet right around the underwear region. “What, did you have an accident there buddy?” he jokes.

“No. But have I got a story for you guys.”