We visited Kainga today to observe their women's literacy class. When we arrived, a few women were seated on the ground in a shady spot under the sprawling branches of a tree. The teacher had not yet arrived.
The women told me they were preparing food and directed me to a nearby kitchen, three walls of mud brick and a straw roof. I sat on a low bench by an older woman seated on a small rock and leaning down with her face nearly touching the jumble of twigs underneath her blackened clay cooking pot. Smoke from the damp wood billowed around her head as she puffed a few breaths toward a little flame. POOF! The smoke stirred then wafted through small gaps in the straw roof. Soon the little twigs crackled as the fire leapt to life, encircling her pot, blackened from countless uses over open flames.
I watched as the woman dipped her fingers in a pot of water, then reached into a large tub just by it. With her fingers she scooped a small handful of the batter and patted it flat with her palms.The shallow well of cooking oil sizzled and popped as she dropped in each little round cake. With the eye of an expert, she turned and adjusted each. When she saw one that was crisp and golden brown, with a fork she gingerly lifted it from the boiling oil and placed it into an enamel bowl. I asked what the cakes were made of, and I was told maize flour, sugar, yeast, and water.
I was happy when I was invited to help. I had been watching for several minutes, and it looked easy. So, I was ready to begin with confidence. By now several children were squatting near us inside the little kitchen, and a little cluster of five or so women were standing just at the entrance, peering in to take in the action.
I dipped my fingers in the pot of water, just as I had seen my teacher do. Then, I reached into the batter and pulled up about a half cup portion of the dough and began to shape it. Looking good! I could tell the women behind me approved my first efforts. I leaned forward on my stool to drop the patty into the oil sizzling in the bottom of the pot, careful to not get my fingers too close to the boiling oil and not so far away that I would cause the oil to splatter.
That proved to be harder than it looked. So, my strategy was to lower my hands very near the oil and let the patty sort of roll off. In the seconds It took for me to think this through, the woman had already flipped and turned a few patties and formed another one. I knew I had better get cracking and do some productive work! I lowered my hands toward the pot and carefully let the dough fall, but what landed looked more like the state of Tennessee than a patty. The woman gave a little chuckle as she lifted a few golden brown ones into the bowl.
As I formed a few more, little by little, my technique improved, and my friends seemed pleased with my efforts. After about eight were made and still quite hot, they were broken into small chunks and distributed to all. Now that I had learned a recipe from them, they asked if I would teach them one of my recipes.
George and I have now been working in that village ,for one year. We have always felt welcome, but a shift is definitely taking place in this village, one we have prayed and believed God for.
Now, when I go visit, it is not just as their teacher, but as their friend. I realized that the women are now welcoming us, not just into their village, but into their lives. It is both a great responsibility and a great joy that God would call us to give His love to these precious people.
We are believing that God is opening hearts and preparing them to receive God's ultimate gift of love, His Son. Today, as we were preparing to leave the village, a woman came to me with her eyes moist with tears and said, "Thank you for the way you love us."
