Passport Stamp: The Return to Zambia Pt. 4
Day 8: Mzungu Nzamga, Day 9: Chikondi, Epilogue: Who Has the Final Say?
Day 8: Mzungu Nzamga
We woke up to the same sizzle of bacon, eggs, and bread in the morning like we always did in our home away from home. We met around the breakfast table again to be met with the family that we made in Zambia. Reunited again with the kalulu Matamando and the ever graceful and fabulous Chisomo, there was plenty to catch up on.
But there was a heartbreaking future approaching closer and closer. It was our last full day on this continent. There could be a million different posts across the millions of memories made throughout this trip. But, alas, all good things must come to an end. Every trip begins with that singular moment of shock and awe, where all your life is felt all at once and it feels like eternity is right in front of you. You think, meditate, eat, walk, look like a fool, and, in the process, grow more in the few moments you’re there than you did in the years before you made it.
That’s the feeling of trip coming to a close. I remember our last day last time I was in this country, that feeling of, “what will happen from all this?”, “what will come next?”, “what now am I supposed to do with all of these experiences?”. If you’ve learned anything from this series (which I know took me months past the actual trip date to write out…sorry about that), you’ve learned that travelling is less about a geographical destination and more about interacting with a new world. This time, the “new world” isn’t gained for god, gold, or glory. Instead, it is desired because of curiosity, compassion, and Christ. For if the kingdom of heaven is within us, then certainly, the more we know people, the more Christ is revealed. It’s always, and forever, about people. And there were a few people I have yet to see since I’ve been in the old world of Zambia for the second time…
Moffat: Moffat is a tall, slender man a few years older than me. He was proficient in English, was well read, could quote the bible in any circumstance, remembered everyone he came in contact with, was amazing with the young kids, and impossibly funny. He was one of those men that seemed so confident, so secure in his principles that he didn’t care if he was an idiot. In fact, it was his silliness that made him so serious. He could turn on a dime from pretending to be a lion and joking about finding me a wife to asking difficult, life-altering questions. It was all in his eyes. That slight squint from his cheeks told the world he was here to laugh and then he would stab you with them without blinking.
One of my fondest memories, and my best attempt at stand-up comedy to date, was made at the expense of Moffat. While we were all finishing up our lunch, early on in my trip, I decided to go out on a limb. I felt like I needed to win these people over. I needed to give them something they found distinctly theirs. Anyone with any amount of social awareness can tell that these people love to joke, and they’re serious about it. I knew what I had to do. My mission was set before me. Where my fear is, there is also my task. What could I make a joke about? Moffat is skinny. Maybe there’s something there? I walked up to a tall, slender, wilting tree. I clapped my hand on its trunk and said in front of everyone, “Hey Moffat!”. For a moment there was silence as everyone turned to head to see the Mzungu (white person) and what the heck he just said. Then, like the beginning of that THX promo before old movies, the loudest, most uproarious sound came from the group. Especially from Moffat. I crushed. From then on out, Moffat never left my heart.
Richard: Richard is a young man, around my same age, with a golden heart and a timidity that is unwarranted. I met him the first day I was there on my 2019 trip, and we quickly became the loudmouth/shy guy pairing with which the most good friendships are made.
He was a man that needed a push to get out of his comfort zone, and into supreme silliness. I’ve always had a certain draw towards friends that have that complex. There was a person within Richard who was a wild cat when revealed. I’m not sure if he was worried about others seeing that side of him or if he just didn’t know was in there. Me and Richard had as many talks and jokes as the language and accent barrier could allow. We developed a friendship that I remember to this day as equal parts silly and sacred. Maybe those two are one in the same.
Our last day, the last time I was in Zambia, we went out to eat at Keg and Lion (remember, the place with the Zambian band playing “Stuck on You”?). We had the mission team and 20 or so of the young adults that we had the pleasure of knowing with us. We were leaving the next day and, as comes with last days, the bittersweet inevitability of farewell was upon us. We were all saying our goodbyes, hugging, shedding a few tears, and sharing a few last minute jokes. I finally met eyes with Richard and gave him a big hug. Zambians are not big huggers so that came as quite a shock to him. He probably made some sly remark about it before we took a few selfies, something the Zambians prefer more than physical touch.
Then Richard surprised me. He said, “I wrote a song for you”. In any other circumstance, especially here in the States, this would be the weirdest sign of friendship. But here, there is no cultural or social restraint on emotion or gratitude. It was one of the first moments of culture shock I vividly remember.
“I’d love to hear it,” I replied, hesitatingly I admit.
To this day, I don’t really know what he was singing. I believe it was in English, but with the noise of the restaurant, the rest of the teams loudly bidding adieu, and the accent barrier, I couldn’t really figure it out. I think it was something about me being a son of God and a follower of Christ. Both things I humbly wish I could represent well. But hearing it in the offbeat, song format from this Zambian young adult, it couldn’t have been more beautiful. It was as if he was sharing his heart while shedding his fears. I know Richard, he isn’t a bombastic, emotional person. He is shy, timid, reserved, and conservative. But at this moment, his gratitude outweighed his attitude.
I have the video still saved on my phone. I would listen to it from time to time and try my best to translate. Still, I come up short. But the heart is there, the sentiment is there, the authenticity is there. Richard made me realize people can overcome their petty personality characteristics if the emotions require it. I took a quick picture of him trying his absolute hardest to look cool in front of a window. Silly and sacred, once again, intertwined.
Cosmas: I met Cosmas right after I agreed to do a few worship songs for our group. I remember vividly him coming up to me after learning that I played guitar and asked me to play some more. I will admit, to every guitar player’s chagrin, I was trying to impress people. I played some fast, cool sounding riffs that I picked up as a kid that wanted to shred. It was almost like a guitar players’ version of peacocking, just showing off my colors in the hopes that these young African people would like me. It’s cringey, it’s chauvinistic, it’s annoying.
Cosmas, however, thought it was cool. He approached me and said that he likes to play piano for church and has been learning for a couple of months now and was really enjoying it.
“Could you please teach me a few chords on the guitar?” he eagerly asked.
“Of course! I only have a week with you so we’ll meet everyday during lunch and practice a few things,” I responded, halfway prideful that someone would want to learn from me.
Me and Cosmas, through our joke and conversation laden guitar lessons became quite close. He told me that he loves working with electronics. His dream, outside of playing music for church, was to go to a technical school, of which there are very few in Zambia, and work on electronic instruments for a living. He consistently told me how much he’d like to leave his hometown of Chongwe and work in the city where “everyone else is”.
He had what I call Bruce Springsteen syndrome (have I wrote about this before?...). Bruce Springsteen syndrome is a highly scientific and peer-reviewed phenomenon that studies that feeling that young people have where all they want to do is leave their parents, spread their wings, and soar into a heavenly life beyond their “dumb old hometown”. They feel as if they were born to run.
One of my favorite memories of Cosmas was at church. That cacophonous beauty ceased, church was let out, and he showed me where they keep his piano. He says he practices most days and tries to learn simply by poking around, seeing what sounds good, and messing up a whole lot. It was honest, genuine, and heartfelt. All of himself was in whatever little he could play. It, frankly, was better than most keys players in most churches for that reason. Who cares about right and wrong, who cares about theory, Cosmas cared about the feeling. And that always led him towards some sort of progress.
The memories of these young men always stayed with me. After I left, they made sure to give me their WhatsApp, where I still contact them to this day. Coming on this trip, five years after I met Moffat, Richard, and Cosmas, I was ecstatic to see them again, if they could make it. I’m sure they all had their busy lives now in their late 20s and early 30s, as we all do. Isn’t it funny that when genuine friendship enters the picture, there’s always a memory that reminds us of the world beyond our own. Because of their friendship, I remembered a Zambia I could return to. My team, this trip, and the ministry I was able to work alongside was all possible because of Moffat’s silliness, Richard’s song, and Cosmas’s dreams.
Back to our regularly scheduled program. It was our last full day in Zambia, and we had another conference to put on, this time for everyone, not just the youth and young. It was supposed to be a “teaching ministry” conference. Basically, the objective was to encourage and empower local ministers and church leaders in the word, worship, and fellowship, to use nice beautiful church language. We set sail for the last time we would see this wonderful community, with the beauty of the safari and the natural world in our recent memory and the glory of the supernatural world slowly puttering closer and closer to us as we reach that sacred temple under the concrete roof.
We rolled up to the property like we’ve done for a couple of days now, to the sound of pattering children’s feet in the dust and young leaders singing a few songs in the sanctuary. It returned us to that initial feeling, along with the emotions from our time in nature, of bewilderment. How could a sound so beautiful come from a place that, according to many people who have never been here, is dangerous, diseased, and dark? It reminded us of why we were here in the first place and why we all decided to come. For what was for us here in Zambia? What was to be gained from a few days in Africa?
The answers to those questions were shouted at us from the distance, when some of the people we met over the last week called out our names. Chisomo, Shalom, Dominick, and Bernard called out to the team and greeted us as we walked towards the pavilion. It was a bittersweet moment, one that would mark us forever. It would be the last day they see us, and, more heartbreaking, the last day that we see them.
We open up the conference like we did last time, with welcoming in Christ with our “hosannas” and “hallelujahs”. We built a throne twice the size of the last one. There were some songs we began to pick up on. There was nothing more special than using the limited Nyanja we knew and trying our best to mouth the syllables to the best of our ability. It was a moment where we weren’t just receiving their voices like the last couple of times we sang, but we tried our best to be a part of it all. To enter again into that heavenly place, that holy of holies under the African sun. It was, again, tangible, powerful, magnificent, and real. More real than anything I’ve ever experienced. Last days, again, do that to you.
During the last little bit of worship, as we were coming down from our ascension, there was a presence in the room I hadn’t felt in years. A presence I hadn’t felt in five years. In walked, among the young leaders I had the privilege of speaking to later that day: Moffat, Richard, and Cosmas. The closest friends I made whenever I was here last time in this god-blessed country, took the time out of their busy lives to come and hang out with me.
I was shocked to see them and the overjoy was painted on my face. It was one of those smiles you just couldn’t get rid of. It was always there, every time I tried to act cool or focus on being spiritual (even pastors need to do that) I would beam with excitement that I had the unique opportunity to show them that I returned. Remember, they’ve dealt with American missionaries before, but very few had the care and love to come back. I didn’t have that care until the opportunity came up. It’s amazing what kingdom of God is within you whenever that divine intervention wraps you in its fateful web.
But behold, there they were, in the flesh. The three men that impacted me the most on my last trip in Zambia (besides Derrick and Matamando obviously). All the excitement took me out of the focus of speaking. I still had to impart wisdom and knowledge to the young leaders of the area and I had all of this joy to attend to. What am I supposed to do now?
When it was my turn to speak, I popped up, said a long-winded prayer as I was going over my notes that I jotted down the day before (classic procrastinating pastor move) and started. I look at my friends in the back, smiling and just as excited as I was. Cosmas pulled out a small tripod and recording device. It wasn’t a phone, but it was similar to one of those Flip cameras. Remember those weird little camcorders for anyone conscious in 2009? What was that thing? Anyways, 20 something year olds are using it in Africa.
I wanted to start the sermon in a cool way. To show everyone, again, that I belonged there. Much like it was those 5 years ago, I had to win the people. I knew the word for “friend” in Nyanja which was Nzamga. However, when I practiced it with Derrick, I kept saying Mzungu, the word for white person. I couldn’t bear the embarrassment of publicly calling my Zambian friends white people so I, right before I said it, leaned into Derrick and asked, “how do you say friends again?”. He smiled and chuckled a little bit, knowing exactly why I needed to know before I uttered a word.
“My Nzamga!” I said after carefully and perfectly practicing my Nyanja so I don’t make a critical error. Despite my obvious anxiety, Moffat, Richard, and Cosmas all waved back, smiling while I was panicking. It made for quite a show for the rest of those in attendance. Not only did a mzungu speak Nyanja at all, if not poorly, but he knew several people in the crowd. He wasn’t shy to become a part of different people’s lives. And isn’t that the point of all of this? It’s shocking the amount of people who travel, even for ministry reasons, that never learn someone else’s name, speak their language, eat their food, or live their life. For me and my nzamga, it was a beautiful moment of rekindling embers burned up long, long ago. For everyone else, it was a reminder that they are worth the effort, and we can, truly, all be members of the greatest movement in the history of the world, united under the thrones we’ve built for God Almighty.
My first talk of the day was surrounding the story of Philip and the Ethiopian Eunuch in Acts 8. The story is a reminder of the importance of dual didactic. Simply put, the dual didactic stats that in any educational circumstance, there is the student, who humbly acknowledges they have a lack of knowledge in a subject, which is infinitely more difficult than the job of the teacher which is to impart knowledge to their pupils. This talk was the challenge of the day, pressing local leaders to be vigilant in both ways, to study and to impart. It is the generosity of knowledgeable understanding. Perhaps the greatest gift they could give should the benefactors lack just as much as the recipient.
In my time in Africa, there’s a lot of difficulty in attempting to preach an American gospel. It stretches you to the outer reaches of what the gospel is meant to do and, in turn, allows you to know the savior of the world, not just your own. Giving is not an important subject in Zambia like it is in the US. It seems just about every church must include within their calendar discussions of tithing, generosity, giving, etc. And for good reason, I might add. We are in the land of plenty, therefore it is imperative we use that for those in need and the building up and support of God’s holy church.
However, how do you tell people who barely have water and food, that they need to give? What do they have to offer to the church and their community? The answer, I believe, is within them. Philip was trotting along in Acts 8 when he saw an opportunity to serve, to give, to provide an offering. That offering was not money, this Ethiopian did not need it. The offering was not food, which everyone needs. The offering was enlightenment. The gift was knowledge of Christ. We think we go to Africa to offer something that, frankly, won’t go too far. Money will be spent, food will be eaten. Knowledge, however, is evergreen. And these leaders of the Zambian church have it.
Next, Philip did not stop at teaching. The best thing about the “dual didactic” form of education is, since it’s much more of a contractual exchange, there’s an intimate connection between pupil and teacher. Philip answered the Ethiopian’s questions, in a very human moment where the Ethiopian doesn’t understand a passage in Isaiah. Furthermore, Philip continues to walk with the eunuch, likely answering more questions, hopefully cracking jokes, and learning about each other’s similarities and differences. They developed a friendship. As they were walking along, they noticed a body of water, and the Ethiopian was baptized, and Philip teleported to Jerusalem. Normal everyday glories.
So I asked the local Christian leaders in Zambia, how are they raising up the next generation of Christians in their community? Are they walking alongside them? No ministry is short term. It is always here for the long journey. We are spiritual Virgils walking Dante through Hell and back again. If we think that can happen in one service we are doing a disservice to our constituents and quenching the Holy Spirit, who is active in the sacrament of study just as much as the charismatic fires of church.
It was so poignant that I was discussing these ideas and looking at the face of my three nzamgas. Back then, as an even younger man, I had no intention on becoming a Philip, a Virgil, or even a laymen. I wanted to travel. But within that selfish desire, the Holy Spirit beckoned me. It was preposterous, it was unlikely, but it happened. Me and the friends I met halfway across the world were reunited. I had walked with them all this way, and they with me, catching up with them again after we’ve unknowingly been running the same direction. Mission work is beautiful, especially when you return because you find out every race within the kingdom has the same destination.
After my exposition on Philip and the Ethiopian, I decided to place here an example of what good Christian leadership can lead to, and invited Jess, a member of our team up to the podium to share her testimony. When I approached Jess about speaking at the conference, she knew she had to but didn’t want to. She hadn’t been a devout follower of Christ too long, but she was smart and capable and thought this the prime opportunity to pursue, at least in a small way, some sense of pastoral leadership. I remember she sent me early drafts of her talk (she’s a lot better than me and had it all written out several weeks in advance). She chose to have her anxiety before the trip rather than during like yours truly. In those early drafts, I saw some profound change in her story, but she was nervous about talking about the nitty-gritty of her life’s story. She asked “is it okay to talk about sex and substance abuse?”. Of which I said, “of course, they are just humans”. With that, she went for it and touched the hearts of every soul under the concrete.
After Jess shared her testimony, we broke out, again, into small groups. These have been some of the most impactful moments of our time ministering in Zambia. We come face to face with the universal human experience and the individual, cultural maladies that these people deal with daily. Jess’s story preceding the small group was an act of divine will. It stoked probably the most important conversation to have with young people which is: how can we change our lives? How can we win our internal spiritual battle of flesh vs. spirit? Furthermore, this being a group of young Christian leaders, how can we lead people who are also in the war for change? These are questions all people must go through. It is the journey through the desert, the wrestling with God. And they are just as real in the plains of Africa as they are in the secular jungles of the west.
I don’t remember all of our conversation. It’s taken me a million years to write this Africa trip down so forgive me if I’ve forgotten what I’ve called the most important part. However, I remember distinctly Moffat’s soliloquy about our position as Christian leaders. He stood up, tall and slender as he was, towering over those sitting around him. He commanded all attention and worked it like a chef would a steak. He’s a natural born speaker, with his low timbre and thick African accent, translating himself as he speaks in Nyanja and then English. He talked about the importance of practicing what you preach. We cannot claim to share the light when we ourselves are in darkness. We are all imperfect, of course. Much like the children he pastors at his local congregation, we are learning to walk as we are running. Tripping, falling, scraping our knees, and breaking our noses is all a part of growing up, all a part of changing.
We break for lunch after small groups. The girls, like last time, had a wonderful time discussing the ins and outs of life as a young woman in the Zambian bush. But, frankly, I didn’t care about catching up with the girls, I will see them later. It’s not very often I see Moffat, Richard, and Cosmas. So, I make me a plate of nshima, goat, and PB&J sandwiches and made my way to the boys table, where they were already shooting the bull.
In a circle, laughing and making jokes that bordered that “inappropriate” line that’s much broader there than in the US, were five of my Zambian friends, both old and new: Moffat, Richard, Cosmas, Dominick, and Bertrand. For the last five years they have been laughing and cutting up while I was slaving away at my respective jobs and schools. I sat down among them, to join in the love that was long overdue.
“Jacob, it’s been five years” said Moffat in his low, unserious timbre.
“I know it’s been too long, what have you been up to” I replied.
Moffat was now a children’s pastor at a church in Chongwe. He teaches bible, creates games, and helps with services along with some of his other church leaders. Who would’ve thought the man that was the most serious silly person I’ve ever met would end up doing that.
“Jacob, when are you going to get a wife, hmm?” He asked with the chuckles surrounding him by his friends.
“Oh, I’m not sure Moffat, I don’t know if I have time for that.”
“Well did you know I am a prophet, I know the future” he said, again a small smile across his face and his friends chuckling like hyenas. “I believe before the next time you see me, you will be married”.
“Oh, you think so?”
“I know so Jacob”
“Are you married Moffat?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“No, I am not, but here is a picture of my daughter”
“How do you have a daughter if you’re not married?” I replied, knowing children out of wedlock don’t happen too often here.
“Don’t worry about that Jacob, it’s all a part of the testimony” which made the whole group roar in laughter. Moffat hasn’t changed a bit. The world is better with him staying just the way he is.
Richard is usually quiet in big social settings. He is much more of a one-on-one type of conversationalist. I made a moment where I could have a public/private conversation to catch up. Richard has been living with Moffat (and Cosmas as well) trying to figure out what to do with his life post-ministry. He had been doing ministry with Derrick and Mercy for most of his adult life now and decided to part ways, not with them, but with the hustle, bustle, and breakneck speeds of ministerial life. He’s in limbo, in an “in between”. It became comforting, in all of my indecision and feelings of unfulfillment, that my good friend Richard, a world and an ocean away, felt the same thing.
“It’s okay Richard, we all need time finding our way” I remember telling him, summoning all of my pastoral wisdom and knowledge of Gandalf quotes.
“I know it will be okay Jacob, but it’s just not okay now. I must keep going” He replied with a resolve I’ve never seen in him. Something about Richard seemed so different. He wasn’t as silly, and he seemed more reserved than usual. You could tell he would laugh and joke for a moment, and then suddenly recurse his smile and return to that empty, blank stare, trying to understand his season of life. We’ve all had those stares. We’ve all had those moments.
Richard gave me his new WhatsApp information, wanting to stay more in touch than we did the last five years. However, it took me a really long time understanding his last name. With his accent, and the entire alphabet used in his surname, I couldn’t really make out exactly what he was saying. He bent down to the ground and, using his finger, wrote his name in the sand, “Kujanyemba”. It was such a still day, no wind nor dust to cover his work. It stayed there until I left. As far as I know, Richard’s name is still etched into the Earth.
Cosmas came in his work clothes, so I knew there was something that he was up to. I asked him, like I did everyone else, “what have you been up to?”.
“I repair electronics” he said with a very confident glow. He’d always been savvy with those sorts of devices, despite living in an area that is about two decades behind the developed world. It became, for him, a way to serve others.
“I love getting something broken and being able to fix it”.
Ironically, as he was pulling out his phone for a picture, it was shattered to pieces.
“Why don’t you fix that Cosmas?” I said, laughing at him.
“I just don’t have the time when I’m fixing everything else” he retorted, laughing all the while.
Cosmas was always a bit of a ladies’ man. He constantly talked about how beautiful the girls were five years ago, and continued the trend to this one. He wanted, borderline craved a picture with Shea and Jess, the “beautiful mzungu women you brought me”. I called them over, while every one of the boys was laughing.
Shea and Jess came over in their long modest dresses, looking more and more African as the week went on by. When they arrived in our boys circle, Cosmas began asking them all sorts of silly questions, jokingly saying he was going to marry one of them if they answered them all correctly. Shea and Jess, without missing a beat, played right along, making fun of Cosmas with every breath they took. I stood back and watched with the biggest smile on my face. It’s important who you bring on a trip, and these two matched the energy of Zambian humor to a tee. Unserious, bombastic, and brutal roasts were being thrown at each other left and right. I felt as if the work I intended to do was done. I made these two young women a part of a community across the world, the likes of which they would’ve never known if they didn’t take the leap. It was profoundly beautiful, despite the inherent silliness of the moment. Most seriousness is silly, and most silliness is quite serious.
At the end of their banter, Cosmas wanted to take a picture. They got together and Cosmas put his arms around the girls’ hips. Here, I thought he was maybe taking a bit of an advantage of the situation. I took the liberty of becoming his hand police, lifting his hand up to the appropriate spot so as it does not wander. If my “Moffat is a tree” joke was the killer punchline of my last trip, this was my shining comedic moment of this one. The group exploded in laughter, Cosmas blushed, Shea and Jess were laughing, and Richard took a horrible picture.
After lunch, we returned to the sanctuary for one last time of worship and a final message from yours truly. We piled into that concrete chapel and, with hearts filled to the brim in a way only fellowship can, we sang into the cloudless, afternoon sky. We were capture again by that rapturous presence of something divine. This time, we could even sing along, as they sang ayenera matamando as loud as a train arriving at the station. Our thrones were built, our temple sanctified, and it was beginning to become real that the song would never really leave our souls.
At the end, Moffat walked up and grabbed the metaphorical microphone (there was no electricity here, but you get the idea). “For my friends from America, I want to say thank you. It means so much to me that you would come all this way to be a part of our church, our community, our world. I want to sing you a final song in English so that we can properly worship together”.
Amazing moments come without warning. Wonder is spontaneous combustion. No real spark, no real kindling. Wonder is ex nihilio. Just an explosion of beauty that couldn’t be replicated, no matter how hard we may try. This was one of those moments. This was that eruption. And it will never happen again in this way.
Moffat started clapping a beat, and began to sing:
Who has the final say?
And the whole room blasted in reply:
Jehovah has the final say!
I’ve heard this song before during my time in Kenya. It’s a popular song throughout African ministries, although we would likely consider it a children’s song. Here though, the faith like a child is a road to true worship, as if they were freed from the tyranny of adulthood.
We repeated:
Who has the final say? Jehovah has the final say!
And then, my favorite part. We all sang:
Oh yes, he turned my life around, yes he turned my life around!
It’s so important here that you put your arms in a bent position beside your body and you rhythmically turn yourself around. Otherwise, how would you know that Jehovah, indeed, turned your life around?
Lastly, we ended with:
He makes a way where there is no way, Jehovah has the final say!
We sang that for what felt like a few mere seconds, but it was an eternity. I wish I was still singing it with them today.
I tried my hardest after that to give some sort of talk, as if I wasn’t just teleported into the heavenly realms by the multicultural song of the century. Take a moment and look up “Who has the final say” in google and click on it and try not to dance, cry, and sing along. It’s impossible, like licking your elbow or sneezing with your eyes open. Your body simply can’t compute. And I, after that glory, had to somehow talk again to these leaders about serving their communities well.
This talk was given around the parable of the persistent widow in Luke 18. Here, a mean, faithless judge receives testimony from a poor widow. The widow’s life was marked by suffering, she was weak, vulnerable, destitute. She had nothing and had no means to gain anything. This was her last effort of something. The judge constantly denied her. However, that didn’t stop her from returning, day after day, persistently asking the judge for clemency. Despite the judge’s hardened heart, he grants it to her, if only to shut her up.
I always asked about this story, “is God the mean, faithless judge?” That, of course, can’t be right. I believe that the nature of the parable isn’t symbolic character-wise but rather rests solely on the faith of the widow. All its meaning is implied within that. She knew if she just kept going, it was going to work out. If she just kept going, justice will be administered. It is our perception that God is a faithless, malevolent demiurge when we don’t get our way, because we are petulant children. We have all we need yet demand more and cry whenever it isn’t given. Becoming humble, vulnerable, open, weak, meek, and mild like the widow, and displaying a faith that defies whatever answer you may receive is the true goal of the Christian.
So, I asked the Zambian leaders, who, indeed, has the final say? Who, in fact, holds our future within their breath? Who spoke light and life into existence and consciousness? Should we have that power, we have all we may need. Prayers are answered not because of a script, a person’s “anointing”, and not because of favoritism. They are answered based on the knowledge that within God is everything and the faith to know that he is among us.
The last thing I told the Zambians underneath roof of the cement temple was this:
“You may say you don’t have much, but you have 1) a dedication to one another 2) a community of believers to encourage and support 3) the redeeming blood of Christ 4) the power of the Holy Spirit. Within those things is every good and perfect gift.”
At that, they rose from their seats and applauded, hooped, and hollered. I do not believe it was for me, at least I hope not. I believe it was, wholeheartedly, because of the faith that rose in their hearts and the newfound courage to ask, seek, and knock.
We returned home for one last rest before our departure. The crew began packing their belongings and tearing down the life they built here for the last 8 days. That seems dramatic, I know. But all wonderful things are worth the romance. Everything seemed to be felt with much more weight. Matamando’s daily Mario Kart battle with everyone, the prayer before dinner, the laughter at the day’s details, and the buzzing bugs outside our windows. It all felt fleeting. It felt suddenly very real that we had to leave. It’s a somber feeling.
As I laid my head back down to sleep one last time under the African moon, I was oddly reminded of a line from Winnie the Pooh. Quotes from movies and books stay with me like a nagging cold sore, and they pop up from time to time at just a moment for me to understand them well. It was like a lullaby that lulled me to sleep, if only for a little bit, and calmed by discontent at having to go. But, as Winnie says:
“How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
Day 9: Chikondi
It’s our last day. Our flight leaves at 9 pm tonight. We have loads of time to kill before we leave this continent that means so much to me and has meant the world to my crew. It was like any other morning, except with a little extra bittersweetness. We ate our toast, bacon, tomatoes, and eggs for breakfast and came up with a game plan for the day. We decided to wait until about 3 o’clock, head into Lusaka for one last meal and a peruse around and be at the airport around 6 because I’m one of THOSE people.
Derrick left early that morning for a meeting he had to go to that shouldn’t take too long. He came out of his room while we were eating breakfast dressed to the nines. “Why are you so fancy for just a meeting?” we were all thinking. But around here, ministers are like basketball coaches. Where some, less sophisticated people wear joggers and sneakers to minister to their congregation, the OGs dawn a suit and tie and yell with every ounce of passion and power they can muster.
So, here’s the real question. It takes everyone probably half an hour to get packed, cleaned up, and ready to head out the door. I run a tight ship, especially when it comes to travelling. I’m not late, I encourage everyone to pack light, and force everyone to run at my pace and keep up. If I annoy you, then that’s just because I’m better (these are jokes and not to be taken seriously). Anywho, if it takes us just a few minutes to get ready, what will we do with the REST of the day before lunch?
Everyone went about their own way. It was a perfect time for everyone to spread out, spend some time outside, and listen to the hum and sound of Chongwe town. Kids were heard shouting and playing ball, dogs were barking trying to trot along, birds were chirping trying to find a mate, and it was a perfect day to sit and wait.
We all took a beat and soaked it in one last time. We made a moment take a million years. We all took out a journal and attempted to write something down to capture our thoughts and feelings about just what this week has meant to us. A lot of these writings, from everyone in attendance, made up this monster of a series of blog posts.
It was here that I began to read Mungo Park’s memoir, Travels into the Interior of Africa, whose quotes have littered the beginnings of each of these posts. The way he suffered under the harsh rule of nature and how, despite his devastations, was met with beautiful hospitality and humanity showcases exactly how I have come to know Africa, especially Zambia.
Nowhere in the world have I met such remarkable people. It was here that gave me that first taste of overseas, intense international ministries. I had been to a few countries doing ministry before this, but it was here that gave me a real taste of destiny. It was here that gave me a taste for the unknown, the exotic, the foreign. It was here that I sunk my teeth into the philosophy of travel and allowed its hold to grip me tighter and tighter with each subsequent excursion.
Before we left, it was good that we got one last taste of Zambia, both in personality and performance. The personality of Zambia rests on this very real and contentious note (especially with us Americans) that they have no real concept of time, agenda, or punctuality. Zambia mopes about in a graceful nonchalance. It was around 2 pm, we were expecting Derrick to be back hours ago. He sends a text to Mercy saying most of the people haven’t even shown up yet, let alone them have worship, speak, pray, etc. “Oh he’ll just meet us there, not problem” you might ask. Well, here’s another task in front of us, the van can only carry so much luggage with us in it.
Derrick and Mercy devise a plan that gave me the strongest anxiety I’ve felt in years while they remained calm, collected, and sure. We will take the carry-ons now in the van with us while the large check in baggage can be picked up by Derrick whenever he meets us. Alright, so you’re telling me all of our luggage will be left behind and will only get to us if he 1) gets out of the meeting on time, which who knows when that’ll be 2) he gets to Lusaka on time so we can make it to the airport early enough to check in and 3) if he remembers at all. The shocking amount of variables, what ifs, and moving parts all around time stamps that rival music festivals was about to send me to the stratosphere.
With our carry-ons and emotions in tow, we decide to head off into Lusaka around 3 to catch an early dinner before we need to be at the airport. Every inch of that drive I was wracked with anxiety about our luggage. “It’s going to be okay” everyone continued to tell me. But they didn’t know that. Something could happen. Anything could happen. I’ve learned to calm my nerves a bit but sometimes, they just win.
We arrived at the East Park Mall, at virtual center circle for our trip as we began, continued, and are now ending our trip here. As always, it was bustling. People of all races, creeds, and backgrounds were meandering about, wasting the day away shopping for new clothes, books, groceries, or stopping for a bite to eat. We settled on a little more upscale option called the Olive Tree, which overlooked the University of Zambia. It was a quite spot with white floors, green upholstery, wicker accents, and an outdoor seating area. It was a little warmer that day so everywhere was going to make you sweat a bit. If you’ve never eaten a hot meal sweating your skin off, you haven’t lived. It’s the most uncomfortable, transcendent, primal experience a person can have.
We sit down in a large booth with my whole crew, Mercy, Chisomo, and Matamando, nestled away in a steamy corner of the restaurant. This was the moment I wanted at the end of the trip. All of us together, with the relationships we had built over the last week, enjoying simple company. The girls sat next to Chisomo, laughing and giggling about this and that, Mercy sitting next the Gena and Richard talking about “adult” things (lame), and I nestled in between in all, taking in the buzz of the booth.
I ordered a pepper steak in a cream sauce with mashed potatoes. Pepper steak is an African specialty, with a variety of sauces that can top it. I have had it before in South Africa and Kenya so I knew what I was getting myself into. Or at least, I thought. It came to me on a fajita plate, sizzling on the sides and the steak cut up into strips. Like most of Zambian cuisine, it doesn’t have too much to season it besides pepper. But boy did they pack that thing with it. It kicked, not only in temperature but in spice. The mash was perfect, creamy, soft, and delicious. Dip it in the hot cream pepper sauce? Perfection. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but it was a glad surprise.
While I was thinking about this meal, and all the philosophy I could garner from it (as I often do…remember a meal is never just a meal), Derrick walked in. All my anxiety was quelled the moment I saw his formal attire and his shiny bald head. He sat down, ordered some spicy chicken dish (which was INCREDIBLE by the way…), and we talked about next time.
After dinner, we went to a local market to just walk around, kill time, and enjoy the cloudless Zambian sky one last time. Chisomo, Shea, and Jess made bracelets at one booth, Richard and Gena surveyed the art, and Derrick and I continued to discuss what this trip meant to us all. Derrick reminded me just how significant it is that the church is unified as one body. We talked about what joy it is that all over the world, at any given time, we have brothers and sisters to call family. I’ve gotten to know Derrick very well over the course of five years. I’ve gotten to know his family, his congregation, and his home. The greatest joy of travel is not the stamp, the experience, or the location, but it is the ability to know someone else. Not only someone else, but someone else from somewhere else. Somewhere completely foreign to the way you live, think, breath, act, and operate. I used this day, our last remaining moments, to know Derrick and Mercy just a little bit more.
While we were chatting, Matamando came up in a frantic mania. “Papa! Papa!”.
“What is it son?” Derrick replied in worry.
“Can we get this?” Matamando asked with his puppy dog eyes, holding up a Rubiks cube.
“No, Matamando, you have enough toys” replied Derrick.
Matamando was stricken with such a dramatic depressive state that it deserved an Oscar. He hung his head down low and walked away, knowing he would have to put away his beloved. His sacrifice for his one and only desire allowed him to move forward in maturity, into manhood. He crucified his flesh, his hopes and dreams, for the cause of obedience.
Then Shea offered to pay the 5 bucks to get him a Rubiks cube. He’ll grow up some other day.
That was our last moment with Matamando, Chisomo, and Mercy. Their personalities woven within our final memories of this trip: Mercy’s inquisitive grace and delicate attention that she paid to every word I or anyone else said, Chisomo’s quest for beauty in this world and meaningful relationships that matter the most, and Matamando his quirky, silly, precious inner child that, hopefully, never really leaves. This is what was left of them when we arrived at the Lusaka airport.
Derrick helped us with our luggage. One by one, he placed on the ground the very thing I was so worried I wouldn’t get back. However, once I got it, I wanted to place it right back into the van. It’s hard saying goodbye on a trip like this. It was my dream to introduce people to the world and, for the first time, I had done it. It was a dream come true. But dreams must end, we all must wake up from the pleasantness of whatever world we got lost in. I began to open my eyes, once again, and returned to my waking, walking life as Pastor Jacob in Orange, Texas.
Epilogue: Who Has the Final Say?
In the small airport in Lusaka, the sun has set and our plane was ready to board when I got a message on WhatsApp. It was Richard, asking for the pictures that we took together with him, Moffat, and Cosmas. I obliged and he sent back a series of voice memos saying thank you for a whole minute in classic Zambian fashion. However, the last one ended with, “Jacob, I’d like to pose a challenge to you. Can you type out my full name?”. Remembering our long, funny conversation of me failing to spell and say his last name, I consulted Facebook (yes I cheated…whatever) and typed out “Richard Kujanyemba”.
“Did I spell it right?” I sent along with his name.
“Wow, that’s great. Maybe it is not you who have typed it mzungu” Richard messaged back.
“Who else would’ve typed it?” I playfully replied.
He then sent a voice memo that accused me of consulting all of my Zambian friends to figure out the spelling of Richard’s name in a grand conspiracy to make me seem more African. He giggled most of the way through the tale and dropped names of nearly everyone we came in contact with over the last week.
He then texted back,
“I appreciate you for spending time with me”.
That message nearly broke my heart. Within that one sentence was the sentiment of nearly every human on earth. We all crave human connection, and in an era of social media, processed friendship, and dating apps, we have lost the genuine, honest, authentic art of quality time. It is love in action. It is the cornerstone of human behavior. We inch further and further away from this moment of clarity, where we see someone’s face, hear them speak, and in joyous rapture, reply.
First, I want to point out the personal aspect of this message. It wasn’t “thank you for helping us,” or “can you wire us some money”, or “come back so you can give us more”. It was a moment of gratitude for a simple, sacred time. He was saying thank you for spending time with Richard. The bedrock of ministry trips like this is not the “work”. Oh, you helped build a school? Sorry to tell you but I bet you really didn’t help that much. Oh, you donated money to a cause? Awesome! That’s no reason to go visit. Oh, you dug water wells in Africa? Great! But who did you know? At the core is relationships. To walk someone else’s path, and to live someone else’s life. From that, you learn. You just can’t help it. You must question everything you think you know about life, meaning, God, others, the world, etc. It’s a side effect of travel, a prescription for ignorance and misunderstanding.
Secondly, I felt a stark paradox here. Richard lives a vastly different life than you and I. If you were to visit him, you would think he was poor or destitute. If you were to see his life you would assume he was uneducated, bored, depressed, or otherwise stricken by some sort of malady. However, his needs are the same as yours. Lives abroad are so shockingly different yet so eerily familiar. Furthermore, I believe he often gets those needs met more than you do. The Zambians I have met showcase a remarkable amount of purpose and confidence. Their devotion to God and community is something that is so intrinsic to the Christian life but missed in the American culture.
I had a friend recently ask a deceptively simple question. He asked, “Is it possible to be a Christian in America?”. I know what you may be thinking, “this is God’s country, you have to be a Christian to be American!”. Hold your horses there partner. In all our patriotism we miss our culture robbing us of our inherent needs and replacing them with processed, counterfeit joy. We are individualistic, greedy, personally ambitious, communally starving, lonely, and prideful. We bare our teeth at pastors that preach the gift of tithing, even though that goes to feeding the world, housing the homeless, and expanding the kingdom, yet spend countless dollars making girls on Only Fans millionaires. We demand people allow us to live the way we want to yet demand others bow down to our demands. We are more anxious, depressed, and lonely than any other generation previously studied yet don’t take any initiative to foster real, human relationships desiring, instead, Instagram followers.
There are people, when returning from Africa, that say “aren’t you so grateful for what you have?”. I think that is the most ridiculous question. If you asked that, you either haven’t been to Africa, didn’t form a relationship with a local, or were so calloused you didn’t get it. I’ve realized, being in Africa a few times now, that I am disgusted at what is at my disposal. I do not have to work. I do not have to really worry. My anxiety is about nothing. It’s fake. It’s an illusion. I have young adults approach me asking for prayer to find a boyfriend because they desperately want to be loved. I had people ask me for prayer in Zambia wanting rain. They are different human needs; I will not deny that in the least. Those that have very little often have much more than we give them credit. I refuse to resign myself to the “poor Africans living in squalor” mentality. These people have given me more wisdom than any sermon, any conference, any overblown showcase of spirituality I’ve seen in the states.
My time in Africa, and travelling in general, has allowed me to see the problems within my own culture. Of course, every culture is flawed because it involves humans. It will fail by default because of that. There’s plenty of things Africans can learn from Americans. In fact, that is why I return; to teach, impart knowledge, and share my experiences. In the end we find a few remarkable things. Though we are similar, we are wildly different. Though they may have different needs, and therefore present as “poor”, they are richer than we will ever be in many ways.
Zambia, I believe, will always be my African home. It’s the first place I went that truly seemed exotic, different, life changing. It has taught me more than any book, lecture, or experiment. It has been my dream to show others the whosoever that God so loved. That ambition will always be an unfinished project, a never-ending toil for me to achieve that dream. There are many more places, many more people, and endless lessons to learn. The work will never stop, the odyssey will never end. But it had a beginning. It was here, in the heart of the Dark Continent, where the romance of the intrepid found their long-awaited glory. It was here where everything for me seemed to click. It was here the world opened up like a treasure chest, and I found its gold being swept in the breeze of the Zambian wilds.