|Dave pulled the car to a stop right here.|
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Why is it that sometimes you remember where you were when a certain event happened?
I still carry a picture in my mind of something that occurred a few hours after Dave and I settled the teachers at the hospital (or at home, for those not injured).
It was a Monday. We had fallen into bed around 1:30 that morning. The alarm went off at 6, and an hour and a half later we set out for the office.
Dave and I were still reeling from the teachers’ accident, Bridget’s grave condition, and our near carjacking. Still a bit stunned. Only beginning to process it all.
Now, even before the teachers’ accident, my stress level had already been soaring high. For several months, I had been burning the candle at both ends. At the office I had a full time job, and at home I had an enormous workload, too. It’s a long story, but let me just say it this way: A lot is expected of missionary women.
And the stress level was growing higher:
For several days, protesters in Nairobi had been throwing rocks, shouting, rioting.
And the stress level climbed yet higher:
That morning, Dave drove to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport to pick up our pastor and two friends from Port Angeles, Washington.
On their way back, they stopped at the office to pick me up and go home for lunch.
I still remember standing at that spot in the picture I showed you last week, and watching the car roll to a stop.
I remember opening the car door, and the wind ruffling my hair, and trying to see through it to smile and say, “Welcome to Nairobi!”
Why would I remember that moment?
Because turmoil churned within my being.
Oh, don’t get me wrong: I was delighted to have those special friends visit us—Pastor Mike, George, and Vern—loved ones from home.
I groaned to think they’d arrived during disturbances—demonstrations, commotion, turmoil, unrest. Across Africa, numerous civil wars had started with such doings. Would this happen now in Nairobi? I felt a need to protect our house guests, to shield them, to keep them from being frightened.
But the worst part—the part that made me most miserable as I climbed into the car—was this: I hadn’t put clean sheets or pillows on the men’s beds by the time they arrived.
And I had a long grocery list.
You see, I had originally planned to take care of those things the day before, the day we helped the teachers.
Now, if you know me, you know that being unprepared for guests was a huge blunder.
I had really messed up.
In my own eyes, I was negligent, guilty. I had failed to do my duties. I had failed our friends.
And that’s why I still remember that moment in that spot at the office parking lot—I remember the dark sensations that swirled around me, the pain of failure, of disappointment in myself.
We drove the men home and showed them their rooms, apologizing that they were not ready yet.
I was in a panic about what to fix for lunch, since I hadn’t gotten to the grocery store, but somehow I threw something together—I have no idea what it was; it was all a blur at the time. (Mind you, fast food joints were few and far between, and going to a restaurant was out of the question due to cost and time.) The five of us gathered around our dining room table, set with nice cloth napkins and napkin rings, and we visited while we ate. Somehow, God had helped me pull it off.
After lunch, we suggested the men unpack and rest—Dave and I knew all too well how exhausting the trip is from Seattle to Nairobi—and the two of us returned to the office for the afternoon.
It’s a blur as to how and when we got the men’s beds made up, but we did.
If they noticed my lack of readiness, they didn’t let on—bless their hearts—but I still felt bad. I had never treated guests that way.
What could I have done differently?
What would you have done?
Next time: more wackiness
Thursday, February 27, 2014
I have a vivid picture in my mind of what happened soon after we settled the teachers at the hospital (or at home, for those not injured).
It was Monday morning, and Dave and I were back at the office.
That day, and those that followed, would have big challenges—altogether unrelated to the teachers’ accident.
Before I get into that, though, would you like to see where I worked? It was a heavenly location, one that always blessed my heart.
A Kenyan organization, BTL (Bible Translation and Literacy) owns the compound and, since our people work closely with BTL, they leased office space to us.
I’ll always remember the first time I saw the place.
Dave and I had just arrived in Nairobi, Kenya. We’d lost two nights of sleep and then endured all the stresses and mysteries of entering a foreign country: filling out forms and more forms, standing in lines, herding through checkpoints, handing over cash, undergoing searches, answering questions.
Thank God for Paul who picked us up at the airport.
One the drive from the airport into Nairobi—traveling in the left lane, thanks to the Brits—we passed a few shops and businesses, some shiny like new, others patched and rickety.
The highway had no paved shoulders, only orange dirt littered with thousands of plastic shopping bags. Pedestrians and goats walked alongside speeding traffic.
We passed piles of burning trash that filled the air with a foul odor. Enormous old trucks and buses spewed black exhaust, adding to the air’s stench. The fumes burned my nose, and I could feel my chest tighten.
Within minutes, we entered the busy city of Nairobi, cloaked in blossom-covered trees, dense green shrubs, and tropical flowers—red, yellow, purple, and orange—lavish beauty in the midst of trash and polluted air.
Paul maneuvered the van through thick, aggressive traffic. I held my breath while he battled his way into a congested traffic circle, and around—clockwise, mind you.
Unruffled, Paul steered the van out of the traffic circle and onto a narrow, quiet lane lined with towering eucalyptus trees. Within seconds, he pulled up to a wrought iron gate with stone pillars on each side, and a blue-uniformed man stepped out of a narrow wooden guardhouse.
He swung the gate open and this is what we saw:
Paul pulled in, we slid open the van doors, climbed down, and—stepped into springtime. Dappled sunshine filtered through tall old trees, and the temperature felt about seventy degrees. After wild city traffic, noise, and exhaust, this place was a hushed haven.
|Looking from opposite direction: my office is to the left.|
I looked around at three charming stone buildings reminiscent of old British structures, three stories each, with quaint, small-paned windows and ginger-colored tile roofs.
Tropical gardens teemed with bright colors and textures—Bird of Paradise, lantana, begonias, rosemary, ferns, violets, marguerite daisies, banana trees, fig trees, hibiscus, and the grand centerpiece—lofty old palm trees in the center loop.
The Garden of Eden could’ve looked any prettier. (from Chapter 1, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)
Next week I’ll tell you about climbing into a vehicle that Monday morning, right there at our office complex and, in doing so, sallying forth into a new array of complexities.
Thanks to Jim O. Anderson for letting me use his photo.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
“They danced around us as if we were a Maypole.…” remembers Lisa Harper.
Her lifelong dream had come true: She was on a trip to Kenya.
In her Bible study, Malachi, she writes of being wowed by landscapes and animals, but….
“But eclipsing both the scenery and the wildlife were the beautiful hearts of the African women.…”
“They welcomed our group with the kind of affectionate hugs usually reserved for soldiers returning home from a long war.”
The ladies’ profuse, unrestrained welcome blew Lisa away.
So did their extreme generosity:
“Every time we sat down to eat, they joyfully served us meat. Which in African households usually means they rung the neck of their one and only chicken that they’d been fattening up for months for a special occasion. It was humbling to realize that we were their special occasion.”
My heart raced when I read Lisa’s words: I remember when I found myself in the same situation.
It happened in the Taita Hills. A family killed a chicken and cooked it for my husband, Dave, and me, even though they could rarely afford to eat meat themselves.
It didn’t seem right: We didn’t need the nutrition! They did!
In a year of crop failure, they shared with us what they had.
The people owned next to nothing:
They wore tattered shoes,
had no electricity or running water,
couldn’t afford medicine or vitamins or dental appointments,
and might not eat meat for weeks or months at a time.
Those dear people had too little to eat day after day, week after week, month after month,
yet they killed a chicken and cooked it for us!
And they gave us the biggest pieces!
It seemed so wrong, so unnecessary for them to make such a radical sacrifice for us.
But by God’s grace, He prompted us to notice their delight in giving—their enormous grins and nervous giggles—and He prompted us to accept their gifts.
We did so with profound thanks,
and with wrenching humility.
Those dear ones were living, walking, talking, joy-filled examples of God’s sacrificial heart.
Overwhelmed by their kindness, I wanted to weep.
May God bless them abundantly in return for their sacrifices on our behalf.
(from Chapter 3, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)
Related post: Charity upside down, http://www.grandmaslettersfromafrica.blogspot.com/2010/10/charity-upside-down.html
Related post: Charity upside down, http://www.grandmaslettersfromafrica.blogspot.com/2010/10/charity-upside-down.html
Thursday, February 13, 2014
What happened to those innocent, unsuspecting people
in the car behind us?
“Gunfire leads to crash,” the headlines shouted. “Three perish in highway robbery.”
That’s what I read in the newspaper after returning to Nairobi. (If you missed earlier blog posts, see links below.)
A brief recap:
We were hurrying north to Chogoria to help a vanload of our school’s teachers—one of them critically injured—after a bus rear-ended them.
We were 45 minutes into the trip when Karen said, “Look, an accident just happened! Dust is still swirling in the air!”
From my passenger’s seat on the left side, I spotted a white car lodged in a ditch to the left.
Between it and our car, a man—clutching an assault rifle—charged toward me.
For a sickening second or two, he and I made eye contact. I’ll never forget those eyes: determined, heartless, fierce.
And he kept lunging toward us, every stride closer, boots stirring up dust.
I yelled at Karen, “Keep driving!”
And she did.
We sped down that rural road in silence—hearts racing, stunned—trying to grasp what had just happened and the way God had protected us.
Then another though hit us: Would that gunman have held up the car behind us?
What happened to those innocent, unsuspecting people in the car behind us? The road had curved so we could no longer see that stretch of tarmac.
We were heartsick, wondering .…
Well, the newspaper article answered our questions.
Three people died when four gangsters, driving a stolen white car—the one we saw in the left ditch—shot up a pickup in front of my husband, Dave (driving a vehicle ahead of us), killing two passengers. Officials suspected the truck transported drugs.
The truck driver had lost control and veered off the road to the right, killing a pedestrian. It happened only seconds before we got there, but we were around a curve in the road and didn’t see it happen.
I can’t explain why Karen and I didn’t notice the accident to the right when we drove by it. Instead, we were looking at the car on the left—and at the thug with the assault rifle.
Maybe we didn’t notice because God miraculously diverted our attention to the left.
Part of the article still makes me shudder. It confirmed what Karen and I feared: The gangster stopped a car behind us at gunpoint and fled.
That man who charged us,
that man with the assault rifle,
that man just ten feet away,
that man who looked me in the eye—
that man intended to carjack us!
God’s fingerprints were all over everything!
God must have known that if we’d looked right instead of left, we’d have slowed down and wouldn’t have seen the gangster until he was in front of us with his weapon aimed at our heads.
But, by God’s split-second grace, Karen kept driving and the gangster changed his mind. Instead, he stopped the car behind us instead.
We had witnessed, with our own eyes, God at work—in the midst of violence, He had kept us safe.
He also protected the people in the car behind us—no doubt they were terrified, no doubt their car was gone forever, but they were not killed.
That’s reason to bow down and give thanks! (from Chapter 22, Grandma's Letters from Africa)
Words you never want to hear, sights you never want to see
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Bridget needed to get to England immediately for proper care;
she’d received grave injuries.
But we couldn’t get her to Nairobi, let alone to England.
Kenya was one of the most developed African countries,
and the capital, Nairobi, was a world-class city,
yet people there could find neither an ambulance nor a helicopter
that could accommodate stretchers.
Dave offered to drive Bridget in his van but the doctor said
she’d never survive the long drive over bumpy roads.
If we couldn’t get Bridget out in a helicopter or a plane,
and if she wouldn’t survive the long drive in our van—
would Bridget just die there in Chogoria?
All of us were stunned, heartsick.
We were powerless to do anything—anything, that is, except pray. And we did.
I don’t know how long we paced the hospital hallways, numb, troubled, desperate—it was probably a couple of hours.
Then the impossible happened.
The hospital got word that someone in Nairobi had arranged for a German AmRef doctor to fly up on a Kenya Wildlife helicopter large enough to transport a stretcher.
We would have to wait for their arrival, but at least they were on their way! Oh, the joy we all felt!
If ever there was a time to sing a doxology, that was it. “Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow!”
Doctors tended to the wounded until after 5:00 pm.
Meanwhile, for two hours we stood on an enormous field adjoining the hospital—Dave, Karen, doctors, interns, nurses, staff, and a couple of teachers who were healthy enough to stand—to await the helicopter. Over fifteen hundred local people gathered to see the tin bird land in a cloud of orange dust but they didn’t seem to understand the danger of standing too close, so we were on crowd control duty.
A hush fell when the hospital staff wheeled Bridget, and later Shelley, across the red dirt field. We watched in silence as each teacher was lifted into the helicopter and strapped in. All fifteen hundred of us seemed to collectively hold our breath and, I’m sure, just about that many prayers rose to heaven.
When the helicopter lifted off, I had mixed emotions. I felt sad about the ladies’ injuries but delighted and thankful for the German doctor and the Kenya Wildlife helicopter. God had enabled someone back in Nairobi—a blessed someone—to find them both and bring about what had seemed impossible only a few hours earlier.
We watched the helicopter as long as we could, then slowly, quietly, we gathered the remaining teachers for our drive back to Nairobi.
Do you remember that dear Scottish doctor—the one who, along with his wife, had fed and found lodging for several of our teachers? Well, that dear man bought us soft drinks for the trip. We tried to pay for them but he wouldn’t let us.
It was a current-day reenactment of Matthew 25:35-40. Our teachers had been hungry, thirsty, sick, and strangers in need of housing, and the good doctor stepped forward. “And the King will say, ‘When you did these things for one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it for me!’”
We drove out of Chogoria half an hour before sunset. Since we’d be dropping teachers off at their homes, we knew our return trip would take four hours.
That meant we’d travel three and a half hours in the dark—and everyone knew that horrific crimes happened after dark. Only fools or those with emergencies went out after dark.
That meant we would have to trust God rather than daylight to get us home safely.
I tried to stifle my panic.
The remaining teachers—stitched, bandaged, and medicated—traveled back to Nairobi with Dave except for Pierce and his wife, Carma, who rode with Karen and me. They sat in the back, very quiet. We sensed their need for privacy and processing and recovering. Actually, we, too, needed to be still and catch our breath. It had been quite a day.
A couple hours into the trip, Karen and I knew we’d drive by the spot of the near-carjacking and we whispered back and forth.
|Pierce and Carma|
That caught Pierce and Carma’s attention. They sensed something wasn’t quite right and they were curious. Karen and I knew instinctively, however, that we didn’t want them to know what had happened to us—who knows what news of another traumatic event could do to them?—so we stopped whispering.
A few minutes later, though, coming around a corner, we recognized the spot. “This is it,” we whispered, and shuddered.
Karen and I dropped them off at home and we pulled into our place about nine-thirty. Dave got home at 1:00 am.
Dave had delivered the teachers to their homes except for Jan. He checked her into the hospital and then got an update on the two who flew down, Bridget and Shelley.
Even though Bridget had needed to fly to England, by the time she landed in Nairobi her internal injuries were so critical that they took her directly into emergency surgery.
Shelley was admitted to intensive care with head and neck injuries.
The other teachers—bruised, patched up, and shaken—had returned home to begin their recoveries.
God had brought all of us home safely!
We fell into bed in the wee hours of the morning with hearts deeply troubled—we didn’t know if Bridget would survive the night—yet grateful for God’s presence, love, and care. (from Chapter 22, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)
C’mon back next time for the newspaper’s account of our near-carjacking.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
“I must have blacked out when the matatu hit us because I remember waking up,” said the West Nairobi School second grade teacher.
“And I remember thinking that Shelley, Jan, and Bridget were dead.”
“I remember someone yelling, Get out! Get out! But I was trying to pull my purse from under the seat because that’s where my passport was—and you never want to lose your passport.”
You see, only weeks before, Leanna (and Bridget, too) had been evacuated from Zaire during a violent uprising and from that experience Leanna knew—even in her dazed state—the importance of always keeping a grip on her passport.
“Then I remember thinking, Maybe they’re yelling at us to get out because the van could explode. (I’d watched too much TV, I guess.)
“I remember the ride to the hospital in the back of that Land Cruiser. The matatu’s driver was with us because he’d hit his head in the crash. He kept talking, apologizing, and that upset some of the others. I started singing, ‘Jesus Loves Me.’ Looking back now, some of this seems a bit bizarre, but I was probably in shock.
“At some point I knew Bridget was alive because she was blinking—blindly, but blinking.”
The next morning when Dave, Karen, and I arrived at the rural hospital in Chogoria, all the teachers were still alive.
But the news we got astounded us—stunned us, scared us—and we were in for a long, agony-filled wait:
The doctors had told us, “Bridget needs to fly to England immediately for proper care—she has suffered grave injuries.”
But we couldn’t get her to Nairobi, let alone to England: People back in Nairobi could find neither an ambulance nor a helicopter that could accommodate stretchers.
Kenya was one of the most developed African countries, and the capital, Nairobi, was a world-class city, yet people there could find neither an ambulance nor a helicopter that could accommodate stretchers.
Dave offered to drive Bridget in his van but the doctor said she’d never survive the long drive over bumpy roads. My heart nearly failed me.
If we couldn’t get Bridget out in a helicopter or a plane, and if she wouldn’t survive the long drive in our van over bumpy roads—would Bridget just die there in Chogoria? It was beginning to dawn on us: Bridget was in a life-or-death situation.
We felt so helpless, so powerless.
I could think of nothing to do, absolutely nothing.
I could pray, though, and I did. Nevertheless, from my human perspective, I could see no way to get Bridget out of Chogoria.
Small groups of us gathered, whispering, in the hospital’s hushed hallways. We walked around as if in a dream—or, rather, a nightmare.
But mixed with the horror and pain, we saw God’s fingerprints again: Leanna told about the extra care they received from the Scottish doctor and his wife the previous evening: They took the teachers not admitted to the hospital and checked them into the guesthouse, then fed them soup they’d made for their own dinner. Leanna remembers, “The doctor made us drink strong tea with sugar in it to prevent delayed shock.”
|Jan (see last week's post) and Karen in teachers' skit|
The hospital staff, so kind and helpful, recognized everyone’s agony and fears for Bridget. They recognized that Dave, Karen, and I, though not in the accident, showed signs of being dazed and bewildered. I remember someone on the staff helped us find something, somewhere, for lunch and, later, when the time seemed appropriate, they talked with Dave about each teacher’s bills and how to cover them.
All the while, I was becoming more fretful about our need—or at least my wish—to get back on the road by 3 p.m. to avoid well-known evils lurking after dark. That morning’s brush with a gangster carjacker kept replaying through my mind—especially the few moments his eyes locked with mine—and I could feel a panic beginning to grip me: I did not want to drive home in the dark! Mixed together with my angst, I knew God was able to interpret my silent gasps and sighs and groanings and pleadings. I knew He knew my racing heart.
All of us, in our own ways, prayed unceasingly for Bridget, Shelley, the doctors, and for those in Nairobi searching for a helicopter or ambulance that could transport a stretcher.
Meanwhile, 3 p.m. came and went. That meant we wouldn’t get back to Nairobi in the daylight. My heart sank.
Then the impossible happened. (from Chapter 22, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)
Come back next week to learn what happened next.
Leanna: Looking for a closed door
Thursday, January 23, 2014
We braced ourselves—we didn’t know what to expect when, after three hours, Dave, Karen, and I pulled in at the small, tidy Chogoria hospital.
We’d spent more than 12 hours agonizing over our wounded teachers, wondering about their conditions—physically, emotionally, and mentally. Finally we’d arrived and were about to find out.
We felt so inadequate compared the enormity of the situation, and still shaken by escaping—by only four or five seconds—a violent carjacking. Soon we’d learn that event was just the beginning of the evidence that God’s fingerprints were all over everything.
The good folks at the PCEA (Presbyterian Church of East Africa) hospital gave us a hearty welcome. The staff included a young Canadian doctor and his wife, three interns from the United States, an Egyptian doctor, a dear gentleman from England, and a kind, helpful Kenyan staff.
They said that if our teachers had to have an accident outside of Nairobi, they chose the best place because Chogoria’s hospital is the finest of those upcountry (in other words, in a rural area). God had left his fingerprints all over that, too.
The teachers were eager for our arrival. A couple of them met us in the corridor and began filling us in. They were shaken, and one seemed disoriented, but they had only minor injuries.
We would have to wait, though, for reports on the two most seriously injured, Bridget and Shelley.
The teachers said their van was traveling downhill along a steep, zigzagging road when a matatu (a mid-size heavy bus), packed with passengers, lost its brakes and crashed into the left back corner of the school van.
The bus shoved the van down the rest of the hill, curves and all, across a short bridge at the lowest spot—with a drop-off of a couple hundred feet on one side—and part way up the hill on other side.
Read that again. Imagine the impact, the force, of that matatu crashing into the teachers’ van and propelling it not only all the way down the winding hill but part way up the other side!
The van’s driver, a teacher named Pierce, steered for the matatu because it had attached itself to the van. God’s fingerprints no doubt smudged that steering wheel, don’t you think?
Doctors and police told us that the teachers’ van, and especially Pierce, saved the lives of both the matatu passengers and our teachers.
They must have suspected we didn’t grasp the enormity of what Pierce had done. They wanted us to understand: Every accident on that stretch of road—and there had been many—resulted in fatalities, except for this one.
That’s staggering: Every accident had resulted in fatalities—except for this one. God’s fingerprints.…
Matatus in Kenya have their own names painted on them and the name on this one was from Psalm 23, “The Lord is My Shepherd.” I marveled at those words’ appropriateness:
God had shepherded passengers
in both vehicles
as they hurled through the valley
of the shadow of death.
Wow. We were beginning to reel as we realized all God had been doing on behalf of our teachers and many Kenyans as well.
While listening to these accounts, always in the backs of our minds we worried about Bridget and Shelley. How were they? What was happening to them? But the staff had no information for us. We had to wait.
Gathered in the hospital’s hushed halls, teachers told us story after story with God's fingerprints all over them:
People in a Toyota Land Cruiser had stopped and pulled out the wounded—some unconscious, others in and out of consciousness—and crammed them into their vehicle. Imagine all those broken people packed in the Land Cruiser!
Those Good Samaritans said, “We are Christians. Don’t worry about your possessions. We’ll collect them for you,” and they drove to the PCEA mission hospital only eight minutes away—yet another of God’s provisions.
The matatu’s passengers remained stranded at the accident scene. They built a fire and sat around it all night singing hymns and praying for the injured—they knew the teachers, with Pierce at the wheel, had saved their lives. In the morning, a number of them made their way to the hospital to pray for the teachers.
By midday, I began to stress about our return trip to Nairobi: We always avoided traveling after dark because of bad road conditions and carjackings—and that morning’s close call intensified my eagerness to get home by sunset. That meant we’d have to start driving by 3 p.m., but everything moved slowly in the hospital.
The teachers’ van had been hauled to a wrecking yard so, while waiting for news on Bridget and Shelley, we drove over to inspect the van and take pictures.
… And to tremble at the sight.
… And to shudder at the imaginings of what happened inside that van.
… And to quake at what might have happened, but didn’t: Before the trip, Karen debated whether to go. Early that morning she’d told me, “I know there’s room for me—I can sit where I always sit, in the back with Jan and Bridget—but I just don’t know if I want to go.”
When the doorbell rang at six-thirty that morning, she told the others she’d decided not to go.
|A page from my scrapbook|
So there in the wrecking yard, we looked at the left rear seat where Bridget had sat—and marveled that she could have survived. We looked at the space beside her where Karen would have sat. There was no doubt about it: She, too, would have been severely wounded.
Jan had sat in the right back corner which didn't take the direct impact; it received less damage and Jan had fewer injuries than Bridget. Several times that day, Jan said, “I’m so glad Karen didn’t come! She would have sat between Bridget and me and would have been badly injured!” It shook me up to think what could have happened to my Karen. I could only thank God over and over and over again.
Back at the hospital, we learned that Shelley received head and neck injuries, but she’d recover.
Bridget, on the other hand, received the most severe injuries: a broken pelvis on both sides, a shattered hip joint, and damage to internal organs.
Can you imagine what she must have felt when those people pulled her out of the crumpled van and loaded her into their Land Cruiser? I nearly fainted to think of it.
Doctors said Bridget needed to fly to England immediately for proper care—she’d suffered grave injuries—
… but we couldn’t get her to Nairobi, let alone to England: People back in Nairobi could find neither an ambulance nor a helicopter that could accommodate stretchers.
Seriously? People in the capital city could find neither an ambulance nor a helicopter that could accommodate stretchers?
How could that be?
We were dumbfounded.
We offered to drive Bridget in our van but the doctor said she’d never survive the long drive over bumpy roads. My heart nearly failed me.
All of a sudden we couldn’t spot God’s fingerprints any more.
What were we to do? We racked our brains but we could think of nothing.
I could pray, though, and I did. Nevertheless, from my human perspective, I could see no way to get Bridget out of Chogoria. (from Chapter 22, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)
Come back next time for more of this story.