Babu

This morning at church the service was packed. I usually sit to the right where many of my friends sit. But the room was full, and needing two seats for myself and my special guy, I sat in the empty back row. There was one man sitting on the end by himself. An advocate of meeting new people and trying to make people feel welcome, I sat next to him. He sat angled in the seat, attentively watching the specials guest band that had flown in from Australia. I kept glancing over at him, trying to figure out who he was. He resembled a man I knew in Tanzania. Juma Mwanandenje was a special man, for almost two years he was my neighbor. I first met "Ndenje" when he was painting my house. I had moved to Tanzania into a house that was still being built. He was there every day finishing the building. I was told he was a great man, but I didn't know who he was. Soon, I moved into a home that was next to his. He became my neighbor, and adopted me into his family.

There's a thing about Tanzania. When someone comes to visit you host. It may only be tea, or a slice of bread, but you hosted. I often had Ndenje or his family for tea, dinner, or before church breakfast. Those that worked in my house, knew they were welcome. They were like family. But I was the white gal next door and that couldn't be denied. But things changed over the many months I lived there. I'd stop by to ask a question and his family would invite me to eat with them. Many times I would chat with Mama Jericho eating roasted maize by the fire. Then there were the days I was out of corn flour or mboga (side dishes with ugali). They were always willing to share. I had more money than they would know, but they gave to me.

Quickly Ndenje became Babu (meaning grandfather for the grandchildren he had) and Mama Jericho, became Mama. They were truly my family.

So today when I sat down next to the lone man, I was reminded of Babu. He had the thin petite figure of the man I once lived closely to. His pants hung on his skeletal legs, pulled up slightly showing his dried ankles. His hands were small but swollen from the hard work they had endured for year. His face was worn, hair mixed with grey and cut short. And he sat attentively, listening to the blessings that were poured out in song this morning. I wanted to cry... I still want to cry. I miss Babu. I miss his family and I'm saddened to think that I left him in Tanzania. He said I wouldn't be back. I told him I would. He knew many things I didn't. He was my wise father for the time I was there, and I didn't fully realize till I was gone.

When the service was over, I quickly followed the man to introduce myself. It was loud in the auditorium so it was difficult to hear, but I needed to talk with him, just tell him of the wonderful man he reminded me of. I introduced myself and asked his name. I couldn't understand him. It was foriegn, he was from East Africa, but I couldn't make out the country. Although it was apparent that he was not proficient in English, I had to tell him. He shrugged, throwing his arms around like he understood, obvious that he did not. But he smiled and I smiled.

I'm not sure if I'll ever see Juma again. If I did I would tell him how much he meant to me, ask for forgiveness as his daughter for not listening to her father when he provided wisdom, and hug him. It's not cultural to hug in Tanzania, but I would say "mwaomba" greeting him in the local respective tongue and I would cry in joy.

I know I may not see him, but in Heaven when I do I will rejoice and cry out in joy. I hope I see the lone man again, and am able to know him better, listening to any wisdom he may have.