A Layne Post

There they stood in the heat of mid-day, the four of them with broad smiles across their dark faces. Surprised, we only expected Pedro to lead the way to their home, we pulled off the road and loaded the two men up front and the two girls in the back. Anaya’s thumb went in her mouth as soon as the boisterous greetings began, and Jovie sat staring intently at the new faces in front of her. While they both know Pedro, it seemed they didn’t remember.

The drive to their house was short, though very bumpy. I braced myself by sticking one arm straight above my head pressed into the ceiling while using the other hand to try to keep Jovie’s head from bouncing from left to right in whiplash fashion. Our truck’s roof rack barely cleared the previous evening’s decorations, along with a laundry line we needed to pass. Two men held the line as high as they could above their heads, barely making the path possible. We unloaded from the car, Pedro’s brother, Albino, carrying Anaya into the yard and placing her in his lap. To our amazement, no tears ensued.

The whole family was there to meet us, all thirteen of them. Hands were grasped, kisses were given, and friendships quickly bonded. We were seated beneath the colorful and festive decorations from the previous night’s New Year’s Eve celebration. There were many colored balloons hanging from strings and shiny silver wrapped around trees. To her heart’s delight, Anaya was handed a balloon to play with.

The table was set with a lace tablecloth topped with their best dishes, glasses, and silverware. There were cold Cokes and Fantas ready to serve and six beautiful red pots with colorful flowers patterned on the sides, each filled with fresh warm delicacies. Food would be plentiful.

Straw mats were placed on the dirt ground beside the table for the women and children to sit and eat. However, I was a guest of honor and, not wanting to refuse the generous offer, a woman and her kids sat down at the table with the men.

Pedro’s daughter came around with a plastic basin and a pitcher of cool water, a towel draped over her arm. We washed our hands and dried them. Lunch could begin. We ate seasoned rice harvested from their farm, crab with potatoes in a wonderful curried sauce, and curried, buttered clams.

Anaya came to sit with Dada, rice and Coke being some of her favorites. She spotted a yellow balloon overhead and desire overtook her. With no hesitation, our hosts were quick to oblige her, cutting it down and placing it in her lap. It popped seconds later. She tired quickly of the table and hopped down to do her usual exploring as we continued our meal. Jovie made eating the unshelled crab a bit of a feat for me, as she wanted to get her hands on some. I overcame, with a bit of Jon’s help when he was finished. My pregnant belly sat full and content.

Conversation went around about the family, the farm, house construction, and old friends at the hospital. At one point Pedro grabbed his phone to call a boy at the hospital. He beamed as he told him we were with him right there at his home, and then handed the phone to Jon as to verify his claims.

Anaya found a duck and climbed through the fence to get closer. Before we knew it, she was in the neighbor’s yard, cautiously chasing the fearful duck. We gave warning to only look, not touch, and made sure the neighbor would not be upset.

When lunch had come to a close, the dishes were promptly cleared and out came bowls of freshly cut pineapple and roasted cashews, also harvested from their farm. It was some of the best pineapple I’ve ever had. I had to practice some restraint not to gobble up the entire bowl.

We spent some more time with the family, me sneaking away from the men’s table to appease Jovie, supervise Anaya, and join the women on the mats below. How casual and comfortable the afternoon passed. As the girls’ nap time approached, we said our ‘goodbyes’, everyone anxious to know when our family would return to Beira. Only the Lord knows but one thing is for sure, when we arrive, we will have friends to welcome us.

Lunch Together

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.