Africa Journal
by Pastor Steve Nute

# 1 ~ Motives


Seating my sweat soaked body on the padded chair, I tipped up the one and one half liter bottle of "Swan" water and drank deeply. The dust that had encrusted my throat was washed out, and for the moment, my thirst was quenched.

I turned my attention toward the front as Rev. Ndife gave the gospel invitation and my dampened spirits began to be revived. I couldn't believe my eyes.

Coming to the front of the platform on that dusty hot village square were at least 150 people. I knew then that in spite of myself, God was at work in Africa.

I had my doubts before this time. I was questioning whether someone like myself, a virtual nobody, beset by frailty and often tempted to sin, could be used to win souls.

Yet there it was, my heart was filled with gratitude to a God who looked past the worker to the work. Yes, I was glad I came, somehow God would make this a worthwhile trip.

I had some doubts not many days past. I was absolutely convinced by fear an

Our arrival in Lagos, former capitol and largest city in Nigeria, was not what one would call joyous. We left the comfort and security of British Airways at 8:00 P.M. that hot January night, and headed down a long series of corridors into culture shock and, for me, terror.

Being an "easy mark" is something that one can survive in the good old U.S.A. but in Lagos, Nigeria, where graft and extortion are a way of life, I was instantly spotted and hit.

My faith in human kind, my basic naiveté, and the 36 sleepless hours, all combined to make this experience one that I shall never forget. The two months of wages Doc paid to get us through customs due to our lack of knowledge of the value of Nigerian money was only the beginning.

We somehow dithered through immigration and customs, and then were turned loose in a world that was as alien to us as ham at a kosher picnic.

People, alerted by their friends that these two Americans easily bamboozled, descended on us in hordes. Their purpose was simply to make a living, but from my point of view, it was to completely deplete my chances of surviving.

For the next several hours we sat at the airport, lost and rather abandoned. The man who was to pick us up wasn't there. We found out later that he had received our letter of agenda a day later than we had arrived. But at the time, we were totally at a loss as to what to do.

After rescuing our baggage from the baggage trolley, we stopped and sat for a spell, hoping for some kind of miracle. I recall going into a phone booth that I knew did not work and dropping a ten kobo coin into it and picking up and dialing God.

"God," I said, "I am terrified, and I guess I need you now more than I ever did before. I ask that you would somehow get us through this little mess and safely to our destination."

I also made some deep promises (you do that when you are afraid) that dealt with some of the closet areas of my life. Then I went out and we sat a little longer.

Our trip had begun nearly a year before in a whirlwind of high ideals and , I confess, some measure of self importance. I was privileged, by God's grace, to attend the 1990 Presidential prayer breakfast in the Nation's Capital.

After the morning sessions were past, after conferences with people like Louis Palau and Dana Key, I was just sitting by myself in the lobby of the Washington Hilton hotel. As I sat there, not having time to run back to my sister's house, I mumbled a simple prayer, half hoping it wouldn't be answered.

"Dear Lord," I breathed. "If you want me to meet anyone, you'll just have to send them by."

Oh what answers I received. It wasn't ten minutes later I saw two tall black men approaching. I had some interest in Africa because my daughter Sonya had gone to Liberia and my sister Beth and her husband had been in Kenya, so I stood up and began a short conversation. Reverend Ephraim Ndife and Reverend Joseph Chuke exchanged cards with me, and I promised to pray for them and even write a letter or two. Little did I know what was in store for me from that brief encounter. If I had, I wonder what I'd have done?

Now, I was seated at Lagos International Airport, feeling totally lost and afraid. But God wisely chose my traveling companion and his cooler head soon prevailed.

“Doc” is Doctor Lawrence Dubien, a medical doctor and a good friend of mine as well as member of the small church I pastored in the northern part of Maine. After we floated around he airport for several hours, Doc spoke up: "Let's grab a taxi and try to get over to the Sheraton."

Simple, right? Well, not as simple as you might think. Ephraim had taken care to warn me about taxis and the danger of getting into one. But at that late hour, and at the sad state we were in, anything was better than nothing.

We grabbed our suitcases and the large box of medicine that Doc had brought, and looking as if we knew what we were about, marched out to the taxis.

We were inundated with the expected mob of human vacuum cleaners trying to launder our pockets, but soon were "safely" en route via cab to the luxurious hotel Sheraton in Lagos.

En route, did I say? Well, we were rather interrupted at one point. The streets are patrolled by machine gunned policemen and two of these flagged us down as we wound up one street and down another on our way. They asked Doc to show them his box of drugs and were satisfied that they were for a good cause. I personally was slightly nervous as we sat there, but in retrospect, I see these two as God's hand making sure that we arrived safely at our destination.

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# 2 ~ Day One

ONYOCHA, ONYOCHA, crowed the persistent rooster. Typical to his kind the world over, his alarm clock was set two hours earlier than it ought to be. 4:30 A.M., yet I was wide awake this first day in Umuokpu village.

I dug my brand new Bible out of its case and settled down to read and pray a bit. It is amazing how close to God I wanted to get because I was so far from everyone else.

We arrived the night before, after a long worrisome night and a rather adventurous plane ride, at the Missionary Embassy, home of Rev. and Mrs. Ndife.

After we had arrived at the Lagos Sheraton, and showered, we set about the somewhat "iffy" business of using the communication tools of Nigeria. I put in a call to Ephraim's home, but gave up after 6 hours (I gave up earlier really, but I canceled the call after 6). I then placed a call to my wife in the U.S.A.

I always like to hear her voice, but at that time, I guess she sounded the best I ever heard. Amid all the turmoil of being cut loose from any familiar thing, her voice was an island, an oasis in a desert of uncertainty. "Hi, hon," I twittered nervously. "I want you to do something for me." And so she spent valuable sleeping time placing a phone call to Ephraim from America.

I think we take for granted the ability to just pick up and dial whenever we feel like it. I know we fuss and fume over alleged problems of our phone system, but one night in Nigeria at the mercy of NITEL gave sweet Mother Bell A-1 ratings in my book.

Nervous, tossing and turning, churning conscience, fear and a deep seated feeling of unworthiness woke me around 3:30 A.M. I questioned whether or not I should be here. I looked at the bare bones of the creature that God had exposed, and I cringed to think that He could ever use me. Oh how the adversary sifted me those early morning hours. How I berated myself for my lack of confidence in God and My overwhelming fears at the airport. Even then I was awash in fear, fear that Ephraim couldn't be contacted, fear that we'd be stuck here never to accomplish our mission.

I drifted back to sleep after a session of promissory prayer and awakened a few hours later, still somewhat up in the air. Thoughts of what I should have done, what I didn't do all crowded in on me like a thick cloud of devouring insects.

Larry awakened and despite not being a morning person, displayed the same calm and good nature that prevailed in any situation. He treated me to a sumptuous breakfast of real American type food, and we returned to our room to await a call from Ephraim.

I was still fretting like a father during his daughter's first date, and this was magnified by Doc's cool calm. The phone rang, and I picked it up.

"Hello," I tentatively answered, and then erupted into joyful dance as I heard what was, at the time, the best sound ever.

"It's Ephraim, and I'm downstairs."

As if some giant hand had reached down and pulled the stopper, all the strain of the previous 24 hours drained out of me. I was rather ecstatic at that moment and was to ride that wave until we were safely ensconced in our beds at the Missionary Embassy.

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# 3 ~ Protocol

It's one thing to try and hail a taxi at 11:00 P.M. in a strange country that has demonstrated its willingness to defoliate your money tree. It is quite another to be guided to a cab in that same country in broad daylight by an experienced native. The cab that we paid $40.00 American for the night before cost us only $4.00 that fine African morning.

11:00 A.M. Fully loaded and on our way to the internal airport , We saw a few beggars, their limbs twisted beyond use, seated in the median strip as our cab rammed in and out of the sardine school in an attempt to reach our destination on time.

Our destination was on old 727 or some similar sized passenger jet. Its destination, which judging by its vintage was dubious, was to be Enugu , which was then Anambra State 's capitol. Enugu was one hour by interstate from

As we boarded, I became aware of something for the first time; Doc and I were very white. I have never had any racial prejudice, and I thank my parents for that, but I suddenly understood the loneliness of being different. I sat between two of the kindest people one could ask for on that flight, one a computer pirate, the other an Angel from God.

Sister Florence may never know how God used her that day to set the doubting heart of this preacher straight . It was a joy to see her take out her tattered Bible and begin to read.

I struck up a conversation and soon was seated once more in the seat of faith that God desired me to have. I knew that all my trials had not been in vain, I knew that God would use even me, a weak vessel, to produce some worthwhile fruit in this needy land.

I thought of this sister recently, I came across her address in my journal and was able to send her a new Bible. I wrote her thanking her for her kindness and telling her how God had used her in my life for that time.

We landed roughly at Enugu and deplaned far out on the runway with a fine view of the airport complex. It seemed a pleasant enough airport, a neat structure off across the runway and palm and banana trees sticking up into the dusty sky. It seemed a pleasant place that is until Doc decided that it would be nice to have a photo record of this nice little airport.

"Give me your camera", the lady said rather forcefully, "Right now."

Doc, getting the idea by now that every one was after whatever they could get politely told her No. That did not seem to be the answer she wanted and she was soon joined by several others who had the same design.

Ephraim spoke up “Give her your film quickly.” And Larry did just that.

Ephraim was hauled off to the security area to answer questions and Doc and I, forsaken once more, just stood and waited for our bags.

A few minutes of waiting brought Ephraim back. He had explained to them that we were new to Nigeria and we didn't know any better.

I should say we didn't. I had never bothered to be thankful that I can stand up and take a picture any time I want. Or to be grateful that people don't see every little thing as a breach of security in the Great land of my birth.

Was I afraid? At that time I was not quite as fearful as had been the previous night. I guess that the lessons of Mohammed Murtalla Airport were slowly sinking in. God brought us here and He would be quite capable of getting us home.

We gathered our bags and headed out

As we exited a loud commotion arose and we craned our curious necks to see what was up. It seems that the Airport security people and the airport taxi people were having a disagreement. The security people won and none of the airport taxi people were allowed on the ground, Oh Joy.

There was one tiny beat u[p Renault from a different cab company and Ephraim climbed in to go and get us a taxi suitable to transport us and our luggage the hour long ride to Awka,

Sitting in the shade on the airport steps I had a strange feeling of well being. I knew that we were in safe custody and was beginning to know that the police were really the good guys here. Larry kept those relationships friendly by plying them with his copious supply of sweet stuffs.

What a full day it had been thus far, and little did we know that it wasn't over yet. A cornucopia of new experiences awaited us as we headed toward the next sunrise.

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# 4 ~ Onye Ocha

"You will hear people saying “Onye Ocha” everywhere,” Ephraim told us. “It means simply, “White man.”

After a long interesting yet uneventful ride, we turned off the paved interstate, and onto the Main street of Awka. There is no way to effectively describe the emotion, smells, sights and sounds of this township. It was an area composed of many "villages" totaling a population of 90,000 souls. 89,994 of those souls were Igbo; including us the other six were Caucasian Americans.

We pulled across a side walk, parked and entered the " Doris Inn " a local eatery. We sat in low chairs and coffee table height dinettes and although we were not hungry, ate rice and beef (2 small chunks) and drank the most delicious soda pop I ever tasted. I could have omitted the food at that time, but as usual managed to rise to the occasion and was pleasantly surprised at the good flavor

Ephraim ate pounded yam with his fingers. He formed it into an oblong and dipped it into his "stew" made of okra and a tiny portion of meat and quite neatly disposed of it, as well as my mothers childhood warnings, "Don't eat with your fingers."

Tummies full, thirst quenched and spirits good we loaded up in the taxi and went the scant few miles to Ephraim's home, the Missionary Embassy.

We pulled off the main street onto what I now knew was a road, but I first thought it might be some sort of four wheel drive challenge course. Sandy dirt roads added to copious rainfall parts of the year equal poor traveling conditions in most places.

This rutted section soon gave way to a long straight white gray sandy stretch, but before we got to that we turned off and entered the gate of Ephraim's family compound.

Ephraim being the eldest son of his father inherited the family property. This will pass to his eldest son, "Thank God" after Ephraim dies.

The Ndife compound consisted of Ephraim's step mother's house, his junior sister's house and his four apartment complex. There was also one building under construction which would house another brother when completed.

One whole apartment consisting of a kitchen, dining room, sitting room, bath and two bedrooms has been dedicated to the comfort and keeping of missionary visitors. The bathroom, a pleasant surprise, contains a real live flushable potty and wonder of wonders, a shower.

Doc and I were both pleasantly surprised at this turn of events and even more joyful at the sight of ceiling fans gently pushing their breeze down on the comfortable beds. That isn't all, the dining area was spacious and had(when power was on) a freezer.

Not only did we find our living area a pleasant surprise, but also the manner in which we were treated. I could get used to the idea of the sort of service that was rendered to us during our stay there.

It was a far cry from the airport, this Missionary embassy. The Ndife children soon attached themselves to us like old friends.

The rest of Ephraim's relatives were soon to see "Onye Ocha on parade."

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# 5 ~

We left the Missionary embassy and got in Ephraim's blue Peugeot wagon, and went to pay our respects the family of his newly departed uncle. We figured that, like the States, we'd go and view a body, make some sympathetic noises and be on our way. Adventure number one in Awka was to show us the marked difference in funereal practices between their culture and ours.

After a brief visit to the compound of "senior uncle", we went to the hospital to aid in picking up the body.

All during the journey the ambulance would sound its klaxon horn periodically as the funeral procession wound through the streets. We followed and observed as uncle's body was carried from the vehicle to the raised dais on which it was to be displayed in the center of the living room of his house. We then all filed past and paid our respects then took a seat, one of nearly 200 available, and tried to look as if we belonged.

The position and respect accorded to Ephraim was becoming increasingly evident as one of great esteem. We, as his guests, were to enjoy the same kind of treatment throughout our stay.

During the funeral and all night long, a portable P.A. system blared out loud music, interrupted only occasionally by announcements that the family wanted aired. This visit time soon ended for us, but the family and circle of relatives kept a watchful vigil throughout the long night.

"Tomorrow we attend the funeral," Ephraim informed us after our several hour vigil ended. And sure enough, at 8:00 a.m. we once more presented ourselves at the grieving widow's compound for the duration of the funeral proceedings.

"Numbah five zero three," the song director announced, and the voices of 200 impromptu choir members swelled with words of hymn after hymn. Then a eulogy was read about "our dad" and another round of songs was sung.

During the time all this was taking place, a space of several hours, a group of hardworking men was battling the packed soil of the compound to carve a final resting place for "senior uncle."

Now we lined up behind the ambulance and marched back to the compound for burial.

Another procession, more songs and uncle was laid to rest and we soon returned to the missionary embassy with the same idea in mind.

The widow, we later discovered, has to sit in the same chair in a corner of the house for the next 30 days. She is also required to wear the same dress for one year after the death. The family takes care of her household duties for this month while she mourns.

Back at the Embassy, I paused to make some notes in my journal, and then stretched out for a brief nap to get ready for whatever might come next.

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# 6 ~ Naira

Looking back, it seems humorous to have paid $40.00 for a $4.00 taxi ride. At the time, however, it was somewhat less than funny. It comes of not knowing the value of Nigerian money or the values of Nigerian people.

I shudder to think of my personal plight if Doc had not been there to bail me out at every turn. I think I might be able to repay the money he shelled out, but I can never repay the personal kindness and mannerism he dispensed on my behalf.

Before we checked out of the Lagos Sheraton, we changed some dollars into Naira, and as we received our N960.00 in place of 100 U.S. samoleans, the light began to come on. We had not only shelled out a months wages for the taxi ride, but over two months wages to pass through customs and immigration. The newspaper that we picked up listed the monthly wage of a government worker and we suddenly began to look upon ourselves as the American benevolent society.

The Naira, their version of the dollar, is divided into 100 kobo and appears to be distributed in nothing larger than N20.00 bills. We spent quite a few of those little critters while there, but never were taken for that long ride as we were on the first night in Lagos.

An average worker might earn as little as N5.00 per day which is nowhere near enough to meet the needs of the average family. If the family wanted to purchase a chicken, they would have to spend up to N50.00. That would be the equivalent of paying $150.00 for an American family to purchase same said beastie. It is no wonder they must live on yams and cassava with a lot of rice thrown in.

Barter and banter is the key to successful marketing in Nigeria. The lessons that we learned decided us on letting Mrs. Ndife buy the essentials for us as she was by far the more astute shopper as well as the most clever barterer.

Ephraim, for instance, paid N5.00 for a bunch on bananas that Edith purchased for N1.00. But then, the Igbo women are well known for their trading ability.

Now, lying on the foam mattress in my deep blue room, I feel rather prosperous with my pocket chock full of Naira. I must try to curb my natural tendencies to give it all away. But there are so many needs here, not the least of which is feeding two rather large Americans with an overdeveloped appetite each.

N50.00, the price of one fat chicken, is also the price for a large tank of water pumped from the Mercedes tanker up to the roof of the Embassy. From there this wonderful fluid works its way down through the pipes and cools and cleans our somewhat sweaty bodies.

Naira; a lot can be accomplished with those little critters, but they sure are hard to come by.

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# 7 ~ Water

I tipped the bottle up and drained, under the staring and amazed eyes of many Nigerians, the last of my Swan water. In less than five minutes, I had sponged up one and a half liters of this wondrous nectar. I realize that to the average American, a drink of water isn't thought of in those terms, but in the hot dusty village square I tasted the best water of my life to date.

I turned my attention to the platform once more and watched as thirsty souls also got a refreshing drink. Some of them drinking deeply from the water of life as Jesus kept His promise and washed them of their sin.

The many scriptural references to water rush through my mind as for the first time I know real thirst for physical water. I hear the Master speak, "If you you knew who it was that spoke to you, you would ask of Him and He would give you living water." And in another place, "Whoso will, let him come to the water of life freely." I quickly pray that God will increase the spiritual thirst of these people and as rapidly quench that thirst with living water.

Pastor Churchill Odurukwe had told me of the need for a "bore hole" or well, at the headquarters site of Holy Ghost Ministries. "We could see to it that people had water to drink at the school and maybe market it to supplement our income," the permanent smile with legs related.

I asked, "How much does a bore hole, or well, cost here?" And he told me it was around N60,000.00 or $6,000.00. I jotted it down as another item to pray about and went on to speak of other things.

My refrigerator at home has a gallon of pure cold water in it. I can either drink safely from the tap, or from the jug hauled from our church's well, or I have a choice of several springs from which to choose. In Nigeria and other parts of the world, a simple drink is a matter of great concern.

Funny thing about water, if you are not thirsty and people force you to drink, you become ill. It is more desirable to make people thirst for water and let them drink. I believe it is the same with spiritual water. Too often, we well meaning Christians would rather force people to drink than live lives that would promote spiritual thirst.

The second half of the gospel film began and Ephraim beckoned us to leave the remainder of the service in the capable hands of his ministry team and head home. My body responds with a hearty amen. It is surprising how much energy is required to preach and also how much water is used up. There must be a spiritual application there somewhere. I'll leave that to the reader and catch a night's sleep to prepare for a busy Monday.

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# 8 ~ N.E.P.A

Being rather claustrophobic, I did not take long to come awake in the close early morning heat. NEPA, Nigerian Electric Power Authority, had failed once again.

As I sit and type on an electric machine and need never worry about being interrupted by a power failure, I am reminded that this is one more area in which I must give thanks.

When NEPA stopped, so did the fans, when the fans stopped, so did my ability to breathe. By the restless churning sounds from the next room, I assumed that Doc was having the same difficulty. I got up and stuck my nose out the window in hope of relieving my starving lungs. It helped, but sleep was out of the question.

Put-put-put broke the silence, and with a wave of gratitude I saw the fan begin to spin as Ephraim, roused from sleep, put his life saving generator into service. It easily ran the lights and fans, but was not able to bear the load of the freezer. We will have to find a way to remedy this freezer situation.

A few hours later NEPA was back on line and for a few minutes after the generator stopped, the silence was loud. I jumped out of bed an turned the freezer on so we could drink cold water later. Eureka, that's it. We would freeze about 30 plastic bottles of water and they would provide cooling when NEPA was down. This idea did work well and even provided us cool water when NEPA took a three day vacation.

The basic problem with the power was the total lack of what Doc called infrastructure. In the United States, we take almost for granted the fact of uninterrupted power, water, telephone and waste disposal. In Nigeria, it was another thing altogether.

When NEPA came to Awka a substation was built that would handle 30,000 people, more or less. As the population increased, the power capability did not, and the same station was now asked to provide for 90,000. This causes much confusion and a large number of power outages on a daily basis.

The limited substation capabilities, if one can believe the somewhat doubtful press, are not the only culprits in the black-out parade. It seems as if bandits, of which we will speak more, pull down power towers and poles and abscond with vast amounts of wire. We rather doubted this as an explanation of the daily outages, and were never able to verify this with our own eyes.

One evening, during the Onitsha crusade, the sky came alive with what looked like a lightning display. We soon realized that it was only two NEPA wires arcing.

The power came and went in several second intervals, then stopped for keeps. Good old NEPA, affectionately described, "Never Expect Power Always."

Limited power is better than no power and we were grateful for the comfort provided by those constantly spinning fans. We appreciated the cold liquid, and found walking to the rest room much easier with the lights on. But we also reminded each other to be thankful for Central Maine Power.

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# 9 ~ Doc

The fever-ridden, sweat-soaked body of the uncomplaining child left a wet print on the cement floor where she waited with her mother and other family members. The waiting periods were long and often produced no visit to the doctor that day. I wondered how many of us would walk those distances and wait those lengths of time to see the doctor.

Beginning on Monday morning February fourth, Doc held clinic at the headquarters on International Bible Academy of Holy Ghost Ministries. He was greatly aided by local Christian nurses who sacrificially gave of their time and resources to help.

It would have been easy for Doc to have made a name for himself by simply dispensing drugs. Everyone who came wanted to leave with "something." It did not take seem to matter if that something would help them or not. But Doc, exhibiting his usual high degree of personal integrity, risked present ire to comply with his moral conscience.

I would preach and counsel as the people waited to see the "Doktor"; waited for this wonder worker, this miracle man, to cure their diseases.

Poor Doc, he was asked to cure blindness, lameness and even the greatest killer of all, old age. "Doktor," the old women would begin, “I have tiredness and internal heats."

"How old are you?"

"50, I think," stated the obviously 75 year old woman. There was no way to measure time when she was born and so she just picked an age out of the air.

"Doktor, I have pains here," she'd say while pointing toward knees or a back that had borne 75 years of hard labor. "Please make me all better."

Doc has an obvious soft spot for the old and the young, both extremes were also the most needy medically. But what can you do the easy the wear and tear of a lifetime of strenuous work on a body that needs what it will never get this side of heaven, rest.

If Doc prescribed rest the patient would just laugh. What rest was available for a woman who must work like a slave just to see her family fed? Vitamins seemed to help some, but doing things by hand for 75 years wears a person out.

There were some real challenges to Doc as he ministered to those people. He saw tropical diseases that he'd never get to see in the U.S.A. He also was able to affect some marvelous cures. Amazing what the right ointment, antibiotic or even soap can do to provide healing.

I was shocked to see the finger erupting and nearly seething with some strange fungus or other. The pretty young lady sporting this hideous growth was obviously in pain. But with ultimate confidence in Doc she patiently waited her turn. The proper medicine applied, a photo taken for Doc's archives, and she was on her way and on her way to getting well.

Ngozi, the nurse who took days off without pay to help Doc, pulled me aside and asked me to pray for her. After I prayed, she confided that Doc had paid her a little to help last time and should she accept that? I told her to accept it as from the Lord and say no more about it. Doc was careful to never be any sort of burden to anyone. In fact he more often than not was relieving someone else's load.

I could go on about Doc indefinitely, but if I brag about him too much, you will think I overstate facts which actually I must understate.

Doc and I shared accommodations for a month and during that time I began to verify what I already believed. This was a truly remarkable man. A man who is always steady, seems to be unaffected by fear and stress, yet also a man of obvious compassion and great intellect. I am quite happy that God, in his wisdom, chose Larry Dubien to accompany me to Nigeria .

The swollen tongue, glazed eyes, and somber reflection of death stared at me from that little black face. Karen Y, missionary from the United Stated, had sent a message to Doc that this child, a neighbor of hers, was desperately ill, and could he come?

Doc, by this time well versed in recognizing malaria, examined the child and smiled. I like that smile. It means, "Hey, I can do something about this one." He could, and he did.

Doc had read about the resistance of Nigeria 's malaria to chloroquin, and had brought along another effective medicine in case either of us contracted malaria. It was one of these tablets that he now pressed into service. It may seem cut an dried to you, but I was impressed as he relayed the dosage and method of administration to this young, helpless mother. She too was impressed; her child, condemned to a painful death moments ago, was now going to live and smile again. As tears of gratitude streamed down her face, she dropped to her knees in the dirt and prostrated herself in gratitude to Doc.

I know what she was feeling. There were many times both before and after that occasion that I have felt the same way. Doc, thank you, from both of us.

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# 10 ~ The Children

"Anya, imi, ono, nte, ntutu, ishi, nnukwu afo..." Over and over they schooled me and made me repeat, "Eyes, nose, mouth, ears, heir, head and big belly."

"Onye ocha, please tell us how God made the world," they said.

I struggled to present this wonderful story to ears not yet accustomed to my brand of English. Eyes wide with wonder, they watched me, not because of the story, but because I was a new thing. It always seems that the children are my first friends wherever I go.

Africa was no exception. At the compound, or at the crusades, I enjoyed being surrounded by a pressing crowd of children just wanting to "touch Onye Ocha."

Seven month old Ephraim junior, smiling like nobody's business, snuggled up close as I lifted him from the floor. Like the rest of the children, he wanted a ton or two of attention. He is blessed more highly than some children of this culture because his father is wealthy enough to provide proper food.

Ephraim has five beautiful daughters and two of the cutest little sons you ever saw. The youngest, affectionately called Junior, and the next to the youngest, "Thank God" end up this troop that, before their arrival, consisted of girls. If you were born in Nigeria , you would understand why the first male offspring was named "Thank God." It is he who will inherit the family compound and be responsible for the others.

The eldest daughter with her almost Polynesian features shares the African name "Ngozi" or “Blessing” with many other Nigerians. The children are mostly called by their English first names; hers is Christiana.

Second is the lively and precocious Charity with her ever present smile and wool cap. She is followed by Glory, the one who received the distinction of being in most of my photos.

Patience and Goodness, who look enough alike to confuse this Onye Ocha, fill up the list of lovely daughters. These children made my stay in Nigeria most enjoyable.

If I took a siesta, I had to pull the curtains, or the tree outside my window would blossom with a bouquet of smiling faces. I admit, I did nothing to discourage this action, rather I stuck my nose out and made comments about the "en ee fey fey," or birds, in the tree. One afternoon, I counted fourteen of the highly colored birds hoping to catch the attention of the "Mwoke Afonu" or bearded man.

I was awakened one morning by the horrible sound of a merciless beating being viciously administered next door. I felt my heart sink, and I looked over the wall at a nine year old girl rolled up in a ball clutching her midriff in agony. "Oh, God," I prayed, "help me to make a difference here, help me to bring the love of Christ to these people."

I admit to having a special tender place toward this little girl for the rest of my time there.

I still tear up when I see her in my minds eye writhing in pain. An hour later she was up and about and smiling, but walking rather gingerly.

If I seemed to play favorites and shower a little extra love on this small resilient elf, then please pardon me. If I prayed for this child a bit more tenderly than for the others, God will understand.

The children were really pushed aside in the crusades as well as in every day life. I noticed the first night that prior to the Altar call all the children were herded off to a common area to be "dealt with" by the children's worker. I determined to make a difference there, meddlesome man that I am, and I think, in some small way I was able to.

The third night of the Awka crusade in Umudioka village, I stood near the front instead of taking my seat. When the call came for the children to be herded aside, I went along with them. The roar from those pleased little voices, I confess, may have interrupted the "main altar call", but I really felt that some statement had to be made. I continued to pay attention to children during my crusades, and was gratified when Ephraim, on the fourth night of the Onitsha crusade, called the children to the front and not aside. As he prayed a special blessing on those children, my heart was filled. Maybe, just maybe, I had made a small difference.

After I returned home, Lisa, our Sunday School superintendent, sorted through the vast stores of Child Evangelism Fellowship materials we had accumulated over the years. Many of these have been boxed and sent to Nigeria to help build a children's ministry.

I told Ephraim, "If I come again, we must have a special crusade just for the children." He agreed.

One of the other children who lived in the Ndife compound was "Ekene." Really that is only part of his name and it means "thank". His full name is the same as Ephraim's eldest son, "Ekene Dele Chukwu", Thanks Be Unto God Almighty. I called this enterprising youngster "The General" because he always wanted to salute us. He always had a ready smile and never ceased to ask if we had any more "Blunblun", or balloons.

As we sat at our dining room table on the last night, *Christiana shyly approached and said in her best English, "We will be sorry to miss you." Christi, we will be sorry to miss you, too. God please watch over these little ones and keep them safe. And help them to be the generation that overcomes in Jesus' Name. Amen

*(note Christi is now grown and has triplets, she and her husband are in evangelistic ministry)

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# 11 ~ The First Nigerian Church Service

The Reggae style beat and tones of "O Merri Wo" with echoes of Harry Bellefonte faded to silence as I got up to deliver my first sermon to an African congregation.

This sermon was the culmination of a very lively service. I really enjoyed the exuberant singing and clapping. I remember peeking to my right during one of the many prayers to see Doc's reaction. The whole group prayed aloud together in response to a specific request. This was repeated for many requests, from the war in the gulf to the crusades that would begin that evening.

The Holy Ghost Band played and offered several special numbers that set the audience swaying and clapping. There was a lot of audience response during their songs.

I began my sermon by parading the newfound string of Igbo words made available to me by Ephraim's children. I even got laughter as I mimicked he rooster’s cry of "ONYOCHA" and used Karen Yoder's explanation of the Nigerian goats even speaking Igbo. They always greeted us with the classic Igbo welcome of Na.

The text was Psalm 139, and the topic dealt with God's omnipotence, omnipresence and omniscience. The idea was to show that not only is God all of these in the grandiose scheme, but to note David's personal observations on the subject. We rejoiced that not only is God omniscient, but he knows ME. Not only that, but He is able to do something personally for me with His omnipotence and finally, wherever I go, God already is. Oh if only I had read and heeded those thoughts as we entered this country.

I had finished preaching and God had allowed the word to go out in His strength. Now it was time to go home and prepare for the evening meeting, the first city-wide crusade of Awka in which we were to participate. I prayed that God would have His way and add His blessing to these meetings, thereby producing much fruit.

Lying on my bed recalling the morning service, I nearly chuckled out loud remembering the offering time. The plate does not go to the people, but he people go to the plate. Lines are formed and, with a musical cadence, the people march, shuffle and dance to the three-legged offering box. Tom says that the more elaborate the dance, the less money is given. That is only a jest, but to see these poor people give is no laughing matter. They have so little, yet they keep on giving and giving.

With the dazzle of brightly colored clothing and smiling happy faces filling my mind, I drop off to sleep. Soon enough I will be called upon to climb up on that platform and present the simple gospel message that this city needs. It is with a sense of great unworthiness that I face this task, but I also know that the prayers of a great many people are being offered to God on my behalf.

Dear Lord, take these feeble lips and help them to proclaim great truth in simple form, and clear. Anoint my mouth of clay to glorify thy name and draw these folk to thee when they shall hear.

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#12 ~ Crusade Evangelism

After the long funeral on our first Saturday, we loaded up into the blue Peugeot and headed to Doris Inn for lunch. After lunch, we dropped over to the site of the first crusade to be held in the Awka area. Umudioka, the children of Dioka, was the one of the clustered villages that comprised Awka town. Felix, the general handyman and fix everything person of Holy Ghost Ministries, was nearly finished with the platform.

The platform consisted of two by two hardwood framing floored over with "white wood" boards. I gingerly walked up the ramp to see if it would bear my prodigious weight and struck my "preacher pose". "Yes," I stated, "this will even hold me up and that means it must be well built."

That platform, four feet above the ground, not only had to hold the preacher, but served as stage for the talented "Holy Ghost Band" as well.

Sunday, February third, 1991: "Arrived around 6:30 at the crusade grounds, slightly nervous but realizing that 'here it is, the reason I came to Nigeria'".

After wading through the avid mob of children, Doc and I took our seats in padded chairs behind and to the left of the platform in a building which was being constructed. I listened to the music which was being played over the loud speakers; "O Merri Wo", He has won the victory. I bowed my head and asked God to make that evident this night.

The music was grand. The people began to wander into the village square, some boldly, others with a detached curiosity. All began to bob and dance a bit as the lively music caught hold of their senses. "...and for thy pleasure, they are 'kerated' Thou art worthy oh Lord". The song finally ended and Justice, the band leader and film announcer began to introduce the feature film of the evening.

Each evening a different film would be used to get the attention of the crowd. Halfway through, the film was stopped, and the message was brought. After the message and invitation, the film would be concluded.

Some of these were dynamic and well made films. Others were absolutely horrible, poorly made and disgusting films using sensational footage of animal sacrifice and human misery to glorify an American Evangelist. I was really tested to bring a message after one of these, and I thank God that only a few of these were used.

"The best laid plans of mice and men...", I thought as I took my carefully annotated Bible up to the darkened stage. All my wife's hard work transcribing my notes would be of no avail here. I would have to rely on God to jog my mind and prepare those waiting hearts. God is a good mind jogger and always gave me the proper sermon for the occasion, except one time.

I foolishly listened to a pastor's exhortation of what was "needed" in Nigeria and tried to preach in that vein. it was not a Spirit inspired attempt, and I felt that through the whole message. In spite of that fact, people came to be saved that night too. God is the one who works, sometimes in spite of us.

The crusades were each comprised of six nights. Three in a village square, three in the area church. The idea is to bring new converts into a body of believers where they can be nurtured. The nearest church to Umudioka village was the Headquarters church in Nkwelle village. I was pleased to see how many people walked the dusty mile to services there.

Each crusade had a great deal of sameness, yet there was a great difference as well. The faces were different each night, but I could count on all of the children being present and each on bringing a friend.

The Awka crusades, as stated, were held in village centers and then moved to the nearest ministry church. The Onitsha crusade was different in that the first three nights met in a huge motor park.

Onitsha, as described elsewhere, is a city of vast proportions. It is dominated by the largest open air market in West Africa, if not all Africa. The climate of this city is based on the vast amount of trade carried on there. Dishonesty and theft run rampant. The three nights of crusades in the MCC Motor Park began with a certain amount of fear based on that knowledge.

"Don't leave your Bible or anything near the edge of the platform, or it will go missing," *Pastor Eric Newman warned. I was cautious to keep a watchful eye on my stuff and a wary heart injected some unnecessary fear into my first night. This proved ungrounded, however, as God, as usual, kept His capable hand over us and produced only blessings through that six night campaign.

Fruit? I can only ask God to keep those thousand souls in His care. I cannot judge whether or not they really meant business. I can, though, relate one incident of many which indicate a real grasp of the truth in a life.

He was Yoruba, tall and slim, away from his own tribal area and surrounded by Igbo. In his loneliness, he placed an ad into a paper asking to meet with a certain cult group that would provide him with sex and power.

This cult is one of many Spiritist and “Juju” religions that comprise the ten percent "animist" make-up of Nigeria. To leave such a group results in dire threats and often death, should they suspect you have revealed their secrets.

Friday morning of the Onitsha crusades, Doc was running free clinic at the ministry church in that city. Ephraim and I visited an area church and the printer, and then returned to the church to pray or counsel with people. As we sat in the shade of a small mango tree, this Yoruba approached and handed Ephraim a sheaf of papers.

"I will not want these any more," he said in broken English. "I have Jesus now and these do not have room in my life," he concluded.

Ephraim looked at the papers and then silently handed them to me to read. I was moved nearly to tears as it became evident that this man really meant business with Jesus. These were not only his membership papers to the cult, but evidence that he was a Spiritist leader as well. God is able to save to the uttermost those who come to Him.
*( as I prepare this Pastor Eric Newman has gone to Jesus, young, but ready)

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# 13 - Felix

As I hop from place to place, from time span t o time span, I must not miss the opportunity to introduce you to Felix. After the funeral services of the first day, we returned to the missionary Embassy to rest. A young man was carrying racks of soda in and also was sent by Ephraim to let us in.

Ephraim introduced him as, "Our Doctor of everything", Felix, or Felis, as they pronounce it.

It was Felix who taught us that first night to reply "Onye Ogee" or "black man" to the constant barrage of "Onye Ocha". It was even-tempered Felix with his unending patience and good humor who transported us to the market, fixed the Land Rover, set up the generator, built the platforms, procured Igbo books, taught me some of the language and, most of all, never asked for anything.

After seeing all this this man did for the ministry, I really wonder how they'd ever function efficiently without him. Doc and I were constantly impressed with his handiness and ability in every area of need.

Karen Yoder, who, with her husband and family, had come to be a part of the International Bible Academy, wanted some cupboards to make her kitchen more "American". She showed Felix a picture from a magazine, and he produced a very fine replica of the counter and cabinet that she wanted.

It was Felix, guarded by a loving God, who eluded capture by bandits while returning from Onitsha with the crusade team one morning. The interstates are not safe to travel during darkness, and at 5:00 a.m. He took the Rover, loaded with Team members, up less than a mile to a short cut.

Just before the turnoff, a group of machine gunned bandits had dragged truck frames and debris across the road. The team saw this and began to pray, especially the two riding on the rear bumper. As they slowed to a stop, Felix saw a narrow gap in the barricade and deftly slipped the loaded Rover through it and across a nearby village to safety.

Doc gave Felix a Swiss Army Knife, and it was really used. I have used one as a novelty; I never saw some one who really was in need of such a tool before. It is in very capable hands.

Tall, slender, rakishly handsome Felix. A humorous, steady and capable person. But one other talent, or gift, was discovered in him. One night, at the Onitsha crusade, two young men who had received tracts from our group came to ask more about the Lord. They were having trouble with my English, and I frantically looked around for help. Enter Felix. He stepped in and answered their questions and set them up in a local Bible study group. Felix not only fixes all the material things at H.G.M., he is capable of aiding in the mending of souls as well.

Felix, wherever you are, thank you in Jesus name for your kind care of these two Onye Ocha while we visited your friendly domain.

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#14 The Y family

The smell of those shish kebabs bobs was delightful; the taste was better than the smell. Karen had succeeded in doing gourmet for us. She had even toiled to peel cukes and carrots so we could eat our first raw veggies in two weeks.

After dinner, we sat and watched a National Geographic video, "The Land of the Tigers", that Tom had gotten in Onitsha. With our eyes comfortably settled below window level, and our speech just plain old American, we escaped for a time the pressure and aloneness of Nigeria.

I will always remember this time with Tom and Karen Y and their two perpetual motion sons, Landon and Jonathan. They went out of their way to make our time there and enjoyable one.

Tom had come to Nigeria a few years before to participate in a crusade ministry such as we were involved in now. Traveling back to America, he must have forgotten the hard times and had a vision of the overpowering need. As a result, this amazing man brought his wife and two sons to serve for two years as Instructor and Principal at International Bible Academy.

The heat, oppressive at all times, was enough to make the most alert mind droop. But somehow Tom kept his hermeneutics class not only awake, but interested.

As I sat there and listened to his method of interpretation, I confess that my heart was filled with gratitude to our Father for sending this man. The concept, which I believe to be correct, of an historical, grammatical, contextual and logical approach to scripture, was new to these students. I could see that, were he to be enabled to stay, his work would have far reaching impact on the Academy and its mission in the land.

Next to Tom's much needed gift of teaching is Karen's unobtrusive witness to her neighbors. She and the boys have set out to show Jesus Christ in their village. One older man came to their door before we left and presented Karen with some yams. He smiled and said, "We like you in this village, your children play with our children."

Tom also preaches when time permits. I was privileged to hear a message that had been taped for television and was impressed. Doc was rather impressed at his knowledge and handling of the scripture as well.

The struggles involved in adjusting to a culture totally alien to their own would weigh the Y's down, but I pray that God will allow them to continue to adjust. Think of having to relearn everything you know about housework. Begin by daily trips to the market if you want beef, spend hours beating the dirt out of your clothes by hand, and you've only begun. Preparing meals is a time consuming task, especially if you used to have a cuisinart. Everything is done by hand and tedious care is needed to get the rice free from foreign objects.

Think about having to forego hamburgers, chips and real pizza for two years. Reflect on French fries being a rarity. Imagine not being able to ever eat bacon. Think of no tacos, burritos, real steaks, fresh salads or ice cream. That is only a small bit of the deprivation of these folks.

The real hardship comes with faulty communication, poor phone systems, random power and very little contact with other Americans. The difficulties may be pressing and no one there can understand your plight. No one can know why you never feel clean, or free, or able to enjoy privacy.

But Tom and Karen have someone who cares, besides loving friends and family. They have a direct connection to with the Lord Jesus. It is on Him they lean and of Him they teach. Tom and Karen, carry on. Lean on Him and never look back. God bless you.

"She'll cry," I said as Doc phoned from our room in the hotel Sheraton to order Karen a pizza. Sure enough, I was right, she did cry as we all sat there and watched as room service wheeled in a reasonable facsimile of that favorite American treat.

Doc had decided that he wanted to "treat us all to Sheraton". That Wednesday night will long be remembered as Tom and Karen felt clean for the first time in months. It will be remembered, too for the American type cuisine they could eat. But most of all, it will be remembered because it was our last night with them, and a good friendship would take a different position.

Also that night will be remembered because on CNN in Lagos, Nigeria, we all sat and watched as our country concluded the Gulf War. The timing was great. The Y's could go back to Awka knowing the war was done. They could go back rested and refreshed by Doc's kindness. And they could go back with a piece of our hearts, lives and prayers.

God, please bless Tom and Karen and their two young sons. Do your best to draw them close to yourself and cause them to be fruitful as they serve you. Please, Lord, encourage them and keep them safe as they do a great work there for you. In Jesus' Name, Amen.

*Afterword... This family came home from Nigeria, were refreshed and then went to Albania just prior to the strife there. They were there and faithful. Now they are stateside for a time doing what they have always done, serving well. (also a 3rd child has come along)

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Interlude RAIN

As the humidity crept ever upward, keeping step with a soaring temperature, Ephraim told us what we already had guessed. Rain would come tonight.

We stood on the edge of the railed porch and watched a few large drops disturb the powder dry compound dust. Then we watched in wonder as literally tons of water poured out of that African sky.

I have weathered many storms in my day, and even have waked up to a tornado. Believe me, the torrents of rain that fell that night equaled anything from my past experience.

I guess that I might have preferred a gentle, soaking rain that would magically carpet the parched earth with fresh greenery. I really thought that Africa was going to be washed into the distant sea that night. But the one who made the rain also made it suited to the terrain, and the next day, freshly scrubbed banana trees and newly washed mangoes shone brightly from well watered berths.

It only rained two times like that while we were there, but Ephraim told us that the rainy season was on its way, and this would be a daily occurrence.

Rain crosses my mind once more as I sit in my well lighted office with my copious supply of books, working phone, *electric typewriter and pictures of my bride. Rain crossed my mind because God has so richly blessed me and mine that I cannot help but sing that old Hymn, "Showers of Blessing".

God, thank you for the way you rain on us. Thank you for those mercy drops and those blessings. Lord, may we take that rain and dig channels to irrigate the rest of your fields. In Jesus' name, Amen.

* How far we have come from the day I wrote that to now. Several computers later I can send this halfway round the world in less time than it takes to tell.

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#15 ~ Ngwelle

I was moved emotionally as Pastor Odurukwe presented me this lovely gift. In the bottom of a hand crafted box, nested on beds of thin foam, clay a replica of a male Ngwelle.

This part of Nigeria is not blessed with much wildlife now , as most of it has been driven northward by civilization. Yet one little fellow does his best to add a dash of color, and a colorful dash, to the landscape. At his largest, according to my limited observations, he is 8-9 inches long from his whip cord tail to his reptilian eyes. His coloring is basic black with bands of bright, almost fluorescent, orange on head and torso.

Ngwelle was my first challenge to overcome in the Igbo language. I was told that it was too hard to learn, so being basically rebellious, I did my best. That is why Pastor Odurukwe had this one modeled for me.

There were lots of little wildlife around: bugs, birds, beetles and let's not forget Kokorubaba. I saw this creature flitting from place to place and asked Ephraim his Igbo name. Once again I was told, "It's a long name and too hard." Thankfully, Felix was a bit more willing to hear me butcher the chief's Igbo and gave me the name of the African butterfly.

I still smile as I recall Doc's account of climbing into the shower the first night in Awka. Just as he stepped over the rim of the thinly porcelained steel vat, two things happened almost simultaneously. One: the lights took their customary rest break, and two: something large and black came up out of the drain. I guess Doc wouldn't have been at all bothered in daylight, but not having time to identify this beast due to power outage was a real scream. I must add that Doc is rather afraid of snakes, especially of venomous ones, but then, who isn't?

Grabbing his faithful flashlight and braving the dark interior of the bath once more, Doc was relieved to find the creature was an old acquaintance from his internship in Chicago, a roach.
"If I'd known it was only a roach, " he said, "I'd have taken my bath in the dark."

One night I was to experience the opposite type of sensation. I was standing barefoot in the doorway between kitchen and hall just as the power went out. A brief instant later, I felt something scurry across my foot, something heavy. I didn't' even twitch because my mind automatically programmed up Ngwelle to sooth my fears. It wasn't until the lights came on that Doc informed me he had discovered my four footed traveler. A large rat had taken up abode under the tub, and it was he who trespassed upon my rather unwilling person. I hate rats, and maybe it was just a laughing God saying, "You better not pick on Doc too much."

Not that I ever did pick on Doc, you understand, just mildly perhaps. I recall one night sitting around on the overstuffed sofa and chairs that had become our unwinding place, I hollered "SNAKE!" I never saw a person recoil and draw up into a chair so fast. The man has reflexes that would make a grasshopper blush. Renaldo Nehemiah, eat your heart out.

I think that God really does turn the tables sometimes, because it was only a few nights later that I was seated on the couch and was caused to recoil nearly as fast and twice as high. A fat old cockroach seemed to resent my sitting on his sofa and had the nerve to scurry up my arm and across my shoulder. Can you believe this? Larry laughed!

There were other creatures, mostly domesticated, which made their appearance. I saw three gaunt dogs, one skinny cat, a vast army of chickens, and goats beyond number.

There were slab sided Brahma cattle languidly driven along from sparse grass to more sparse grass. Edith Ndife once saw an “Emwe” in a tree, but I never did see that monkey, try as I might.
I learned the names of Ahdam the lion and Emwe the monkey, but never saw any exotic game. But then, we hadn't come to enjoy any time of recreation but to administer a time of redemption.

Ngwelle was damaged in transit, his tail broke off and all his feet suffered damage. I have glued him together, but I will never forget his live counterpart who does pushups on the walls and houses of Nigeria.

( author’s note) My wife’s cat (off blessed memory), smelled the clay of dear Ngwelle and ascertained that it smelled like kitty litter. We buried his soggy remains in the earth from which he came (the Ngwelle).

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# 16 Food

The aroma of fried chicken on a barbecue grill caught my nose as I passed by that house on my bike. I went a little farther and smelled the unmistakable lusciousness of some fortunate person's sirloin. I was reminded a moment of food and how much this nation is spoiled by the vast quantities and varieties from which to choose.

Larry laid his hand on his stomach and, with a woeful grimace, said, “My fish is trying to swim upstream." We had eaten at the Hendon restaurant for lunch and based upon Larry's good experience the previous day at "Doris Inn", we ordered fish.

Now as we stood in the largest open air market in West Africa and perused the probable origins of that muddy morsel, we were both given slightly queasy stomachs. The heavy "dead fish" and foul fowl aroma, topped by the sights of the slaughterhouse effluent and piggy waste flowing into the Niger river, made us look to that "fishing hole" with malaise.

I recall our first meal in Nigeria as we awoke in the hotel Sheraton that first morning. A sumptuous breakfast bar calculated to delight the American business man's eye. I had home fries and scrambled eggs, spicy sausages and hot dark coffee. This was not going to be too bad at all.

Our second meal was many hours later and eaten despite our lack of hunger. The oppressive heat and stomachs churned by stress left rather little room for food, yet we rose to the occasion. The "Doris Inn", site of many subsequent meals, was our first "cultural" meal place. We ate spicy rice and fried chicken with some of the hair on it and washed it down with "mineral". Now, that was something we had room for. Mineral, as carbonated beverages are called, hit the hot, dusty, dry, parched spot.

The greatest culinary feast, to my mind, was kebabs, of a sort, at the Yoders. That was due, in part, to the excellent cooking, but I believe also to the warmth with which we were received.
Every morning, before the sun ever thought of rubbing the seeds of sleep from its eyes, Edith Ndife silently began her day of service to our Lord. I think that first morning we ate bread and maybe "flakes" but after that you'd have thought she had a mandate from God to fatten us up. Maybe she did.

The sight of a "chicken omelet" and real fried potatoes was not only a tummy pleasing but a heart warming experience as well. Edith had spent many hours purchasing the chicken, killing and dressing it out. She then had labored in a kitchen that topped 120 degrees to cook that valuable meal. She arose early and made it into omelet's and served them to us with a smile. During this whole time, she smiled as if she were waiting on royalty. I could have lost much weight there if it were not for the careful ministering of this wonderful lady.

Whenever we had lunch at the Ndife compound, we ate the very best rice and meat available. The Ndife's bought beef for us as they understood that Americans supposedly didn't care for goats. They carefully cleaned any foreign matter from the rice and spent a week's wages to buy us one chicken.
I didn't realize we were being so carefully watched as I heaped the second helping of goat "stew" on my pile of rice. It seems as if Edith had told Mrs. Newman that "Americans don't like goat". I trust it was gratifying to her to see the speed with which this One Ocha devoured the delicious tender meat. The secret to eating goat is not to LOOK as you eat. Just ignore the presence of tendons, tubes and whatever parts remain. I tried to serve Doc some fairly "normal looking" pieces because I generally don't mind "different" foods.

"What is this?" I asked Ephraim, pointing to another dish at that table.

"Stew," he replied. He then added, "It's very hot."

Having a penchant for hot spicy food, I dished some onto my remaining rice and took a bite. My taste buds revolted, my throat constricted and my tonsils said, "Not in here you don't." Instant recall of the market experience, the same odor, the same flavor of dried rotted fish surged through my rebelling senses. I was given a large measure of grace to swallow and smile and then, as if it had always been my intent, I drenched the remainder of my rice with delicious spicy goat stew.

Food preoccupies the thoughts of many people around the world. Food is a basic need, yet unavailable to many. As I sit here felling stuffed from my late night snack, I wonder how many people are going to bed hungry. I get little glimmers of guilt as I consume far too much food while others have nowhere near enough.

God, please help me to limit my food intake so that others will have more. I want to give from my abundance to fill another's lack. Help me to love as you love, oh Lord. In Jesus' name, amen.

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#17 Little Hell

Ephraim pulled open his car door and winced. "If you want to feel 'little Hell', get inside," he laughed. I believe that the temperature in that car was well over 140 degrees. We opened the doors and windows and let it "cool down" to a comfortable 100 or so.

Every day we set new heat records, it seemed, but no experience can be compared to our trip to Edith's home village. We had to travel over a road that was being renovated entirely and was still surfaced with only red dust. The only way to breathe at all was to roll up the windows and block out the red fiend. The real problem came after the windows were rolled up. As the windows went up, so did the temperature.

Being rather claustrophobic, I was forced to make periodic forays into the world of dusty nostrils in order to retain my already shaky equilibrium. The combination of oppressive heat and totally still air produced a state of mind somewhat less desirable than the Sahara desert.

One other time I awakened to the same lack of "breathability". The ever faithless
N.E.P.A. had ceased its operation of the fans about three one morning, and I was awakened and hurriedly ran and put my nose out the window. Heat and I were not the best of friends, yet God, in His mercy, kept both Larry and I mercifully immune to most of the withering side effects.

I did get a prickly red rash about the second day there, and Doc's remedy was, "Go home." He did give me some ointment that reduced the redness and stopped my arms from looking as if an octopus had fallen in love with them.

"We feel the heat, too, you know," said Ephraim. "We understand when you don't wear a tie and when you divest yourselves of raiment when you get home." I guess I had a sort of funny notion that Nigerians were used to the heat. It surprised me to see Doc treat them for heat rash and such ailments. It even made the heat a bit more bearable from my point of view to know I was not the only other one beside Doc (who never complains) who felt the heat.

As I burned my backside on the overheated upholstery of the Peugeot, I was reminded that one of the main purposes for our trip was to rescue people from heat far worse than this. I smile a bit and then sorrowfully reflect that many will reject Jesus and that all the suffering of life is the only heaven they'll ever see.

Oh Lord, please help me to live so that others can see thy mercy and love in me. Please remind me of that "little Hell" and help me persuade others from eternal Hell. In Jesus' name, amen.

# 18 Emma

I strained to catch the clear tones of the soft voice as Emmanuel continued his interesting account of the nation's struggle. I found myself wanting to know more, feel more, be more involved with these people who had been so used up.

This session was the third in a series of talks we had with the "junior brother" of Ndife. His intellect, obviously high, spilled out in the conversation as well as his concern for his nation.
I stayed behind on February 20th as Doc and Ephraim traveled to Enugu and, just as I was about to go bonkers, Emmanuel showed up for a cultural tour of his village.

Our first stop was a modern house under construction. This place was of particular interest because Emmanuel had drawn the plans for this during his university time. He was a student of engineering and was currently serving his government in a one year program required of all university graduates.

This house had sustained some cracks along a few walls and in one area of the poured concrete floor as well. Emmanuel showed me the reasons for and the correction of these flaws.

I guess that one thing that surprised me as we first came to Awka was the vast preponderance of concrete housing. The highly industrious Igbo had bee n using this material for quite some time and have many fine homes. They do not get a loan to build, rather just begin and finish as money comes along. Many such demi-structures dotted the landscape looking like strange tentacled creatures at rest with their reinforcing rods raised to heaven.

I was interested to see the strength of Emmanuel's design, reinforced in the floors with re-rod wires at 6x6 intervals. This cathedral ceilinged structure would satisfy the aesthetics of many an American home buyer.

We left the construction site and wound our way down a forest path which skirted the back side of the village. The first sight that we visited looked like some family's deserted chicken house. I asked Emmanuel what it was and he replied, "It has to do with the ancient religion of the tribe." This was my first look at a voodoo shrine which, although fallen down now, once was the seat of most of the religious activity in this village.

Emmanuel explained how all the "masquerade" costumes depicting the spirits of the dead ancestors were at one time kept in these shrines. A few years back some youths, hoping to restore tribal lore, had resurrected some of these and were surprised to find they were dealing with more than just artifacts. The evil, latent power of the old ways drew them in.

I looked toward the forest and Emma continued, "This forest was a sacred forest, here the bodies of twins were cast alive at birth." He went on, "People thought that a twin was a curse, but the missionaries later convinced them that twins were a double blessing"

I found out, too, that any suicide victim was cast into this area and given no funeral rite because of the shame brought on the family.

We moved on down the path, joined a rutted road, and came to the family compound first owned by the Ndife family. It was currently the property of Emmanuel and Ephraim's senior uncle.

Immediately upon passing the gate we saw a hut of concrete with two walls and a zinc roof. The front and rear of this hut were open with a 12 inch knee wall of sorts. This was the "man's house". Here the man of the compound would receive visitors. Here he would kill a chicken as sacrifice to departed spirits of his ancestors.

The area was ceilinged with wood, and I was told that the attic space contained artifacts and memoirs of past Ndife men. Each person had a carved stick of his life and some were specially marked to denote chieftainship.

Against on wall, in front of a window area, rested the family "OFO" or staff of animistic authority. This particular spear like staff had been in the family for many generations. I observed the intricate design worked into the steel and began to understand why the statue at Awka's entrance was a blacksmith.

The holder of the "OFO" was bound by the spirits of departed Ndife's to always speak truth and always deal justly in settling family matters. He believed that a curse or death would overtake him if he lied or perverted justice while being the "OFO" holder.

I said nothing, but my glance toward the feathers and blood on the staff and around it prompted Emma to explain, "Uncle still is a follower of the old ways. He has sacrificed so he can speak to our ancestors."

Outside and directly in front of the hut was a circle of trees which was the dwelling place for the "CHI" or soul of departed ones. This was explained as having something to do with fate or destiny. Here it is that senior uncle can come and speak directly with the souls of departed ancestors. Here it is that uncle does his sacrifice at festival time to feed his ancestors.

Emma explained how many have tried to splice two religions into one but have had little success with either.

We walked by a small shrine where sacrifices were made to insure the birth of a male offspring, past the talking drum, used to signal in case of attack or important meetings, and up the main street to the blacksmith shop.

The Igbo uses the blacksmith for a symbol, mainly because this is the area of craft for which they are known. This particular village is known for its smith in the surrounding areas.

The anvil, or “Osi si ama“, has come to mean "ruler of an area". The chief of a town is called “Eze Ozoh“, or chief blacksmith. There are 3 levels of government in a village, starting with the family group. The next is a youth council, which deals with most matters in the village, only deferring to the highest group, the Elders.

"If you like, I will make an appointment for you with the chief of all the chiefs in Awka," Emma offered. Larry and I jumped at the chance to learn from the greatest living expert on Igbo culture.

This man, a leader of leaders, retired from medical work and a tour with the World Health Organization. Returned to finish his days in his own village. He explained to us the religio-cultural base for the governmental system.

"There are four laws," he stated, "which govern all we do." The first is get food. The others follow in order: Protect yourself, evade overwhelming force, and have sex. All other laws stem from these. For example, if you are to have sex, there will be a fruit from that relationship. To fulfill this law, the chiefs of a village demand of a father, "Prove that you will care for this fruit." From this comes a ceremony called marriage, two people fulfilling law number four in a responsible fashion.

I listened as this chief spoke of his trip to the U.S.S.R. and described a stop over in a major religious city. He had occasion to view the treasure trove of this group and stated, "They have the power to end all social problems if they choose."

I pondered this statement and looked around at the splendor of the spacious house in which we were seated. I looked out the window at a mud structure not far away, and I was reminded that this major religion is not alone in hoarding what it has when so much need is around. Each of us must do our part, not look to others who may not be doing all we think they should.

Emma Ndife is a rare and warm person. I never heard him ask for a single thing from us, I never heard him complain about life in Nigeria. I did hear him offer workable ideas, ideals, and solutions to the difficulties ahead.

Thank you, Emma, for being such a friend to us and for showing us an honest, open view of Nigeria.

19 Home Again

The clock on the dresser said 3:00 a.m. as I snapped awake. I felt with my left hand to see if she was really there and smiled as she stirred and grabbed my hand. "Is it really you?" I asked for the hundredth time. She assured me that it was indeed her sweet lovable self, and I began to relate to her some of what I'd been up to.

I took out my journal and read from start to finish each day's entries, no matter how glum they may have sounded. I welled up with tears at some points as I recalled faces and events that could never be replaced in my growing experience.

We drifted back to sleep and woke rather refreshed around 8:00 a.m. and readied for a drive back home to Maine.

Home, what a sweet sounding word; home and my familiar things, my familiar people, my wife and children; home. I admit to a sense of joy as I notices the large "Welcome Home, Dad" sign in the window of our house. I was even more happy to hug my children and tell them of the gifts I'd gotten for them and of the fruit that they would share in for sacrificing Dad for a month. Home.

I remembered writing a few days before in my journal: "Wednesday February 27, 1991: Today we will drive to Lagos (6-8 hours) and spend the night at Sheraton by the grace of God and Doctor Dubien." It seems as if that were eons ago as I sit here and write this, and I tend to forget the feelings and fears that assailed me then.

I noted in my journal that, "I confess to a resurgence of fear as I look forward to Nigerian customs and all the money hungry people out to swindle us." I then had asked a loving God to calm my fears and bring us safely home in His care.

Looking back I see that He was always faithful, He was always on the job, He was looking out for our best interests all along. There were many times when I wondered where He was and many times I felt that He'd gone on vacation, but He proved each time that He isn't called "Faithful and True" for nothing.

In the Airport at Lagos Ikeja, time hung very heavy. It seemed as if we'd never get out of this terminal with its horde of hungry schemers. I was walking toward the restrooms when a man approached me and asked, "Can I speak to you?" I told him I was busy and he said he'd wait.

I came out of the restroom and made a bee-line toward Doc as fast as I could. I did not want to be approached by any shysters while away from Doc.
The man stood back and watched us, then approached and said, "Can I talk with you a minute?"

I replied, "Sure, fire away."

"I want to talk with you over there about some business," he said.

I assured him that I was not there for business, and he gave me a glance and asked, "Do you have a European bank account?"

I guess my uproarious laughter convinced him that I was not a wealth seeker because he sidled off to harass some other unlikely prospect. I felt nervous each time we'd walk by him in the lobby and stayed at one end for quite a spell.

After a while, Doc and I wound our way to a coffee shop on the upper lever mezzanine and sat for several hours sipping the strong black brew. Soon we felt that enough time had passed to allow us to pass through customs and head for the gateway home.

Doc paid my N 50 Exit money and we headed for the first of many customs points. I walked up to the lady and opened my carry-on bag. She perused it, then looked at the carved walking stick I had gotten for my daughter, Mary.

"You can't take that through here," she said. "It is antiquities."

I smiled, knowing well that it was only a locally carved piece and had already cleared one baggage point. I looked at her and said, "Okay, keep it."

"If you give me a little money," she whispered, "you can get it past."

"No, you go ahead and keep it, " I said, confident now in my less fearful role.

"Okay, go ahead through," she sighed.

I felt as if Doc's patient admonitions had paid off as I strode, head up, to the next gateway and another check point.

"Have you anything for me?" the customs official asked.

"I'm sorry, I gave it all to your sister at the first gate," was my reply to him and any subsequent askers.

I guess we traversed 6 different customs harassment points on our way to the loading gate. Each one requested a "little something" for their trouble. It was a relief to finally arrive at the long benches marking our exit point. Then down stairs to "identify our baggage" before it was loaded onto the aircraft.

What a time of hassles and tension we had been through earlier that day. Yet there wa s one rather bright spot earlier. I had dropped in to a small soda and candy shop for some "mineral" and somehow in that predominantly Hausa land, heard the proprietor say "ONYOCHA".

I immediately replied, "Hey, Onye Igbo," and was rewarded with a mile wide smile. I trotted our my limited Igbo vocabulary and he grinned like he was going to burst.

"Hey," he told a friend, "this man speaks my language that I speak at home."

I smiled a bit as we spoke, I felt like I had come home for a little bit. When we went to pay for the soda, he refused our money, and I left the shop feeling very grateful.

"Those with little children and those who need special help may board now," the loud-voiced man said.

I fidgeted a bit, impatient to be aboard at last. Soon our seat numbers were called and we handed our boarding passes to the lady at the gate and rather rapidly headed toward British Airways L-1011 and freedom.

I almost cried as once more, it seemed, the safety cord that had been disconnected a month before was tentatively reconnected.

I didn't know that it would take stepping onto British soil to begin to feel real security, but this was a start.

I recall descending through the morning fog to Gatwick airport and walking calmly up to real civilized customs people who did their best to make us feel as if we were important. I recall going to a bank of phones a figuring how to make a collect call home.

"Hello," I said, with a quiver in my voice. "It's me, honey, I'm in London."

"Hello Steve," I heard the joyful sob in her voice, and I couldn't help but tear up a little myself. It was so good to hear her voice, so good to assure her that all her loneliness and sad times were worth it. It was also good to let her know that we'd be home soon.

We caught the "Gatwick Express" train in to Victoria station and after a rather expensive breakfast at a small shop, headed out the door and up the street to "see London".

After walking for many miles from the station, past New Scotland yard, by Westminster Abbey and into Winchester Cathedral, we sat and ate a bit more. It was in a Dunkin Donut shop on Piccadilly Circus that I noted in my journal that, "I must bring my bride here someday."

We had seen Trafalgar Square, the tower of Big Ben, Parliament Square, the Horse Palace, Buckingham Palace and everything else our tired feet would take. Finally we decided to take "the tube" to Heathrow and be sure to be several hours early for our flight.
"I'm sorry, that flight is boarded, closed up and ready to take off," the smiling attendant said.

Due to the Gulf War, the airline had decided to fly only an early flight to Logan, and even though we had reconfirmed two times in the last two weeks, the time change was not noted.

Larry and I trudged over to the reservations counter to see what British Airways could do for us. The first suggestion, and overnight stay in London, met with an emphatic NO from these two weary travelers. Then the helpful agent found a way to fly us to Chicago and on to Boston via Eastern Airlines. We didn't care HOW we got there, we just wanted to get there.

At the Chicago customs, someone was giving the agents a hard time in a rather loud voice. Larry and I told them how much we appreciated their fast, efficient and unbribed service.

After going through baggage check, we went to the British Airways "lost baggage" counter. We filled out the appropriate forms and ran the long distance to Eastern Airlines terminal.
We enjoyed the lasagna, enjoyed the radio hook up to the tower, and enjoyed anything that went on around us. Soon enough we enjoyed hearing the pilot say, "We are preparing to land at Logan Airport in Boston. Please remain seated until we stop at the terminal."

We stumbled off the plane, walked like zombies down the long ramp, and almost simultaneously grabbed our respective wives and gave them more than a handshake.
My sister and her husband, along with my cousins, had driven the hour from their homes to see us arrive. They smiled, greeted us and then went on home. I felt like they should get the brass band. Deb and Dave and Roger and Brenda, I thank you so much for being willing to give so much to say, "Welcome Home."

We drove the hour to Portsmouth (Larry didn't honk once) and soon were enjoying hot showers and soft sheets and catching up with life as we knew it.

The drive home was really enjoyable. For the first time in a month, the driver used brakes instead of his horn. For the first time in a month, the drivers around us stayed in their own lane and only changed after signaling.

Now I am home. I have forgotten some of the immediate needs of Africa. I have spoken of the strongest needs that I can help met, but as I have written these few lines, I have been reminded of the great need for missionaries. God asked Isaiah, "Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?" and I weep inside at what has become of the sending agency, Christ's Church.

I am reminded that Isaiah replied to God, "Here am I, send me." And I ask myself, "Why do you stay here?" I realize that for the present, God has called me to remain, but to train and send others. I ask, as I wrestle with these thoughts, "Is this just a 'cop-out' to keep me at home?"

Oh, Africa, who draws my heart, please wait upon the Lord and pray that He will send forth laborers unto His field which is nearly past ripe.

Oh Lord, who draws the hearts of men, please send forth laborers into your fields before the harvest is past.

I could write of many more things as I remember our time in Africa. I could describe scores of laughing children, flocks of weary women, and armies of hard working men. All of this, though, would only serve to lengthen an account that I feel must come to an end.
I have touched on matters that were close to my heart. I have neglected many discussions, many events and probably many people who made our journey what it was. I may forget much of what went on as time goes by, but I well never forget these things: That God is faithful to keep us no matter what may happen; That there is a needy world starving for the gospel message. I also can never forget or repay the great and sacrificial kindness of my friend and traveling companion.

Larry, this diary is dedicated to you, to your steady good nature and your selfless sharing that kept this rascally reverend in line. Thank you my friend.

At this date, we have sent over 2500 bibles, many volumes of theological books, concordances and even 2 typewriters to Nigeria. I am happy to be able to send these things, but still feel a strong kinship with those people that can never be erased. May God, in His mercy, grant me the strength and desire to once again return and minister there among His people of Nigeria.

Steve Nute, March 1991

After Word, October, 2007

How swiftly the years have flown. How quickly I had forgotten the intensity of my time there.
Editing this journal for you to read has reminded me to still have a soft place for those who struggle through a hard life to reach their own people.

I discovered that for a relatively small sum one person can support a Nigerian pastor each month. If one of us were to go, the mission boards require that we raise 2-300.00 each month to cover health, retirement, administrative costs etc.

I realize their hands are tied by regulations, but what can we do?

$75.00 per month goes a long way to support an indigenous pastor and family. They have no cultural difficulties to overcome, no language barrier to hurdle, no visas to get.

They have no medical insurance, no food allowance, no retirement benefits. They just serve. They have a heart for the people and they live among them.

I have been to their churches, seen their growing Bible Academy and school system. I can assure you than money sent to Rev. Dr. Ephraim Ndife goes where it is intended to go.
Is that a shameless plug? Yes!

For information on how to support a native pastor on any field google “Advancing Native Missions” and see how it can be done.

Or email me on how to help Rev Ndife

Thanks and God bless you,

Pictures from Steve's Trip