September 07, 2008
School lunch
Pastor Jean-Baptiste tells this story of when he was a teacher in a Christian school:
"There were two Muslim girls in my class. They were intelligent girls, but they would fall asleep in class. I called them to come and chat.
'Monsieur', they said, 'it is because we are hungry.'
I checked out and found there were 20 people in their families with hardly any food. I was given some money and bought their families five sacks of millet. I told them to use the millet for the whole family, but that there was one sack for each girl.
The father of one of the girls thought I wanted to marry her, and that was why I had given the food! I told him that it wasn't that, but that they were intelligent girls and I wanted them to come to school with a full stomach so they could study.
That girl became a Christian. Today she is the minister for Human Rights in the Burkina government. And she loves Jesus."
Our school is targetting the neediest children. We are already getting interest from local families - including two Christian Fulani families - who want to send their children to the school we are starting. For another glimpse of the importance of school meals, see Steve's story from 2004 of a Fulani boy at school.
Please pray as we try and find the funding and the best way to provide school meals for our new school pupils. Thank you.
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.
................................................................................
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.
..................................................................................
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!”
August 06, 2008
Your Sons and Daughters Will Prophesy
We were sitting on mats and rickety stick chairs under the stars. Rosalie was stirring the millet, cooking over an open fire, and Pastor John’s children were singing songs about Jesus.
John used to pastor a church of over 300 people. But he chose to leave, with his wife and children, to move to Tasmakat where there are no Christians, and where he has no support, because he believes God wants to use him to reach the Fulani here. His wife is completely supportive. His children, who have no toys or comforts, love Jesus, and are fun, respectful, and hard working. We commented on it, and John, who was obviously really pleased, told us the following story:
“We had been in Tasmakat several months. One day my children said ‘Papa, it is a long time since we had rice. Can we have some please?’ I told them I didn’t have any money to buy rice.
The next day I was going to Gorom-Gorom to see Pastor Daniel. Before I left, one of my children came and said ‘I had a dream last night, and I saw someone give you money to buy rice. But the money he gave you was more than the cost of a sack of rice.’ Another of my children came to me and said ‘I had a dream last night and saw you coming back home with a sheep.’
I told them. ‘You pray. I need to go to Gorom.’ We Africans don’t give much respect to children, and I just didn’t want to discourage them. But when I arrived at Gorom, Pastor Daniel handed me an envelope. He said it was from the national church’s internal mission programme, and they had just phoned him to tell him to give it to me. I opened the envelope, and there was 50,000cfa (£50) inside!
I bought a sack of rice, two sheep, some cooking oil, and some beans.
When I got home, my children were so happy, they spent the night laughing and singing.
And, in my heart, I too was laughing.”
December 28, 2007
I (nearly) get a wife
I was offered a wife this week.
One of my older Fulani friends had been concerned for some time that I don’t yet have a wife… especially given how old I am. He really wanted to help me, because I have apparently been so kind to him in the past. But he knew that I only want to marry a Christian. He has obviously given a lot of thought to this, and he said he sees that the way of Jesus is good.
So he came up with – to his mind, at least – the obvious solution: he offered to give his daughter to follow the way of Jesus, and to give her to me to marry.
A kind thought, but one I have had to – with agonising attempts at culturally-sensitive appreciation, combined with culturally-inappropriate directness – decline.
Nevertheless, it was an opportunity also to talk again about the way of Jesus, and to challenge him that, if the way of Jesus is as good as he sees, he should give himself to follow too.
September 13, 2007
The story of donkey, dog, and goat
Donkey, dog, and goat were heading off from Gorom-Gorom to Dori in a bush-taxi. Donkey paid and got into the bush-taxi. Goat said his uncle would pay when they got to Dori. Dog only had a 10,000cfa note, so he paid, and was told he would be given the right change when they got to Dori.
When they got to Dori, donkey and dog got down. Goat jumped down and ran off without paying, and the bush-taxi driver set off in pursuit, without giving dog his change.
And that is why today throughout Africa, whenever they see a car coming, goat runs away, dog chases the car to get his change, and donkey just stands and watches.
September 06, 2007
Men of a certain age...
The water was only knee-high, but I decided to take up the offer of having my motorbike carried through the current washing across the road at Saouga.
"How much?" I asked.
To my suprise, the young men answered "Oh, whatever you give us is fine."
The people of Saouga have the reputation of charging people heavily for carrying their motorbikes to escape Gorom-Gorom during the rainy season. They know there is often no alternative. So I was taken aback by this unexpected easy-going approach to money.
Nevertheless, I proceeded to wade through the river while my new friends put woods through the wheels of my bike and hauled it to their shouders.
When we got safely to the other side, they put the bike down, and I handed them a well-used note, which they received gladly. Sensing my surprise, one of them kindly explained:
"Si c'est un vieux, nous ne demandons pas de l'argent. Ce que on nous donne est bon."
("If it's an old man, we don't ask for money. What we are given is good.")
So that's it. It's because I am now old that their attitude has changed.
How kind.
Tags: burkina faso africa burkina travel motorbike
July 11, 2006
Osama bin Laden in Burkina Faso
The face of Osama bin Laden glared down at me from his camel, a kalashnikov gun in his hand.
Fortunately, he was only on the front of a t-shirt of a young boy, who was standing listening as I chatted at Gorom-Gorom market with some friends. Bin Laden is not physically in Burkina Faso, of course - in spite of the occasional local rumour he was hiding out it Deou, a remote market town north of Gorom-Gorom. However, t-shirts with his face are widespread - although not as widely seen now as in 2002. But what does this mean - does he really have so much support here?
"Ada anndi mo, naa?" I asked the boy. "Do you know who he is?"
"Samma Biladden" the boy replied knowledgably.
"Uh-huh, and who is he?"
The boy shrugged. No idea. I asked my friends, who also didn't know. I reminded them of the events of 9-11, which they had heard of on the radio, and they looked with renewed concern at the boy's t-shirt, the boy now squirming with the sudden attention directed at his chest.
"Robel mawdo!" I heard them say with alarm and awe. "He is a major bad guy!"
Wahhabiya Islam and a bit of dress sense
In the period after 9/11, ObL t-shirts were to be seen everywhere, worn around Gorom-Gorom and sold at the market, with ObL in various heroic poses. Like the boy I met, many people who have no idea who ObL is, and who certainly would not support his cause, were trotting round Gorom with his face adorning their chests. If you have no money to buy new clothes, and someone offers you a free t-shirt, what will you say...?
I can only imagine that someone with a lot of money had them made and shipped in, and then distributed or sold very cheaply through the network of Wahhabiya Muslims there. This is the Islamic sect to which ObL belongs. It doesn't imply that the Wahhabiya in Gorom support ObL of course, anymore than the Gorom church receiving t-shirts for distribution with David Beckham on should be seen as England football supporters.
The Wahhabiya are a Sunni sect, a more conservative, and revivalist group than the other Muslim sects in Gorom. (We have 4 altogether, including the Tijaniyya, the Ahmadiyya, and the Qadiriyya). However, the Wahhabiya in Gorom are generally peacable - certainly not extremist or terrorist. But they are fairly new arrivals in Gorom - in the last 10 years - and their particular form of Islam (traditional dress, rejection of the use of charms, way of praying etc) has set them apart and caused some tensions - even arguments - with the other sects.
They are not wealthy, but they do get money from somewhere - for example, to build their mosque (another cause for fall-out with the other Muslims, who claimed there should only be one "Friday mosque" in town). Maybe the same source provided the ObL t-shirts. Maybe they were surplus to requirement - after all, Wahhibiya Muslims don't generally wear t-shirts...
By their clothes shall you know them...?
In any case, most people wearing the t-shirts, like the boy at market, have no idea who ObL is. This is higlighted by this picture of a sweet young mother and friend of ours in Gorom. It might not be obvious, but she is wearing an Osama bin Laden t-shirt, and an Assemblies of God skirt - and with no idea what either of them are! Both were probably given to her.
Sometimes dress can tell you something about the person wearing the clothes. And - whether that is an ObL t-shirt, or a "hoody", that can initially be frightening. But sometimes the reason for what the person is wearing is not what we think, and we can wrongly judge them. Sometimes, the only way to find out is to get past our fear, and to get to know the person and their story.
Clothing doesn't last long here. The ObL t-shirts have by now mostly been worn too thin to last. They have been replaced by ones with President Blaise Compaore (after last year's elections), which will no doubt soon be supplanted by the cast-offs from this year's World Cup. Expect to see Zidane and Beckham and co in Gorom soon. But don't read too much into their popularity...
Tags: burkina burkina faso africa osama bin laden clothes islam wahibiya 9-11 hoodies
April 18, 2006
The two-legged pig
In Gorom-Gorom there is a two-legged pig. Its back legs are useless, but it manages to scurry around the streets every day, looking for food, its front legs going full-tilt, dragging its rear end behind it.
Apparently, the pig did once have four fully-functioning legs. But one day it got into a Fulani yard - maybe into the food even, and the Fulani gave the pig such a thrashing, its rear legs were permanently damaged.
The Fulani detest pigs.
Pigs then and now
When I first moved to Gorom-Gorom, most people there had never seen a pig. I remember some young men discovering a picture book of the story Jesus told of the Prodigal Son. There is a bit where the son has lost all his money and ends up taking a job feeding pigs - a situation as repellant for the Muslim Fulani as for the Jew. The story is a great parable of how, when we have made a mess of our lives, we can still come back to God. He is waiting to embrace us and welcome us back home.
In the book there is this picture of the son sitting disconsolately among the pigs. My friends were looking at the animals and trying to decide what they were - dogs? goats?
"No", I explained, "they are girooji - pigs."
They were intrigued, and they looked more intently at the picture.
"Ohhh! Is that what pigs look like...?"
Today, many pigs roam the streets of Gorom-Gorom, brought to the area and bred by people of other tribes and regions who have come to Gorom for work. They are seen bathing in the mud outside people's latrines, or in the ponds where the cows come to drink - much to the disgust of the Fulani. The pig is unclean - both literally, and religiously - for the Fulani. Finding it with its snout in your cooking pot might well put you off your dinner, but if you were a Fulani, it could drive you, well, to beat the hind legs off it.
The Fulani really don't like pigs.
To market, to market...
Once I was with my friend John at Gorom-Gorom cattle market. We were dressed in local clothes, and, partially hidden by our turbans and robes, went un-noticed by the tourists wandering around in their shorts and t-shirts, sweaty pink flesh exposed for all to see, oblivious to how inappropriately they were dressed.
Suddenly John nudged me, and pointed. There was a decidedly overweight tourist, sweat staining his shorts and t-shirt. Across the front of his t-shirt was a banking logo and advert. In large letters, right across his chest, was the word "GIRO".
Fortunately for him perhaps, he couldn't have realised that "giro" is the Fulani word for pig...
Tags: africa burkina burkina faso travel pigs sahel fulani
March 04, 2006
In memory of Muusa
I followed Muusa's older brother Boureima, the village leader, past the sheep to the millet-stalk shelter, where he placed a low, wobbly stool outside the entrance. I perched precariously on it, conscious of the sun beating down on my head, and peered inside. The cool shade of the shelter looked dark in comparison to the glaring sun outside. On either end of the traditional Fulani bed, perched like bookends, were two older Fulani women, Muusa's mother and mother-in-law. Behind them, stretched out on the bed, and half-hidden by one of the bookends, I could just make out the shape of the lower half of Muusa's widow Jelika, with their two-month old girl lying by.
'Salaam aleykum,' I greeted them.
We went on to ask after each other's health, family, children and village. Then there was a pause.
'Mi nani kibaaru Muusa,' I said. (I heard the sad news about Muusa)
I spoke about how I had been looking forward to seeing him again, and how the news of his death had shocked and saddened me.
*
I had first come to know the people of Yengerento years earlier, and we had often visited each other. Whenever we visited they would welcome us, often killing a goat in our honour. They listened attentively whenever I shared the message of Christ, and were always respectful and interested, but they continued diligently in their Muslim prayers five times a day. It was Muusa who seemed most interested, and he used to come regularly to Gorom to visit us. After a few years he prayed to give his life to Christ. He couldn't read, and being the only believer, twenty-five miles from the nearest Christian, was hard for him. He was nervous about sharing his faith with his family. They saw him come to meetings in Gorom, and Fulani Christian gatherings elsewhere, but they never bothered him about it.
Slowly Muusa was growing in faith and becoming part of our little family of Fulani Christians in Gorom. He got on particularly well with Yusufi and Hamadou. In 2003 we went to Yengerento at the villagers' invitation to spend three days preaching the gospel and showing the 'Jesus' film. That was my last time in the village.
During my time in Britain last year I heard that Muusa was ill, but it was a shock when I got to Gorom to hear that he had died.
*
I tried to encourage the women with the assurance that Muusa's life was safe in God's hands. The older women in return, with Fulani stoicism, said that's the way life is and when your time has come, there's nothing you can do about it. 'Crying does no good - it was the will of God.' Jelika just lay silently, almost invisble, in the background. Finally I gave them the little present that I had bought for Muusa and his family - a shirt, some toiletries, some children's clothes and a toy dog. I added a bit of money to help with feeding the children, and then I followed Boureima back past the sheep to where the men of the village were drinking tea.
Muusa left eight children. Seven were his own: Aisetu, Hamsetu, Amadou, Ibra, Oumarou, Mariama and Hajata. The eighth was his grandchild, whose parents had both died: Aissa. Now Boureima, with six of his own children, would have responsibility for an extra nine people. He seemed unfazed by the challenge. As he said, 'Muusa did well; he sowed a lot of seed.'
Shortly before we left, for the twenty-five miles back to Gorom-Gorom, four-year old Mariama came out to say goodbye. She was dressed in one of the children's outfits with the toy dog tied on her back like a baby.
Tags: africa burkina burkina faso gorom-gorom travel fulani death sahel
December 14, 2005
Gut-ache and grain stores
“Hey, tubaaku, umma! Yuwoonde wari!”
I sat up groggily and looked around me. It was the middle of the night, but the stars had disappeared in a thick blackness. The wind was whipping up unrelenting clouds of dust, announcing what Yero had just called out:
“Hey, white man, get up! The rain’s here!”
I watched blearily as, buffeted by the wind, he opened the tiny 2 ft square hatch to the granary. The granary (you can just see it in the background in the photo) was like a little thatched hut on stilts, about 5ft in diameter. He invited me to clamber in. I blinked, not quite understanding what was going on, but scrambled through, and Yero followed me.
Of course. His small hut had a leaky roof, and there was just enough room for his wife and kids to shelter. But the granary had to have a good roof to protect the precious remainder of last year’s harvest from the weather. So we settled in and tried to make ourselves comfortable in the dark amongst the millet. In the silence, with the hatch open, we felt more than watched the rain suddenly thunder down, attacking and pounding the dry earth. It was a good feeling, knowing that our work in the fields the last few days had not been for nothing. If the rains continued like this for a few more weeks, Yero and his family would have food for another year.
I had come from Gorom-Gorom to spend just two weeks with Yero. I’d been there about a year, and my progress in learning Fulfulde, the language of the Fulani , had reached a plateau. I needed a short time of total immersion to give it another boost. A nearby missionary was teaching Yero the way of Christ, and had suggested this might be a good place to come for a couple of weeks. Yero had become a Christian, but had been forced to leave his village because of his faith. He had set up a hut by his field just outside the village, and sometimes men would stop by when passing. Some came to berate him for abandoning God. Others obviously wanted to stay friends, risking the wrath of the local imam for associating with the apostate Yero. Yero had learned the basics of reading, and we were reading together through Luke - almost the only New Testament portion we had in Fulfulde at that time. The idea was that this would help his reading and his understanding of the way of Jesus, while I was force-fed a daily diet of undistilled Fulfulde.
Yero was captivated by reading the story and teaching of Christ in his own language, and it was thrilling to see him amazed by accounts which I had become almost inured to through over-familiarity. The challenge of Jesus’ words came afresh as I saw again what it must be like to hear them for the first time – the provocative and deliberate challenge to the complacent self-satisfied religion of those who considered themselves God’s chosen. How we need that challenge afresh in our lives…
Yero’s favourite bit was 6:27-42. Whenever someone stopped by, he would read that passage: “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you.” And he would do it. Those who had mocked and rejected him, he would welcome, and give them food and tea.
I enjoyed most of my time there – apart from two days of agonising gut-cramps, which had me doubled up on my mat in the shade under the acacias. Occasionally I would let out a grunt of pain, to the great amusement of Yero and his wife. The Fulani take pride in their "pulaaku", never expressing pain or discomfort, and I heard Yero’s wife laughingly telling her friends that the white man had been “crying with agony!”
It was only two short weeks, camped out with Yero and his family by his field. But I learned a lot in that short time – not only about Fulfulde and Fulani culture, but also about weakness and dependence as part of the shape of our ministry of the gospel. Too often we go with an arrogant, even colonialist attitude, imagining ourselves saviours rather than servants. We go thinking only of what we can give or teach, rather than what we ourselves might need to learn. We have the idea it is our strengths that God will use, rather than our weaknesses. Yet the gospel is cross-shaped – expressed in weakness, service, and suffering. And its treasure is in jars of clay that need to be broken for it to be released. The cross is not just to be announced, it is also to wound our own lives.
A couple of years ago, I went back to visit Yero and his family. He is one of the strongest Christians among several Fulani believers in the area now. They reminded me about my time there all those years ago. They still laugh at me “crying with pain”, and at Yero getting me to climb into the granary in the middle of the night. I know I myself met with God there, in my weakness. I know I learned from Christ through the life and response of a new Muslim convert. I hope and believe Yero was blessed too by our time together. But I know that if he was, it wasn’t because of my brilliant preaching or powerful ministry. I didn't have any of that to give.
All I had to offer was the willingness to have gut ache, be laughed at, and spend a night in a granary.
Tags: burkina faso africa stories burkina fulani bible fulfulde pulaaku ministry mission missionary
December 01, 2005
Jaynebu's Story
The second time we found the bag of human excrement outside our door we knew someone was doing magic against us.
I went to a Moodibo (Muslim religious teacher) for help. He said I had to pay him 500 cfa (£0.50) to help. I paid him. He handed me a pen and instructed me to think hard of the thing that was troubling me and then to spit on the pen, hand it to him and he would reveal the problem to me. I did as he said. He then told me that I was very sick. I said “No, that’s not the problem”. He then said that for him to further help I needed to bring him 24 white kola nuts and 24 red kola nuts. It was the year 2001. In that year kola nuts were very expensive, even a small one was 50 cfa (£0.05) I went home and did the calculations. It would cost 2400 cfa. I could not afford it.
Continue reading "Jaynebu's Story"
November 09, 2005
One faith, one baptism…two wives…? (Part 2)
In part 1, I began to tell the story of Yusuf’s struggle to get baptised, and the hesitation of his pastor because of his denomination’s opposition to baptising polygamists.
Several interesting comments were made, generally agreeing that theologically there is no reason why Yusuf should not be baptised. But the issue we faced was how to do that. For Suley to do it would be to dishonour and disobey his leaders. For me to do it would be to undermine the authority of the local church which I am there to serve in Burkina Faso. And to suggest Yusuf goes elsewhere to get baptised assumes the presence of another denomination, an awareness that Yusuf did not possess of such options, and an individualism that is more western than Biblical or African.
The story continues…
In fact, there was another church in the area, and this denomination took the attitude that men with more than one wife could indeed be baptised, without having to send any of them away. They could not of course take any further wives. But they would have to continue to provide for all their wives. (It is interesting to see the proscription in Exodus 21:10 : “If he marries another woman, he must not deprive the first one of her food, clothing and marital rights...”)
Pastor Suley agreed that the best solution would be to approach pastor Pierre of the other church, and suggest that Yusuf join his church.
I don’t know how many church leaders would be so generous and selfless as to actually suggest that a valuable member of their church should join another church because it would be better for their spiritual growth….?
Pastor Pierre, a Mossi like Suley, was very welcoming. Sitting under the mat shelter in the church yard, a pot of Fulani tea bubbling away in the corner, I translated as he interviewed Yusuf about his faith. Pierre thought he could find someone in the church to translate the Sunday messages into the Fulani language for Yusuf. And he asked me to lead Yusuf through the baptism classes.
Yusuf started coming to the new church, a challenge in itself. The Mossi and Fulani have very different cultures, and a history of conflict and mutual distrust (I wrote about some of these issues here). Often, after a church service, Yusuf and I would sit for ages, discussing why things were done the way they were, and looking at the Bible together. With Pierre and Suley’s agreement, I started a mid-week cell group for the Fulani from both churches, where they could worship and develop an understanding of their faith within Fulani culture. On Thursdays Yusuf would walk into town from his village for the main market, and in the evenings we would meet with the little group. Often Muslim Fulani friends would join us too, as they became interested in the story of Jesus. Yusuf would stay the night with me, and in the morning he would head back to his wives and children. But on Sundays, he would come in again to the Mossi church service, and more discussion afterwards.
The day and night of Yusuf’s baptism was one of the highlights of my life. Read about it here.
Back in his village over the following months, Yusuf worked out how to live out his faith as the only Christian in his village. Little by little he shared what he had found with his family and his neighbours. When I visited him, it was great to hear him telling Fulani parables to his visitors, drawing them in as he asked them questions about the meaning, and leading them to the truths of the gospel from within their own culture. I resisted teaching him the “4 Spiritual Laws” approach to evangelism, as I saw the good news being told among the Fulani more effectively than I would ever be able to.
And then one market day several months later, he and his wives and children all came to town and stayed the night with us. Gently Yusuf told us that he thought his wives were interested in following Christ, and would we interview them please? Hawa clearly had more understanding of the message of Christ than Salimata, but they had both seen the change in Yusuf’s life, and that the way of Jesus was good. They were nervous about the consequences, but both decided they wanted to follow the way their husband had chosen. That day Hawa and Salimata both prayed to give their lives to follow Christ, and to receive life in his name.
Another new beginning, and the story continues. Please pray for Yusuf, Hawa, and Salimata as they seek to live for Christ as ambassadors for the kingdom of God among their neighbours and community. Officially, as a man with more than one wife, Yusuf can never be a church elder. But in practice, he is the most mature believer in a large area, and effectively the founder of the church in his village. In the meantime we look for the day when both his wives also choose to take the step of following Christ through the waters of baptism.
Tags: burkina faso africa polygamy burkina fulani church baptism mission
October 20, 2005
One faith, one baptism.... two wives...? (Part 1)
The pastor wouldn't baptise Yusuf. What should I do now?
To be fair, pastor Suley wanted to baptise Yusuf, but his denomination in Burkina Faso wouldn't baptise polygamists. They insisted that only the first wife was truly the man's wife, and that he should get rid of any subsequent ones.
No-one questioned the reality of Yusuf's faith. He used to be a religious teacher in Islam, and could actually read and understand the Quran in Arabic. He had seen how highly the Quran spoke of Isa al-Masih, ibn Mariyama - Jesus the Messiah, son of Mary, and had discussed with teachers of the "Jesus way" over a period of time. Finally, he came to pray and receive forgiveness in the name of this same Jesus the first Fulani Christian in his village.
I say finally, but that was the start of a long period of discipleship. He testified that straight away he saw changes in his life - he no longer got angry the way he used to, and his character changed as he became a calmer man. But he also had a lifetime's worldview, teaching, and practices to sift through, to see what from his previous life he should retain, and what should change. Since there was no church in his village, could he continue to pray at the mosque, but in the name of Jesus? Could he fast with everyone else during the month of Ramadan? And what about Tabaski, when the Muslims killed sheep in memory of Abraham offering up his son, who was saved by the sheep provided by God? Could he kill a sheep too, in thanks for that event's prophetic fulfilment in Christ's death? Islam and the Quran, he said, had helped him develop a love of God, and had led him towards Christ - what should he think of that now?
So many questions.
He was unfazed by being the only follower of Jesus in his village. He was the head of his household, and a hard worker, whose fields generally gave a good harvest, so he was not dependant on anyone. He read the Bible on his own, switching between Fulfulde and Arabic to check more accurately the meaning. Not everyone understood why he had decided to follow this way, and there were some who ridiculed him. But he was patient and calm, and answered when people asked him. And little by little he tried to explain the Jesus way to his two wives.
Funnily enough, he hadn't even intended to take two wives. He loved his first wife, Hawa, and they had moved some years before to another village to be near a charismatic Islamic teacher who had started a new sect. Yusuf had got disillusioned and had returned home, but Hawa had decided to stay. So, when Yusuf arrived back home, he took another wife, Salimata. Then Hawa came back too. He loved them both, and did his best to treat them both the same, even buying them the same sets of clothes.
When he could, he would walk into the nearest town on Sunday to go to church. Whenever he came, pastor Suley would try and find someone to translate everything into Fulfulde for him. And whenever he could, Suley would get his 50cc moped and head out across the fields and dunes to visit Yusuf. They had no language in common, but they developed a friendship. As Yusuf grew in faith and read his Bible, he started to ask about getting baptised. That's when Suley came to see me to explain that his leaders wouldn't allow him to baptise Yusuf unless he got rid of Salimata. What should we do?
Interestingly, the Bible doesn't actually make such a big deal of polygamy. Yes, it is clear that "one man, one wife" is God's plan for marriage from the beginning, and is the reflection of the relationship between Christ and his one bride, the church. This is the solid foundation for society, and in fact, most polygamous marriages I know have endless problems of arguments, favouritism, and manipulation.
And so, a qualification of eldership is that they have only one wife, unpholding and modelling this good basis of society. And yet, the very fact that that is a qualification for eldership indicates that there must have been other Christians in the 1st century church with more than one wife. They are nowhere told to get rid of any of their wives - they are simply disqualified from eldership. On the other hand, divorce is clearly frowned upon, and to get rid of a wife would have been to bring shame upon her, and maybe to leave her destitute.
Pastor Suley agreed with me that it wouldn't be right to tell Yusuf to send Salimata away. But he also didn't feel it was right to go against his leaders by baptising Yusuf. What then should he do...?
To be continued....
Tags: burkina faso africa polygamy burkina fulani church baptism mission
October 03, 2005
Prepare for a long walk
"By one o’clock, the sun is indeed hammering our heads, and the landscape glares like an overexposed photograph. My water bottle is empty. The others, incredibly, have just one small water bottle between them.
“Diallo, is there a pump ahead?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Not far,” says Diallo. When a Fulani man says “not far”, prepare for a long walk."
(From Steve's latest article published inthe Sunday Times.)
I was once travelling to a Fulani village on my motorbike. I'd only recently bought the bike, and it was my first time on such a sandy route. I now love biking through such terrain and over the sand dunes, but that first time I was very nervous. I had also rashly picked up a hitch-hiker on the way. The bike was sliding all over the place in the sand, and I could feel my travelling companion was getting tense, wondering what he had let himself in for. I was hoping I was almost there, so I stopped on the way to ask a Fulani herder if it was far. Predictable response: "It's not far now."
Trying to get more precise information, I tentatively asked if he knew how many kilometres - expecting that a Fulani "duroowo" would not know the measures. I was surprised
"It's only four kilometres," he replied with confidence.
With renewed courage I pressed on for four more kilometres. And four more. And four more... After 20 km of nervous sliding, we finally arrived at our destination, and I deposited my hitch-hiker. He seemed relieved that he had actually arrived in one piece, without being thrown in the sand by the "tubaaku", who clearly had no idea how to ride a motorbike.
Twenty kilometres... our herder friend's estimate had actually been one-fifth of the real distance. That seems to be a fair estimate of the Fulani perception of distance. If a Fulani tells you how far something is, multiply it by 5.
Now, of course, that perception is largely to do with them being used to walking long distances behind their cattle, as Steve discovered. One Fulani Christian I know used to walk 40km each way, every weekend, just to get to church. (Would you...?) But their mathematics of the distance is interesting. My own theory about that has to do with the way they count money...
The smallest coin in Burkina Faso is the 5cfa coin, which is known in Fulfulde as "mbuudu wooturu" or "one coin". From the days before the Fulani started to learn to read, they could not decipher the numbers on the coin, so money was calculated in mulitples of the "mbuudu wooturu". Thus, 50cfa is "sappo" - "ten". And so on. Transfer that to distance, and Amadu is your uncle.
So, when you come to Burkina, be prepared. That journey, or that nice Fulani blanket you want to buy, may be five times more than you think it is going to be!
Tags: burkina faso africa travel burkina fulani
April 05, 2005
Jesus in the mosque
"Bismillah!" The imam stepped back to welcome me into the mosque.
I had gone on one of my 'walkabouts'. On these occasions, I set off to wander around town with no particular plan, just to see whom I might meet, and to share the story of Jesus with those who want to listen.
Although I was by now a familiar sight to locals, visitors from outside villages were often surprised to see a tubaaku, a white man, dressed in the long Muslim robe topped by the ubiquitous turban, ambling round the dusty streets of this small Sahelian town. At times like this, I would often get called into people's homes. Sometimes it would be people who had seen me around or heard me preaching at the market, but who had been too timid to come and talk to me in front of the crowds. Sometimes it would be people with sick children, asking for prayer. Sometimes it would just be the hospitable invitation to an outsider or a friend.
I had been passing the mosque, and the imam was standing in the doorway.
"A salaam aleykum!" I called out in greeting.
"Wa-aleykum a salaam!" he replied. I approached, we shook hands, and we went through the normal greeting sequence, asking after each other's health and family.
"Toy njaata?" (Where are you going?) he asked.
"I'm just off to talk with people about the story of ennabi Iisaa Almasiihu." Fulani Muslims know of ennabi Iisaa Almasiihu, the prophet Jesus Christ, and his Injil (gospel) from the Quran, and hold him in high esteem.
The imam welcomed me into the mosque. I kicked off my sandals at the door, and went in.
Continue reading "Jesus in the mosque"
February 03, 2005
A witness for Christ
"Bring the child here," said Ali, and the boy's mother led him submissively to sit in the dust before us. He had been suffering with bad headaches for some time, and was unable to sleep. She knew Ali was a man who knew the Quran, and had asked Ali if he could heal the boy.
I first met Ali a few weeks before. He called to me as I was passing by his sewing machine at the market, and asked me to come and see him. When I visited him, he explained the dream he'd had of a shining white figure, holding out his arms to him. We read the description of Jesus at the start of the book of Revelation, and Ali recognised the man from his dream. Over the following weeks we had begun reading the Bible together. Ali was keen to know more about this Jesus, of whom the Quran spoke so highly, and who had now appeared to him personally. But he was a respected older Muslim in the tight community of this small Fulani town in West Africa, and had not yet decided what he was going to do about it.
He reached out his hand and gently placed his thumb and one finger on the boy's forehead. He began quietly reciting verses in Arabic, pausing occasionally to spit lightly on the boy's head. When he had finished, he sat back: "Bismillah!" he said, indicating that I too should pray. So I too laid my hand on the boy's head, and prayed in Fulfulde for healing in the name of Jesus. When I had finished, the boy got up and went back to his mother, and Ali and I continued our discussion.
The next day, Ali told me the boy was healed.
Ali and I continued to meet, and finally he confessed his faith in Christ. But Ali was reluctant to identify himself publicly as a Christian. He knew the cost would be high, that people would not understand, and he would lose the friendships and influence he had. So he continued to read the Bible, to pray in the name of Jesus, and to go to the mosque. But now, when his Muslim neighbours came to him to ask him for religious or spiritual advice, he would start in the Quran, and lead on to the Injil - the Gospel - one of the holy books of Islam.
I have no doubt of the genuineness of Ali's faith in Christ. I have no doubt too, that if he publicly confessed Christ, he would suffer as a result. If he were able to stand, and integrate into the Mossi church there, I am sure he would grow firmer in his faith. But that presents its own challenges - and he would also lose his opportunities to share Christ among his neighbours. I have laid it all out before him. He knows the choices and the consequences, and has made his decision - for now - about how to work it out.
Please pray for my friend Ali, that God will continue to lead and strengthen him. His story raises many questions. But above all, I'd like us to see that Christ is continuing to reach out in love to the many Muslims who love God. And our response should be one of love, friendship, and encouragement as they seek Him.
Tags: burkina faso africa emerging church burkina church fulani mission church and culture
January 23, 2005
Fulani Friends
Taking a small gift of tea, sugar, and peanuts, we went back yesterday to see our new Fulani friends from the abbatoir. We met Sido, and he took us to the house he shares with a handful of other Fulani young men from different parts of West Africa. The atmosphere, so typical for a young men's house in a West African capital, was a different world from Fulani life in Gorom-Gorom.
The tv was on, with energetically choreographed music videos from the Ivory Coast. Young women were shaking various parts of their anatomy enthusiastically and provocatively in time to the beat, and the sound kept creeping up a notch or two. I suspected the gospel might have a problem competing for my friends' attention, so I went with the flow.
Across the distraction of the wiggling ladies, we discussed the recent "tabaski" festival (they had celebrated by killing a goat, and distributing some of the meat to poor neighbours), the African youth football championship (Benin's chances are not good to win), local dress fashion (Fulani in Cotonou don't wear turbans, which are seen as typical of those from Mali and Burkina), local islamic religious leaders (considered less knowledgeable than those further north), and other everyday topics.
Shortly before we left, I asked them to turn the tv off for a while, and the room went mercifully quiet. I thanked them for making me so welcome, and told them how glad I was that I had met Fulani here in Cotonou. Then I asked if I could tell them some good news from God, and they leant forward intently. The message of Christ is good news for all people. The story of the prodigal son reveals a God who welcomes back we who have wandered away from him and made a mess of things. He is the Father who, when we "come to our senses" and head home, runs out and throws his arms around us.
The tv forgotten, their attention was fixed on the story of Jesus. Muslims know and honour Jesus, and they know that all of us are in need of God's grace. That is part of our common ground. But God's promise of forgiveness and new life in Christ is still largely unknown to them after 2000 years. It is kept from them more by our own apathy and distortion of "Christianity" than by their own lack of interest.
I don't know how much Sido and friends truly grasped in the short time we had together, but please pray that light may shine in their hearts to give them a glimpse of God's desire to bless them through Jesus Christ our Lord.
January 18, 2005
Living letters
After an hour of dodging the crowd of cars and motorcycles on the main road out of Cotonou, we finally turned off the tarmac road onto the dusty dirt road heading towards the village. 20 bouncy minutes later we pulled up at a village school, closed due to the teachers' strike for better pay. But among the mango trees, from a small structure of corrugated iron sheets over a simple wooden frame, came the tapping sounds of a stick on board followed by the murmur of responsive voices.
A dozen or so men and women, gathered in small groups around school desks, were watching Olivier as he pointed with his stick to the combinations of letters they had been learning, and they read them out:
Tap: "at!"
Tap: "it!"
Tap: "an!"
Tap: "in!"
Tap-tap "atin!".
One of the older women giggled as she recognised the word she had just read: "Tree!"
The class is in the Fon language. Each week the teacher writes "nukplonkplon enegoo" ("Class four") at the top of the blackboard, and some of the class recognise even the longer word already, and point it out and read it when they see it.
While the school teachers are on strike asking - reasonably enough perhaps - for more pay, Olivier and Theodore from the local church and trained by Mercy Ships, are offering their service as volunteers. The students are supposed to contribute, but few manage to come up with the 5p/week required.
The class splits into groups and they help each other out: young women laughing, with babies on their backs; older women, frowning with concentration at the unfamiliar symbols; and the young men, more at ease, and eager to show their knowledge by helping those who are struggling.
Literacy in Benin is about 41%. The inability to read or write is linked to poverty and disempowerment. When asked about their reasons for wanting to learn to read and write, responses from the class vary: to be able to help their children with their schooling; to get knowledge; to avoid ridicule; to find a job...
But most often people just say they want to be able to read the Bible - and above all to read it in their own language.
January 17, 2005
Cows, Prophets, and Story-telling
We arrived this morning at Cotonou's main abbatoir, where Jacob's friends are working. Immediately several Fulani men surrounded us in anticipation that we were there to buy a bull for the forthcoming "tabaski" festival.
The initial surprise at the white man dressed in Fulani robes and turban soon gave way to amused banter in Fulfulde, as they realised I spoke their language. A crowd gathered, some peppering me with questions about where I came from, while others were eager to show me their animals, in the hope of an early sale. Each time I spoke to answer a question, admire a bull, or compare the animals with my own cattle back in Burkina Faso, the babble would quieten for a few moments, and then start again with renewed vigour.
After looking at the cattle for a while, we were invited by Jacob's friend Sido to come aside and sit and drink tea and chat for a while. A smart Land Cruiser pulled up, and some of the men dashed off to try their luck with the new arrivals, while a handful of others came and crouched in the dust to chat, still with one eye on the haggling going on across the road.
Conversation soon turned to the forthcoming "tabaski" festival, that honours Abraham, one of Islam's greatest prophets. Tabaski remembers Abraham offering up his son to God in sacrifice, and God's provision of a ram in his place. It is one of many places where Christianity and Islam find common ground. Although there are differences in the details of the Biblical and Quranic versions, the basic story is the same. Many of the men were hazy on the origin of the festival, so I told them the story, drawing out how it reveals God's initiative in saving humanity through a sacrifice that he himself provides. The story of course illustrates our own need of salvation, which God has provided in the sacrifice of Christ.
The conversation continued animatedly for a while as we talked about the frustration of religious practise that couldn't free us from sin. But I soon realised that this was not the best place to talk, as the men would soon be distracted by their need to get back to work. So they invited me to come back another day, when they have more time to sit and talk.
Before heading home, we went to visit a nearby Fulani family, where we were welcomed with milk fresh from the cow. One of the young men there was from near Djibo in Burkina Faso. He had come to Benin two years ago to look for work, and had heard nothing of his family since. Nor had he found work. He was glad to hear the little news of Djibo I was able to give him.
The other man there was called Nuuhu (Noah), and this led to more story-telling, this time about God's grace and salvation revealed to the prophet Nuuhu. Before heading home, I prayed for God's blessing on the family, and everyone offered a hearty "Amen" at the end.
It has been such a joy to be back among the Fulani, sharing the good news of Jesus again, and a relief to find I haven't forgotten all my fulfulde. Please remember to pray for the Fulani, that God would open their hearts to the story of his love and salvation for them in Jesus Christ. And please pray that God helps me as I share this good news with them in the coming days. Thank you.
December 23, 2004
Church in a multicultural society 1.
The first time I took Ibrahim to church, I realised it was a mistake.
Ibrahim is Fulani, and a Muslim. He is a tailor at the local market, and was one of my first friends in Gorom. As I began to learn the language, I would go and sit with him to drink tea and try out my new phrases. As his friends came and started chatting, I would sit precariously on the wobbly wooden bench by his old foot-powered sewing machine, frowning with concentration as I tried to make out something of the banter.
“Aan ka, a doomuru” suddenly exclaimed one guy, who had been watching me. I understood enough to know he was calling me a mouse, but didn’t know why. He imitated me sitting there silently, head switching side to side, as I followed the different speakers, and everyone cracked up laughing.
As my Fulfulde began to improve, they started to ask me about the way of Jesus, and I struggled to find words to express my faith. They would then reply with Fulfulde proverbs, at which everyone but me nodded with understanding. Or with local Muslim wisdom, which assumed so much cultural background that I had no idea where to begin to respond. The good-humoured discussions rambled on over several months.
So one day, I invited Ibrahim to church. Since there were no Fulani Christians, we went to the Mossi church. The Mossi are the main people group in Burkina, and the church has grown quite dramatically among them. They are a cheerful, colourful and friendly people, and they worship God exhuberantly, with drums, loud praying and singing, and sometimes even dancing. I don’t think they had ever seen a Fulani in church before. Ibrahim walked self-consciously into church in his long Muslim robe, and his turban, with every eye following us as we headed towards the only free spaces, right near the front.
As the service got under way, I began to realise that this was going to be a challenge. Ibrahim didn’t understand either French or Mossi, and no-one was available to translate into Fulfulde. The singing, shouting, and dancing were all so alien to Ibrahim, for whom worship is a solemn affair. Drums for the Fulani are for either worldly celebrations, or “spirit festivals.” It must have been all quite bewildering – nothing he could recognise as worship or prayer, nothing he could hear as good news, nothing he could relate to culturally, but rather an emotional and noisy Mossi jamboree. They were worshipping God well enough, but for a Fulani, it was just confusing.
I did my best to explain what was going on, and Ibrahim looked around, without judging, but without illumination. He spotted the guy from the post-office, a guy who Ibrahim respects as honest and upright. But after the service no-one came to talk to him. The Mossi Christians felt uncomfortable. They didn’t speak Ibrahim’s language, and wouldn’t know what to say to him anyway.
During the following weeks, Ibrahim’s friends criticised him, and made fun of him for going to church – did he want to become a Mossi? And for a while, he backed off. But he has remained a good friend. We have continued to talk about faith and the way of God. But I haven’t taken him back to the church. We have continued to chat at his sewing machine, or at one of our homes. But I realise that taking him to church was not going to help him spiritually, even if God was in the house. Other ways of introducing him and his friends to Jesus and his family would have to be considered.
Coming back to Britain, I see the situation is not so different. We also live in a multi-cultural society. And the culture of our church meetings is often completely foreign to those living around where we live. Britain today seems a much more spiritually open place than 15 years ago. But our church meetings are maybe not always the place where street youth, clubbers, refugees, or post-modern intellectuals will meet Jesus in a way they can relate to. Maybe they are not always places where everyone finds the expression of spirituality and community that their own hearts respond to. We may be worshipping God well enough, but it can leave others feeling like an outsider at someone else’s party.
We too need to think about how we should be church in a way that focuses not only on our own worship, but also on mission so that others can meet and celebrate God, find the blessing of his kingdom, and become part of his family, without necessarily having to become exactly like us.
Part two is here
Tags: burkina faso africa emerging church burkina church fulani mission church and culture
December 01, 2004
Cowboys and engines
Layya appeared early in the morning, carrying his stick and looking worried.
“Eere oole is still missing”
Eere oole is the first cow I bought at Gorom market. She was not much more than a bag of bones at the time, and very bad tempered too. She was a real “bush” cow, not used to being tied up at home. But Layya had assured me that in spite of her gauntness, she was essentially in good health, just hungry. And that’s the way it turned out. As we fed her up, she began to look better, though we still had to be wary of her long horns when trying to milk her.
It was a good move buying a cow. Suddenly I shot up in Fulani estimation. Now my friends would greet me as usual: “How are you? How is your health? How is your family?” And then they would add: “And how is Eere oole?”
