Returning home from Tanzania

I’m home…
After halve an hour in a hot bath, I put on a Nicole Nordeman CD and pore a glass of Amarula cream. While supper is boiling on the stove I place my laptop on the granite kitchen counter top and as I glance at the Africa map against the wall my thoughts drift back…
Back to the red dust and the beautiful African sunset, to the mountains of Burundi and the white beaches of Zanzibar. I remember the bumpy two day bus ride across the country of Tanzania, the live chickens that did not survive the baggage hall and the lady’s bag of fish swaying in front of my face. I remember the face of the child, still scared of the Mzungu (white person), but lighting up as the puppet show appears from the seat behind me. I think of the bananas we bought through the window at the busstop – that was probably her only daily income… Vitumboa in plastic jars, flies and the man with his AK 47 hanging loosely across his shoulder.

The meat is done.

As I return to my seat I remember the three pieces of meat on the bed of rice. I could identify the aorta of whatever it was we ate… And then that child, staring through the door as we ate more than we had room for. Eating because it was expected of us, because the pastor in his buttoned up suit wanted to bless us. I choked at my Coke and the banana in my throat turned dry…
I’m not so sure when last that kid had something to eat… I had just preached about practical Christianity, about sharing your food with the hungry, yet it was my team member that demanded that we divide the bananas and hand them out.

Suddenly I wonder if I locked my car… A car… We were ten people driving around in a Toyota Prado. It was a tight fit, and a bumpy ride. But we could drive where we needed to be. The only other vehicle on that road is the construction workers in trucks and the one Japanese Bakkie. There you drive a bicycle, with a bakkie’s load on the back.

Seeing the lights of my car flash I think of the one candle burning in the house.  We could hardly see each other, and they definitely did not understand what we were saying, but that night the pastors’ family sat looking at us; amazed at this white skinned people, laughing and chatting, being completely oblivious to what it means to survive in these mountains. Oblivious to what it takes to prepare the meal we just gulped down. Still in wonder and convicted by their unconditional hospitality I remember the warm water running down my back at the end of a day. Yes, the cement floor of the washing room was cold. Yes, I had to pore it out of bucket, but it was warm and enough…

Did I mention they greeted us with palm leaves, singing and dancing? Did I mention they washed our clothes with their hands? Did I mention they gave almost everything they had? Did I mention they walked for two hours to hear me teach? Did I mention that I went to serve them? Did I mention that I thought we had the answer?

I have to go and eat now, and then I have to iron my clothes and prepare for tomorrow, and phone a friend, and I still wanted to clean my room – there’s too much stuff standing around. I have to be busy to fit this world, I have to proof my success, I have to become someone…

But when I close my eyes, that big white eyes inside the pitch black face stare at me… Smiling… He just wanted shoes to go to school, but in my busy reflex I said ”Sorry I can’t help you”. Why do they always want money? Always want something?

My food is getting cold.

My food, in my kitchen, listen to my CD, after locking my car…  Maybe I have too much… Maybe it is my turn to give…  Maybe it’s NOT about me…

Maybe my privilege is my responsibility to meet their need…