# Iya odo on ommo re ko ni ija, agbe li o dija sille fun won : ommo odo ki ina iya re lassan.
The pestle and the mortar had no quarrel between them, it was the farmer that caused the quarrel (by supplying the yam for pounding) : the child of the mortar (i.e., the pestle) does not beat its mother for nothing.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Thursday, April 17, 2008
what happened in Africa.
How can I tell you what happened in Africa? I, myself, barely understand. I’ll have to tell you what happened to me there by telling you other stories.
First, the story of the last supper. Where the Master is there washing his disciples feet. He…the creator of the universe stoops to wash the feet of his own followers. He was their guest from heaven for a short time. But he cleans them up. He cleans up their dirty lives. He does so as the dirt and the grime of the Galilean roads dirty his own feet.
He eats the Passover meal they have prepared for him. It was their own ritual. It was their own food. And yes, they served it to the Son of God, the Creator of the universe. And he ate it and he did not die. He did die. Later. Later, they killed him, with their very own hands.
But he didn’t stay dead. And that is the point.
The terribleness of their messy lives couldn’t kill him and keep him dead.
The second story is the story of the celebration of the last supper from my childhood.
Now, I’m not going to sensationalize the Amish practice of shunning that was very much present in the way my community practiced the Lord’s Supper. We all have our shunning and excommunication rituals. Every culture has them. Minnesota, America tends to excommunicate by means of indifference through the practice of silence and unresponsiveness. There are no rules written anywhere but the practice is fully enforced whenever one wishes to exclude another from the group of the included. Every social group has their insiders and their outsiders.
It is clear, unless one is simply blind or in denial, there are insiders and there are outsiders. There are those who are included and those who are excluded. In my community of origin, the included sit down and eat the Lord’s Supper together and wash one another’s feet. The excluded don’t. The excluded take their plate and eat over there at a different table. Please understand I am not passing judgment on the practice itself or on excommunication practices everywhere other than to simply say that sin separates. There are those that eat at the table and there are those that don’t.
These two stories go together. One is the story of grace the other is the story of the fall. One is the story of Christ embracing us in our sin. The other is the story of how sin separates us from the community of God.
Now, against this backdrop I go to Africa. I am a stranger among them there. I am their guest. I am their very honored and distinguished guest. And I come from the land of the chosen, where the streets are gold and the angels sing. Well, maybe not quite but Africans had some idea that where I come from, life was unimaginably better, by comparison. In America food is cooked in ovens. There are toilets that flush. The pure water comes in bottles and is too expensive for them to buy. Everything else is really sanitary.
So in the most amazing expression of hospitality I have ever seen, the Nigerians opened their hearts and arms and received me. They would have even put me up in the most costly place they could find so that I would be comfortable, like I was back home. So that my toilet would flush and so my food would be cooked “properly” in a kitchen. This was the heart of the people toward me in the most amazing expression of love, other centeredness and hospitality.
But I quickly became almost angry as I recognized the other voices whispering through the people despite the people’s good hearts and arms loaded with hospitality. There were social structures and evil overlords and the all important colonists who were speaking also. There were people from the past, people from the present, sitting in high places in Abuja, Lagos, Washington DC or wherever.
Wordless things were being conveyed.
In the village I was preparing to eat the food that came out of the pot sitting on three rocks with the firewood underneath. They said, “No our food will make you sick! It might even kill you.” You must go to the restaurant where your food can be cooked properly.
What were they saying? Were they excommunicating themselves to their own humble table? Or were they excommunicating me also, as I sat alone in the restaurant situated inside high walls with barbed wire and a guard at the gate. This is more than excommunication! It was as though I heard, “Here, sit in this prison and eat, while we sit down at our own table to eat the terrible food that we have prepared for ourselves that even kills us, according to the official sanitation codes.” Who’s codes were these? My people’s sanitation codes? I read them half-heartedly on the plane trip over: a thick stack of documents that the Travel Clinic gave me in preparation to travel.
Excommunication works both ways it seems.
As I prepared to live and sleep in the village where the dirt floors were swept clean and the animals and the bugs ran freely. They said, “No, you must stay in the hotel in the city where there is electricity and your toilet flushes and everything is sanitary. You can’t stay here with us in our terrible situation. It will kill you. A mosquito might bite you and you’ll get malaria and die.”
I said to myself, “Ah. Ah!? Who has done this to these good people? Who has made these people believe this about themselves?” Your food is amazing and I don’t care if the toilet flushes. Get me out of this whitewashed prison!
The Master said of his mission, “I come not to be served but to serve and give my life for others.” The creator of the universe says this.
If your food kills me. If your viruses kill me. If living with you in your country kills me. So then I will die and it will be worth the dying. And even if I die. I will not stay dead. And that is the point.
So, I ate their dinner with them. And we sat at the same table. And we washed our feet in the same bucket of dirty water. And as you can see, I did not die. And the people saw and were amazed. They said to each other, “Ah, Ah!? Who is this who has come to eat with us and sleep with us and walk the dusty road with us? And the terribleness of our messy lives did not kill her.”
How can I tell you what happened in Africa. I, myself, barely understand.
First, the story of the last supper. Where the Master is there washing his disciples feet. He…the creator of the universe stoops to wash the feet of his own followers. He was their guest from heaven for a short time. But he cleans them up. He cleans up their dirty lives. He does so as the dirt and the grime of the Galilean roads dirty his own feet.
He eats the Passover meal they have prepared for him. It was their own ritual. It was their own food. And yes, they served it to the Son of God, the Creator of the universe. And he ate it and he did not die. He did die. Later. Later, they killed him, with their very own hands.
But he didn’t stay dead. And that is the point.
The terribleness of their messy lives couldn’t kill him and keep him dead.
The second story is the story of the celebration of the last supper from my childhood.
Now, I’m not going to sensationalize the Amish practice of shunning that was very much present in the way my community practiced the Lord’s Supper. We all have our shunning and excommunication rituals. Every culture has them. Minnesota, America tends to excommunicate by means of indifference through the practice of silence and unresponsiveness. There are no rules written anywhere but the practice is fully enforced whenever one wishes to exclude another from the group of the included. Every social group has their insiders and their outsiders.
It is clear, unless one is simply blind or in denial, there are insiders and there are outsiders. There are those who are included and those who are excluded. In my community of origin, the included sit down and eat the Lord’s Supper together and wash one another’s feet. The excluded don’t. The excluded take their plate and eat over there at a different table. Please understand I am not passing judgment on the practice itself or on excommunication practices everywhere other than to simply say that sin separates. There are those that eat at the table and there are those that don’t.
These two stories go together. One is the story of grace the other is the story of the fall. One is the story of Christ embracing us in our sin. The other is the story of how sin separates us from the community of God.
Now, against this backdrop I go to Africa. I am a stranger among them there. I am their guest. I am their very honored and distinguished guest. And I come from the land of the chosen, where the streets are gold and the angels sing. Well, maybe not quite but Africans had some idea that where I come from, life was unimaginably better, by comparison. In America food is cooked in ovens. There are toilets that flush. The pure water comes in bottles and is too expensive for them to buy. Everything else is really sanitary.
So in the most amazing expression of hospitality I have ever seen, the Nigerians opened their hearts and arms and received me. They would have even put me up in the most costly place they could find so that I would be comfortable, like I was back home. So that my toilet would flush and so my food would be cooked “properly” in a kitchen. This was the heart of the people toward me in the most amazing expression of love, other centeredness and hospitality.
But I quickly became almost angry as I recognized the other voices whispering through the people despite the people’s good hearts and arms loaded with hospitality. There were social structures and evil overlords and the all important colonists who were speaking also. There were people from the past, people from the present, sitting in high places in Abuja, Lagos, Washington DC or wherever.
Wordless things were being conveyed.
In the village I was preparing to eat the food that came out of the pot sitting on three rocks with the firewood underneath. They said, “No our food will make you sick! It might even kill you.” You must go to the restaurant where your food can be cooked properly.
What were they saying? Were they excommunicating themselves to their own humble table? Or were they excommunicating me also, as I sat alone in the restaurant situated inside high walls with barbed wire and a guard at the gate. This is more than excommunication! It was as though I heard, “Here, sit in this prison and eat, while we sit down at our own table to eat the terrible food that we have prepared for ourselves that even kills us, according to the official sanitation codes.” Who’s codes were these? My people’s sanitation codes? I read them half-heartedly on the plane trip over: a thick stack of documents that the Travel Clinic gave me in preparation to travel.
Excommunication works both ways it seems.
As I prepared to live and sleep in the village where the dirt floors were swept clean and the animals and the bugs ran freely. They said, “No, you must stay in the hotel in the city where there is electricity and your toilet flushes and everything is sanitary. You can’t stay here with us in our terrible situation. It will kill you. A mosquito might bite you and you’ll get malaria and die.”
I said to myself, “Ah. Ah!? Who has done this to these good people? Who has made these people believe this about themselves?” Your food is amazing and I don’t care if the toilet flushes. Get me out of this whitewashed prison!
The Master said of his mission, “I come not to be served but to serve and give my life for others.” The creator of the universe says this.
If your food kills me. If your viruses kill me. If living with you in your country kills me. So then I will die and it will be worth the dying. And even if I die. I will not stay dead. And that is the point.
So, I ate their dinner with them. And we sat at the same table. And we washed our feet in the same bucket of dirty water. And as you can see, I did not die. And the people saw and were amazed. They said to each other, “Ah, Ah!? Who is this who has come to eat with us and sleep with us and walk the dusty road with us? And the terribleness of our messy lives did not kill her.”
How can I tell you what happened in Africa. I, myself, barely understand.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Thursday, April 3, 2008
the Fulani village
I was taken around a cluster of huts in the Fulani village during a pre-funeral gathering. Escorted by a woman who only spoke Hausa, she linked arms with me as she shutteled me from one hut to another. There I sat among the chattering women, while the teenaged girls peered inot the doorways, staring at me in wonder. I was offered food and a dirty spoon that looked like everyone had been sharing it. I ate and it was good.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Mongoose Parables #8
The charmer had only continued to tap the land for only a short time and suddenly the stick broke. It shouldn’t have broken but it did. The rod of justice between good and evil had broken! The dove was fluttering its feathers and cooing in distress. The cobra was twisting and turning about. The people as usual had not a clue as they continued their work, their dancing, their singing and their watching.
Mongoose Parable #7
The land formers were brought to settle the ground. They tapped the ground to speed up the time. They tapped for each other and the other danced. The megaphone was the strongest tapper. She tapped and everyone danced, with fear and care. The charmer also tapped and danced to others' tapping. The Mongoose knew it would turn into a simpering dog on the heels at midnight. The Mongoose knew it could dance. It knew it could tap for others. It tapped a bit for the people and they danced. It tapped even for the megaphone and she also danced. But the Mongoose knew it would turn into a simpering dog on the heels at midnight once she danced to the 100th tap of one stick. It would became a whining dog on the heels of even the most intolerant master. The mystery lay in the disparity between the mongoose and the people: they tapped and danced into the thousands.
Now, the mongoose had forgotten to take count of its hopping to the rhythm and the song of the charmer but calculated shrewdly that the rate drove the time of the 100th tap fairly near. Thus, a plan was devised in her head to delay if not circumvent the undesired mutation. She scribbled away, composing a drafted list of conditions and dates for the working of the building. The charmer received them well enough but slept fitfully and said but a few things. His desires were left to be discerned. His obedience was commendable...or perhaps disturbing. One had to wonder who tapped the stick and who danced to it. The Mongoose wished for a palette…a palette upon which both could paint parables and orate them to each other, orate them to the people, the people outside the walls and within the walls.
Now, the mongoose had forgotten to take count of its hopping to the rhythm and the song of the charmer but calculated shrewdly that the rate drove the time of the 100th tap fairly near. Thus, a plan was devised in her head to delay if not circumvent the undesired mutation. She scribbled away, composing a drafted list of conditions and dates for the working of the building. The charmer received them well enough but slept fitfully and said but a few things. His desires were left to be discerned. His obedience was commendable...or perhaps disturbing. One had to wonder who tapped the stick and who danced to it. The Mongoose wished for a palette…a palette upon which both could paint parables and orate them to each other, orate them to the people, the people outside the walls and within the walls.
Mongoose Parable #6
The construction was delayed. The work crew sat wearily under the hot sun. The people gathered to watch. They stood on each others shoulders peering over the wall, through the barbed wire. Were they hopeful? Were they doubtful? Then the charmer spoke a parable to the mongoose and his work crew. When two irons are put to the fire, one will cut and one will be cut. The mongoose responded with another parable. When two yoked oxen pull a cart, it is more easily moved than a cart that is pulled with one ox. The people cheered and demanded the house to be built. The work crew groaned. The charmer fiddled with the ring that bound the cages to his staff. The mongoose considered how it would burrow a den outside the wall so it could live with the people. The people continued to stand on each others shoulders, peering over the wall, through the barbed wire. Were they hopeful? Were they doubtful? The megaphone came that day to put order to the project.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
the tongue and the teeth
The tongue and the teeth reside under one roof. Despite their differences they can’t do without each other. If there are disagreements all things in the house suffer.
The parables that the Nigerians tell each other are amazing. This is one I encountered recently. I think my affinity to literalism and scientific explication are gone forever.
The parables that the Nigerians tell each other are amazing. This is one I encountered recently. I think my affinity to literalism and scientific explication are gone forever.
Monday, March 10, 2008
the rooster in pepe soup
Here I am back home cooking African rooster in African gingered soup. The ginger is my touch to traditional pepe soup.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
the rooster
This is one of the two roosters I was given as a gift from the family and the other was from the church.
security checks, immigration and hungry men
Okay, so what did I get through immigration? Raw honey, bags and bags of dried ginger that the villagers gave to me (at least I thought they were dried) and that rooster the church gave me as a gift. According to Mary’s very strict orders the guys delivered the rooster to me at the airport. The Pastoral Assistant’s wife cooked it up for me and gave it to me through her husband at the airport in Abuja at 9:30 pm. I carried it in my handbag through Amsterdam, New Jersey and Minneapolis. And at about 9:00 pm our time, I put it in my refrigerator to eat whenever I feel like it. After all I have eaten; I don’t know why I bother putting it into the refrigerator.
The young immigration guy who questioned me about my agricultural goods asked if I had been in contact with any livestock. I was in the bush…but of course, I had been in direct contact with lots of livestock: goats chickens, dogs, cats. “Well, do you have any dirty shoes,” he queried.
“No, I didn’t wear shoes,” I responded.
He looked a bit shocked. I pressed it a bit further by letting a bit more of the too much truth Mennonite come out, “I went barefoot or wore flipflops.”
He let me pass. And nobody opened my luggage.
I’ve also been able to get up to 4.0 oz bottles through anywhere except the Minneapolis airport. Pretty girl factor works on almost anyone in security checks with the exception of American security checks. Atlanta, when it is full, security was more lax. In Minneapolis I have always found it to be tight, routine and unprejudiced. Only, Americans seem to take security searches super seriously. They yell and order you around like they’re managing a bunch of convicts. Nobody gets any special treatment. In Nigeria it was quite different. I got off the plane and almost immediately I run into a uniformed man holding a sign with my name. He had been “paid” to provide me with good guidance and hospitality. I walked past all the lines others were waiting in while he worked the paperwork, through the back door of the booth.
On the way out, I was sent various other messages from Fr. Vincent and his PA on the other side of the glass via another uniformed airport worker, while waiting in line to check in. I elbowed my way further up the mangled line by joking with my neighbors. One needs to be charming and happy in Nigeria and know how to give the right kind of incentives.
Before getting on the plane, I set off the metal detector. All the Nigerian men manning the detector turned their attention toward me. I remembered my hair was up in barrettes under my Nigerian head wrap. (Err, I mean my handgun was under my Nigerian headwrap. Check it out the photo below. A gun certainly could fit under that headwrap.)
“Shucks.” I thought. “I can’t plead religious conviction like I can with a covering.” I looked at the guy and pointed to my hair.
“Take it out,” he said.
My Amish-Mennonite inside was offended that a man had just ordered me to take off my hat and take down my hair but I had to remind myself this man was not Amish-Mennonite and I took down my hair, while everyone else watched, drooling. Except for the Nigerian lady with the severe look on her face, who had a wand in hand and who looked like she was going to hit me with it. I think I would have gotten away with telling the guy bluntly that he just wanted to see a white woman taking down her hair. In America, they would have given you an extra roughing up for that kind of lip. But for me, on this side of the world, I think I could have passed a gallon of palm wine through the screening, offered them all a sip and they would have let me go.
In Amsterdam, while I was going through the carry-on screening, I had forgotten to drink my liter of water before passing it through the conveyor. They pulled it out and asked, what’s this? “Oh, I forgot,” I whined. “I’m really, thirsty. Can I drink it right here in front of you?” I ask, while a white woman and a male Nigerian audienced. I watched the white woman’s face hardened quickly. The Nigerian was caving though. It went into the trash, unopened.
“You can go back out and purchase another drink if you like,” the Nigerian offered. “The plane isn’t leaving quite yet.”
I declined and moved into the lobby. Not two minutes later he came after me and started the array of questions. Where are you going? Who do you know?...ending in I like how you look.
What does one say to that? Go buy me a drink?
Hmm…and Africa is not full of hungry men?!
I had a bit of a discussion before the trip with my priestly friend in which he exclaimed to me in exasperation, “Africa is not a bunch of hungry men out for women.” I responded that I was quite certain of that but it was I that had to express my expectations of him to take care of any situation, should some man become overly zealous and desire to take me away with him, should such a rare situation occur. There were no issues, and as long as I was in the company of the family there weren’t even any approaches but in the short hours enroute, four Nigerian men took it there. And that’s not even counting the consulate experience.
January 16
The young immigration guy who questioned me about my agricultural goods asked if I had been in contact with any livestock. I was in the bush…but of course, I had been in direct contact with lots of livestock: goats chickens, dogs, cats. “Well, do you have any dirty shoes,” he queried.
“No, I didn’t wear shoes,” I responded.
He looked a bit shocked. I pressed it a bit further by letting a bit more of the too much truth Mennonite come out, “I went barefoot or wore flipflops.”
He let me pass. And nobody opened my luggage.
I’ve also been able to get up to 4.0 oz bottles through anywhere except the Minneapolis airport. Pretty girl factor works on almost anyone in security checks with the exception of American security checks. Atlanta, when it is full, security was more lax. In Minneapolis I have always found it to be tight, routine and unprejudiced. Only, Americans seem to take security searches super seriously. They yell and order you around like they’re managing a bunch of convicts. Nobody gets any special treatment. In Nigeria it was quite different. I got off the plane and almost immediately I run into a uniformed man holding a sign with my name. He had been “paid” to provide me with good guidance and hospitality. I walked past all the lines others were waiting in while he worked the paperwork, through the back door of the booth.
On the way out, I was sent various other messages from Fr. Vincent and his PA on the other side of the glass via another uniformed airport worker, while waiting in line to check in. I elbowed my way further up the mangled line by joking with my neighbors. One needs to be charming and happy in Nigeria and know how to give the right kind of incentives.
Before getting on the plane, I set off the metal detector. All the Nigerian men manning the detector turned their attention toward me. I remembered my hair was up in barrettes under my Nigerian head wrap. (Err, I mean my handgun was under my Nigerian headwrap. Check it out the photo below. A gun certainly could fit under that headwrap.)
“Shucks.” I thought. “I can’t plead religious conviction like I can with a covering.” I looked at the guy and pointed to my hair.
“Take it out,” he said.
My Amish-Mennonite inside was offended that a man had just ordered me to take off my hat and take down my hair but I had to remind myself this man was not Amish-Mennonite and I took down my hair, while everyone else watched, drooling. Except for the Nigerian lady with the severe look on her face, who had a wand in hand and who looked like she was going to hit me with it. I think I would have gotten away with telling the guy bluntly that he just wanted to see a white woman taking down her hair. In America, they would have given you an extra roughing up for that kind of lip. But for me, on this side of the world, I think I could have passed a gallon of palm wine through the screening, offered them all a sip and they would have let me go.
In Amsterdam, while I was going through the carry-on screening, I had forgotten to drink my liter of water before passing it through the conveyor. They pulled it out and asked, what’s this? “Oh, I forgot,” I whined. “I’m really, thirsty. Can I drink it right here in front of you?” I ask, while a white woman and a male Nigerian audienced. I watched the white woman’s face hardened quickly. The Nigerian was caving though. It went into the trash, unopened.
“You can go back out and purchase another drink if you like,” the Nigerian offered. “The plane isn’t leaving quite yet.”
I declined and moved into the lobby. Not two minutes later he came after me and started the array of questions. Where are you going? Who do you know?...ending in I like how you look.
What does one say to that? Go buy me a drink?
Hmm…and Africa is not full of hungry men?!
I had a bit of a discussion before the trip with my priestly friend in which he exclaimed to me in exasperation, “Africa is not a bunch of hungry men out for women.” I responded that I was quite certain of that but it was I that had to express my expectations of him to take care of any situation, should some man become overly zealous and desire to take me away with him, should such a rare situation occur. There were no issues, and as long as I was in the company of the family there weren’t even any approaches but in the short hours enroute, four Nigerian men took it there. And that’s not even counting the consulate experience.
January 16
goodbye Fadia
Pictured here are myself and Sister Mary, getting into that horrible car that smelled of gasoline. On the good days it didn't make me feel sick but it certainly got one from point A to point B in good-ol-Nigerian style--fast.
January 12
a goodbye dance
A crowd gathers as I am leaving. A lady challenges me to a dance off. Does it look like I'm doing it. I don't know. But it sure was a crowd pleaser.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
running away from Baruka.
In the early afternoon, I attempted to get Neicy to fall asleep by pretending to sleep myself. My feigned sleep was only credible to Baruka who went to lie down himself. Eventually, I told Neicy I was going running and she could either stay or come with. I took off toward the railroad tracks, which lead to Zankwa to the east and to a large mountainous rock to the west. I headed west only to find Neicy trailing me. We climbed the rock and looked out across the surrounding landscape. We cheered because we had succeeded in loosing Baruka. Our freedom was short-lived, for on the way back down the rock, we saw someone come crashing through the brush at us. It was Baruka, winded, shirtless and with a frightened look in his eyes.
While he was accompanying us back, he exclaimed about how he had lost us and persuaded, “We will go and rest now. We are finished for today.”
I was barely winded. I told him, "I have only begun. I will also run to Zonkwa today. I will wear you out, I promised.”
So much for the delicate white lady.
As for Neicy, her commentary went like this, “I tell you, she is very strong, Truly!.”
I did run to Zankwa later that day. Neicy and another visitor, Nola, missed me and were on their way to Zonkwa also. I met them coming on my way back.
There is no escaping community and togetherness in Africa. For me there was especially no escape. Eyes are everywhere people are. All Baruka had to do to find me is stand out on the porch and ask, “Where did the white lady go?” And the people would point. A few paces from the house he would only have to ask the bushes, which way did the white lady go, and the bushes would point, also. Even in the bush, there were people everywhere. The population density is amazing. And everyone knows each other in the bush. Even in the city, we were running into folks the guys knew on the street, stopping traffic to talk to them.
January 10
Here is Baruka. Notice the Bulus scarification on the left cheek.
While he was accompanying us back, he exclaimed about how he had lost us and persuaded, “We will go and rest now. We are finished for today.”
I was barely winded. I told him, "I have only begun. I will also run to Zonkwa today. I will wear you out, I promised.”
So much for the delicate white lady.
As for Neicy, her commentary went like this, “I tell you, she is very strong, Truly!.”
I did run to Zankwa later that day. Neicy and another visitor, Nola, missed me and were on their way to Zonkwa also. I met them coming on my way back.
There is no escaping community and togetherness in Africa. For me there was especially no escape. Eyes are everywhere people are. All Baruka had to do to find me is stand out on the porch and ask, “Where did the white lady go?” And the people would point. A few paces from the house he would only have to ask the bushes, which way did the white lady go, and the bushes would point, also. Even in the bush, there were people everywhere. The population density is amazing. And everyone knows each other in the bush. Even in the city, we were running into folks the guys knew on the street, stopping traffic to talk to them.
January 10
Here is Baruka. Notice the Bulus scarification on the left cheek.
this is Baba and son
I didn't take this photo but I like it because it is a good image of African expressiveness.
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