I loved seeing him again.
I have a distinct memory of standing against a rail at the hospital with him. We spoke about our families and what we hope to do for them and how we hope to protect and care for them. His honesty surprised me when he spoke about how little he respected the people he knew who were church-goers. I had just finished talking about the “church where I pray” (the term used here to identify what church you attend) and asked him if he prayed at any church back home. There was a harsh resignation in his voice when he told me that he used to but couldn’t reconcile the fact that when he and his family went for a week without anything to eat, neither the church nor its members offered anything. He didn’t seem angry, only tired of lies. He left that church and hadn’t returned. When I looked into his eyes I searched for any hint of accusation toward me for my church-going lifestyle. I could find none. He just smiled and looked at me and we kept talking about life, and moved on to talk about his farm and his family, two subjects he was very fond of.
Papa Zakaria loved his family.
I think that was the strongest pull I had to keep singling him out and talking to him about life.
So when he left the hospital after finishing his treatment and I promised I wanted to visit him in his home, I meant it. I really did want to see him the family he missed so dearly.
Months went by, we spoke on the phone, we sent text messages, and I kept hoping to see him there.
I loved seeing him again.
I almost didn’t recognize him. His hair has come back full-afro after being completely bald for 6 months of chemo. His smile hasn’t changed though, nor his firm, warmhearted handshake.
We hugged, we laughed and we sat under his mango tree. I had come alone, leaving my wife and kids in the borrowed house we were staying in while I drove around the city seeking out him and some others who lived deeper in some of the trackless bairros of Beira. He was so anxious for me to come back with my whole family. His wife and children were all visiting the doctor when I arrived having been battling malaria-like symptoms for the past few days. He assured me they would be home that afternoon but he wanted me to give him some time for them to feel better so our families could visit together.
We marked a time 3 days later and with a deep smile we parted.
I loved seeing him again.
My daughter, Anaya, perched safely and trustingly in his arms, he lead my family over, through, and around some mud/water puddles to his little home where his wife and 5 children waited. We offered small gifts to his family, sat together and smiled.
Our Families Under His Tree
What a joy.
Though his fear of chemo and cancer remain, his heart and legs are still strong. Though his faith in church wavered long ago, his faith in Christ remains to tether his soul to his King.
“I can’t die yet” he says with a smile, holding his son in his arms. “This one must have a father until he’s at least 18. Then I can die.”
When I look into his eyes as Papa Zakaria says that, I don’t see resentment, I don’t see fear, I don’t see hopelessness. I see only love. He loves his wife. He loves the son in his arms.
“They need a father. No… I can’t die yet.”
So under his mango tree we smile. We join hands in prayer, and we lift hearts and voices to our King and we hope. We hope his kids keep their father around for a while.
This is a good hope.
This is a good visit.