Nothing had prepared me for such extreme generosity

Nothing in my past had prepared me for the extreme generosity I received from the people of Taita Hills, close to lovely Mt. Kilimanjaro.

 

I might not have experienced that generosity except that, for the “village living” phase of our three-month orientation, our fellow orientees had chosen Dave to serve as the samaki kubwa, the big fish, someone to carry out three responsibilities: (1) to be in charge of our group in case of an emergency, (2) to relate to the local District Commissioner, the Bishop, and police, and (3) to check up on other members of our orientation group living with Kenyan host families throughout the mountainous villages.

 

When we visited trainee families in their Kenyan hosts’ homes, we had to make an effort to set aside American customs and, instead, to do things the Kenyan way. In ways Americans can’t easily understand, Kenyans consider it a high honor to entertain guests, serve them chai (tea, milk, and sugar boiled together), and have a long visit.

 

By comparison, in America, if we stop at a friend’s house, usually we say, “I can stay for only a minute,” but since that would offend Kenyans, we accepted their chai and stayed to visit.

 

Each Kenyan family welcomed us and, without realizing it, they taught us a new way to relate to others. Dave and I suspected that their way pleased God more than our usual American way.

 

We had such interesting experiences as we drove throughout the Taita Hills. On our way to visit a trainee one day, the narrow track turned into a dry riverbed full of boulders. The Pearl, our Toyota Land Cruiser, lunged over and around them, and Dave wondered aloud how much longer he should keep driving. When we spotted the home in the distance, up on a high spot, we stopped and hiked the rest of the way.

 

That host family had electricity! And, even more amazing, they owned a little television. When we arrived, the man of the house plugged it in and left it on for the duration of our stay. They had no reception, though, so we sat and watched the black and white speckles on the screen and listened to its scratchy hiss.

 

Another day we stopped in a more remote place to visit trainees. That house didn’t have electricity, but the owners had tied a light bulb to the end of a shoestring and suspended it from a rafter in the middle of the room.

 

And then one day, something happened I’ll never forget.

 

A host family killed a chicken and cooked it for us even though they could rarely afford to eat meat themselves.

 

In a year of crop failure, the people owned next to nothing, but they shared with us.

 

They wore tattered shoes,

had no electricity or running water,

couldn’t afford medicine or vitamins or dental appointments.

They might not eat meat for weeks or months at a time . . .

yet they killed a chicken and cooked it—for us!

And they gave us the biggest pieces!

Their generosity nearly broke my heart—

we didn’t need the nutrition! They did!

 

It seemed so wrong, so unnecessary for them to make such a radical sacrifice for us, in the same way Bwana and Mama had been so sacrificially generous to us.

 

I thought back . . .

 

. . . back to our first Sunday in the Taita Hills. The Anglican Church gave four eggs and two bunches of chard to my husband and me—items donated to the church by people who had no money to put in the offering plate. People who had too little to eat day after day, week after week, month after month.

 

I had wanted to hand back their eggs and chard.

 

But God prompted us to notice their delight in giving—their enormous grins and nervous giggles—and He prompted us to accept their gifts.

 

We did so with profound thanks

and with wrenching humility.

Overwhelmed by their kindness, I wanted to weep.

The Taita people owned next to nothing,

but they shared it with us.

They were living, walking, talking,

joy-filled examples of God’s sacrificial heart.

And how true it is that

God loves a cheerful giver!

 

Oh, Lord, please help our immune systems to kick in

The Mwakodis’ cookhouse, a stick-and-mud building separate from the main house, measured about eight feet square.

 

Its lack of windows kept it dark except for the fire. Smoke filled the room and soot coated the walls and ceiling.

 

A small dome-shaped clay cook-stove, in the center of the dirt floor, had an opening in the bottom for firewood and two holes on top to hold suferias, aluminum pots. Mama sat on a low, hand-hewn bench while she cooked.

 

She seemed apologetic about her cookhouse, and Bwana told me, gently, that Mama didn’t want me to help her cook. Hakuna matata (no worries!) because the smoke made me choke.

 

One day, though, I offered to make pancakes for the four of us. Mama and Bwana giggled and whispered to each other while I cooked over the fire, and they were good sports about eating strange-tasting American food.

On the equator, the sun rises around six o’clock year-round and sets around six in the evening, and since Mwakodis had no electricity, they went to bed shortly after their evening meal. Mama placed the dirty dishes in a basin and covered them with a cloth to await washing outside the next morning, probably because wild animals roamed freely at night.

 

However, since we Americans like to brush our teeth before bed, each night I said, kupiga mswaki (I’m going to brush my teeth). Bwana always laughed when I said that. I’m not sure if he laughed at my Swahili or because I wanted to brush my teeth, but I took my toothbrush and canteen outside in the yard and scrubbed—all the while listening for wildlife.

 

I wondered—what kinds of wildlife

might be looking at me as they hid there in the dark?

Leopards? Lions? Elephants?

 

After we lived there a few days, I offered to wash dishes. I’d been looking for a way to help, but I also had another motive. I noticed that Mama used only water to wash the dishes—and in Africa, it’s rare to find water that won’t make people sick. We Americans were accustomed to boiling our water, or filtering it, or rinsing dishes in a bleach solution.

 

I also suspected the Mwakodis couldn’t afford soap. I often prayed sister-in-law Nancy’s prayer, Oh, Lord, please help our immune systems to kick in, but I still worried about my husband’s health.

 

At the first part of our orientation course at Lake Naivasha, and the second part in Maasai-land, Dave had fallen ill with vomiting, diarrhea, and fever—caused by the water.

 

After he’d suffered a few days in Maasai-land, by God’s grace someone had to drive back to Nairobi for supplies so our dear nurse, Jenny, sent Dave’s stool specimen along. When our friend returned the next day, he brought back powerful antibiotics. I didn’t want Dave to get sick again in super-remote Taita, so I hoped that if I used bleach in the dishwater, maybe I could keep him healthy.

 

Outside in the yard, I squatted down on the ground in front of a plastic basin and sprinkled in my powdered laundry detergent. After I washed the dishes, I rinsed them in bleach-water, all the while shooing away cantankerous chickens.

 

I dried the dishes and stepped inside to put them away in Mama’s dark, small storage room. I looked around. She owned a couple of rough plank shelves, but most items sat on the concrete floor.

 

I spotted a couple of aluminum pots, one tin bowl, and four glass bowls that we used for our dinner soup. Mama owned three teaspoons, four tablespoons, one fork, one knife, three cups and saucers, one mug, and one tin mug.

 

She also had a small supply of food: dried beans, salt, a small brick of lard, a tiny plastic sack of flour, and another of gray-brown sugar.

 

I was stunned by their poverty—or at least poverty as we Westerners define it.

 

(On the other hand, Africans were stunned at our poverty. When Africans learned Dave and I had two children, they expressed deep sadness. You see, they measure their wealth by the number of children they have.)

 

Mama and Bwana seemed content with the material possessions they had. They exhibited a joy and kindness that material possessions could not add to or detract from.

They make me think of what Jesus said: 

“. . . I tell you not to worry about everyday life—whether you have enough food and drink, or enough clothes to wear. Isn’t life more than food, and your body more than clothing? Look at the birds. They don’t plant or harvest or store food in barns, for your heavenly Father feeds them. And aren’t you far more valuable to him than they are? Can all your worries add a single moment to your life?

 “And why worry about your clothing? Look at the lilies of the field and how they grow. They don’t work or make their clothing, yet Solomon in all his glory was not dressed as beautifully as they are. And if God cares so wonderfully for wildflowers that are here today and thrown into the fire tomorrow, he will certainly care for you. Why do you have so little faith?

“So don’t worry about these things, saying, ‘What will we eat? What will we drink? What will we wear?’ These things dominate the thoughts of unbelievers [pagans], but your heavenly Father already knows all your needs. Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need” (Matthew 6:25-33, New Living Translation).

Bwana and Mama Mwakodi lived according to Jesus’ teaching

every day, every year. They trusted God,

and what He gave them, they shared with us.

Dave and I were deeply blessed

by witnessing their faith and love and generosity.

(From Chapter 3, Grandma's Letters from Africa)

 

Overwhelmed by their generosity yet again

 

The Taita people grew fruit and vegetables on steep terraced hillsides, but the previous year’s scanty rainfall caused crops to fail and the people suffered terribly.

 

We were deeply touched because our host family, the Mwakodis, despite their poverty, were so generous with us.

 

Dave’s job during those three weeks was to check on our fellow orientees throughout the Taita Hills so, while we were out and about, we usually stopped at a marketplace and bought food to bring home to the Mwakodis.

 

But that was awkward—we sensed they thought we didn’t like their food, despite our assurances that we found Mama’s meals tasty.

 

When they saw Dave and me climb out of The Pearl

with food or supplies—papayas, bananas, dried beans,

cabbage, lard, paraffin (kerosene) for their lamp,

and sometimes meat—

would it be natural for them to conclude

we didn’t like their food?

 

We bought those supplies not because we didn’t like their food, but because we wanted to help feed two extra people during a year of crop failure.

 

One day Bwana asked what people eat in America. We thought he simply wanted to learn about our homeland, so we named some foods, only to discover later that he and Mama thought they needed to buy those foods for us.

 

Those dear folks nearly broke our hearts.

They had almost no money, yet they bought food for us

that they would never—could never—buy for themselves.

 

It seemed so wrong, so unnecessary: They had only pennies to live on, yet they spent it on special food for us.

 

Overwhelmed by their generosity yet again, I wanted to weep. (From Grandma’s Letters from Africa, Chapter 3.)

 

What a vivid example they were of showing hospitality to strangers (Hebrews 13:2, Romans 12:13).  

 

Jesus said “For I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me into your home. . . .

 

“Then these righteous ones will reply, ‘Lord, when did we ever see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you something to drink? Or a stranger and show you hospitality?’ . . .

 

“And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it unto the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!’” (Matthew 25:35-40)

 

Mama forgot the spoons!

 

The members of our orientation group lived in villages scattered throughout the Taita Hills. Dave and I lived at the highest and remote location of all.

 

Our host family, Bwana and Mama Mwakodi, didn’t live in a village. Their house seemed to be the only one around and it measured about twenty feet wide and twelve feet deep.

 

Inside, they had painted their mud-plaster walls aqua blue. Over time, patches of mildew had stained the walls. And their cement floor crumbled in places. Ah, but their home was full of love and grace!

 

The main room had one small window opening—no glass—with a shutter of unpainted planks. The Mwakodis kept it closed so the house remained dark except for sunlight that came in the wood-plank front door.

 

That room reminded me of the Dorobo church we visited in an earlier segment of our orientation: The Mwakodis had strung wires from corner to corner under a corrugated tin roof, where a ceiling might have been, and from the wires they had hung papers and greeting cards.

 

Mama (Mrs. Mwakodi) always served tasty soup for the evening meal—cabbage, tomatoes, onions, kidney beans, a lot of water, and sometimes a few chunks of tough meat. She spent several hours each afternoon simmering this soup over the fire.

 

Mama also spent a long time making chapatis—round, flat, bread-like, and fried in lard. Unleavened, and with a dense, rubbery consistency, chapatis are a staple throughout Kenya.

 

One day I watched Mama make them and learned there’s an art to it. She mixed the flour dough and rolled it out like a round piecrust, layering lard into it.

 

Next, she cut slits around the dough so that it resembled a flower with petals. Mama folded each petal-like piece at an angle over the one beside it and toward the middle of the circle, and then rolled out the dough again.

 

She did this several times before frying them in lard over the fire. It took a long time to make them properly.

When we sat down to eat on our first evening in their home, I noticed Mama forgot to put spoons on the dinner table, but I decided to say nothing. Surely, in a few seconds Mama would realize her oversight.

 

While I waited and watched, Bwana and Mama tore their chapatis into pieces, dropped them into their soup, and then used their fingers to pick up one bite after another.

 

I could hardly believe my eyes.

 

I had no choice but to do likewise.

 

Apparently, white people need a lot of practice to perfect that skill.

 

On the third evening, I asked Bwana and Mama if I could use a spoon. They didn’t seem offended, so Dave asked for one, too.

 

From then on, both of us took great pleasure in the luxury of eating with a spoon. (From Grandma’s Letters from Africa, Chapter 3)

 

We had a problem: We didn’t even know where we were

We woke up Monday morning, our second day of living with Bwana and Mama Mwakodi high in the Taita Hills, and Dave and I took turns walking across the yard to use the choo (outhouse). By then Mama and Bwana were ready for breakfast: black tea boiled with milk and sugar.

 

They were thoroughly gracious. They hadn’t known we were coming, due to a communication snafu, yet they smiled and made pleasant conversation with us around their small table. Bwana spoke a little bit of English but Mama didn’t understand us, so Bwana interpreted for her.

 

As we finished our tea, Dave said to Bwana, “This morning I need to meet with the District Commissioner, the Bishop, and the police.”

 

Someone—we didn’t know who—had scheduled those appointments for Dave, as our group’s leader. Brian, our orientation director, had explained that relating with those officials would assure them our group had no suspicious motives. Brian impressed upon us that establishing a good relationship with them was of great importance.

 

We had a problem, though. We didn’t know how to find their villages or offices.

 

We didn’t even know where we were. We had arrived at the Mwakodis’ home after dark and, along the way, we lost our sense of direction.

 

No electricity or streetlights lit our surroundings over twisting one-lane dirt tracks—with no street signs—cloaked in tropical forests, uphill and downhill and around corners.

 

We had seen very little evidence of other human beings.

 

We had no map of the area. Before Brian left us, he told us all we knew—that the closest of our fellow orientees lived more than nine kilometers away.

 

The nearest phone was many kilometers away, too. And even if we’d had access to a phone, we wouldn’t know who to call.

 

We had no idea what to do.

 

Just when we felt ourselves slipping into a panic,

God provided a helper with a willing heart.

Bwana offered to come along

and direct us to the various villages.

I find it hard to explain the enormity of our relief.

           

The three of us grabbed our canteens and climbed into The Pearl of Africa. Dave turned the key, but The Pearl did not start. He tried several times but—nothing.

           

“We’ll have to push The Pearl to start it by compression,” Dave said.

 

And, looking around, we were keenly aware that only thirty feet away we would come to a drop-off of nearly five hundred feet. It was going to be tricky. Mighty tricky.

 

Bwana and I pushed while Dave steered The Pearl and worked the clutch, but she wouldn’t start. We pushed again. That Toyota Land Cruiser was a sturdy, heavy vehicle!

 

Winded, we strained and shoved, but The Pearl still wouldn’t start. The nearest mechanic was probably dozens of kilometers away.

 

I looked at Dave. He looked as sick as I felt.

 

We had only one option: turn The Pearl around and face it downhill. However, whether we turned to the right or to the left, we had to push The Pearl uphill to turn it around.

 

If and when we got the back wheels up on the hill, we had to avoid yet another drop-off. Bwana and I tried, and tried, but didn’t have enough muscle to push The Pearl uphill.

           

Then, as if by a miracle, a man stepped out of the forest. And then another, and another, all of them Bwana’s friends and neighbors. For an hour, we struggled and groaned and sweated and eventually managed to turn The Pearl around, facing downhill.

 

We pushed once again 

and that time it chugged and sputtered—

and it came to life! Oh, what a sublime sound!

 

Our new friends cheered and laughed along with us.

           

How could we ever thank them enough?

 

I wanted to hug and kiss each one, but I suspected a public display of affection wasn’t appropriate in their culture.

 

Then Bwana Mwakodi told us the men were on their way to another village for market day, so, to thank them, we loaded them into The Pearl and gave them a ride.

 

God had worked on our behalf,

confirming His promise

for those He sends to do His work:

 

“Do not be afraid or discouraged

for the Lord will personally go ahead of you.

He will be with you.

He will neither fail you nor abandon you.”

(Deuteronomy 31:8)

 

That morning we experienced God’s love and provision for us through dear Kenyan people. All these years later, their kindness still brings tears to my eyes—happy, thankful tears.

 

After that, we always parked The Pearl facing downhill because we never knew when we’d have to push to get her started.  (From Chapter 3, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)