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)