My Last Visit in Zambia

Our last week in the field was spent building a hen house. Of course, the men did the building and the ladies carried bricks and water. Women came from the village carrying corn, pumpkin, ground nuts (peanuts), and the pots to cook it all in.

We were introduced to the pastor. Like many of the small village churches the pastor was a woman who stepped up to fill an empty pulpit. God bless them, because it is a job no pastor would envy. There is constant loss, constant poverty, and no salary.

I was introduced to the village as Muyi Bussa, which means wife of the pastor. It is a term of respect that Maureen, our Zambian hostess, gave me last week. I was honored to receive my Zambian name from someone I respect so much. Maureen has become as close as a sister, and I am going to miss her very much. It will be hard to tell her goodbye.

We women carried bricks from the “oven” to the hen house. The bricks are made from giant ant hill dirt that has been abandoned. I would not want to meet the ants that made that hill. The women were carrying bricks on their heads, 2 at a time. Now, these bricks are big and heavy. I was amazed, so I asked to carry 2 on my head. The pastor told me just 1, but I told her I wanted 2 also. I made many trips with 2 bricks on my head. I could not get the balance to carry them with no hands, but it didn’t matter. The women began calling me Muyi Bussa. Names have meaning, some are earned and some are given because of birth order, or to show grief. A child born after the loss of a sibling may be called a name that means “sorrow.” A girl child who is born in the midst of brothers may be called Beenzu, “visitor.” A boy who is born after his sisters may be given the name Chimuka, it means “late.”

During our brick carrying time, I was handed a bright green stalk by an older woman who was showing me what to do with it. You bite into it and pull the tough outside off with your teeth. Then you chew what is left like bubble gum. It was sugar cane, and it was good. Unfortunately, I did not understand that you spit it out when the flavor is gone. I had little slivers of fibers in my throat the rest of the day. The other team members laughed at me. I’m so glad I could provide a little midday entertainment.

I also carried a jug of water on my head. We walked a pretty good distance to the closest water hole, a pond that was smelly and stagnant. I had second thoughts, but was not about to back out. One of the women gave me a chitenge that was coiled and placed on my head. The jug was placed on my head. At first, it was very heavy and I was so afraid I would drop it. Slowly, I began to get the hang of balancing it. I was even able to use only one hand just to balance it. We walked past a small building, like the size of my bathroom, that served as a bar. I heard the men inside laugh and say, “mukuwa.” This means white person. I started laughing and yelled, “I heard that.” The amazing thing was I did not drop the water while I laughed. Isn’t it sad to know that man can find a way to a bottle no matter how poor, or how small the community is? While those men drank, women were out trying to find food to feed their children and the man who spent what little they had on drink.

I watched an older woman sitting on the ground weaving a basket. I must admit, there is no way I could sit on a hard ground that long. Her crooked fingers moved swiftly, wrapping the dried grass around a reed or stalk of some kind. Through an interpreter, I asked her how long it takes to make a small basket. She said 3 days, if she does nothing else. What is the cost of all that labor? Less than $5.00.

As we prepared to leave, the pastor prayed for us and we prayed for them. Neither of us could understand the other. Somehow, when standing in God’s presence on behalf of the other, no interpretation was necessary. The spirit of heart language was understood loud and clear. God brought us together in the Holy Spirit and nothing else seemed to matter.