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August 24, 2008

The Bird that Sings for the Rain

I shoved Clint Eastwood away. A fire came into his eyes, and he struck me on the side of the head.

I felt something tapping my foot, and Clint’s face dissolved as I awoke to find Pastor John grinning at me through the mosquito net: “It’s 6 o’ clock – time for prayer!”

Disorientated, bleary-eyed, and a little relieved, I looked around me. Bodies everywhere...

Didier and Odile and their 4 children, and Seydou and I were scattered around the mud floor of Tasmakat church. The cool, damp morning air that follows a night-time storm hung through the open gaps of the doors and windows. The church members had sacrificially built and roofed the church, but not had the money to put doors and windows in.

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The night before, we had all hooked up our mosquito nets outside as usual, and bedded down for the night. But only a couple of hours later, a wind came up announcing the coming storm.

We hurriedly picked up our beds and moved into the church, looking for key points to hang our nets. But before we could bed down again, the rain came hurtling down, the strong wind whipping sheets of water through the open gaps. In a few moments, half the church floor was soaked, and a small group of white-skinned Christians were huddled laughing in the one corner of the church that remained relatively un-touched by the rain.

The rain turned to hail, and everyone hunted around desperately for a shirt, as the temperature dropped rapidly to cold.

Eventually the wind dropped, and everyone began again to look for a less-than-soaking spot to spend the rest of the night.

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Everyone was sleepy that day.

When telling the tale of our disturbed night to a Fulani friend, he said with humour:

“It’s your own fault! We Fulani have a proverb: ‘When the bird sings for the rain, it falls on his own head.’ You prayed for rain, so you can’t complain!”

Posted by Keith at August 24, 2008 06:44 PM