Bang! Bang! Bang! “Hodi. Hodi? Baba Nia! Baba Nia? Njole.” I cracked my eyes enough to see that the sun was just peeking over the horizon. My body ached with fever and I was sweating. The sound vibrated through my head like a cymbal crashing by my ear. Again, the old man repeated the process sending frustration and pain through my body. Nothing the old man ever did was quiet. I was laying coverless in my underwear deciding whether to let him in or pretend he didn’t exist when my bedroom door burst open. “Hodi! Baba Nia!” shouted the six-foot-something Rangi standing next to my bed. Ugh. “I’m awake!” I lamented.
He proceeded to sit next to my bed holding my hand speaking in Kilangi, a language I barely knew beyond the greetings, but I knew he was speaking blessings over me and he loved me like a son. I had no idea how deeply I would come to love him as well.
In America, when we are sick, we want to be left alone, but in Tanzania, a person is not even a friend if they don’t come and sit at your bedside. I never learned to appreciate that, and Mr. Jordan never hesitated to visit me day after day, sick or not, for nearly three years. I dreaded being sick because I knew that I’d have to sit awake burning with fever so Mr. Jordan and my other African friends could tell me they loved me in the language of their culture. Despite the frustration, I felt loved. And when they were sick, it was my pleasure to return the favor—banging on their door and keep them awake for hours!
Mr. Jordan became my grandpa. I lost my grandparents at a young age and figured he was the perfect replacement. He pretty much adopted me. He protected my wife and kids when I left for ministry or supply runs. He watched my house when we were gone. He defended my family to the village elders when our house was robbed three times. He grabbed my hand and proudly walked through the Muslim village showing me off to all his friends—nevermind that I was a Christian. He was the first to accept us and love us and welcome us as one of them.
When we brought Everly, our newborn, back into the village Mrs. Jordan gave her a Rangi name, Mbuula (rain), signifying that she was a bonafide member of the Rangi community. Mr. Jordan taught me how to barter for good meat prices and warned the others in the village to treat us fairly. He taught me how to build a Rangi house and raise chickens. And despite telling everyone that I wasn’t the village barber, he regularly showed up at my house for a free trim because I had an electric razor and we were friends. Friends share everything.
When I asked about his Rangi bow and arrows sitting in the corner (one of his few possessions in life), he told me how in the olden days the Rangi were hunters, but all the land is hunted out now so they became farmers. His dad used to make these Rangi bows and arrows a hundred years ago. And then in traditional African fashion, he scooped them up and placed them in my hand and said, “These are for you.” I couldn’t take them, but he made me. They are on my shelf as I write this. That’s how he was—generous to the core of his being.
On many occasions, Mr. Jordan would show up at my door with some live animal he caught in his field and expect us to eat it—from tortoises to different types of birds. The crazy white foreigners were an enigma and loved to learn about our culture.
When we were saying our real good-byes, Mr. Jordan and his wife had us over for a meal. They dressed up in their fanciest clothes and cooked my favorite dish—Ibata (duck) with rice. After supper, Mrs. Jordan concocted a bowl of white gooey liquid that looked similar to a bowl of white-out. She dipped her fingers in it and flicked it in our faces. It took a second to process what was happening, but it became obvious that it was a traditional Rangi blessing. We all cried.
I cried in front of him many times. He knew me better than any Rangi person could because he sat next to me through highs and lows, the pains and the joys of living in Africa.
Today, Mr. Jordan passed away from stomach ulcers. My heart hurts once again. I will never forget him as long as I live. I’m so thankful for our times together. And I thank God that I was able to share the gospel with him on several occasions. Several of our team members were able to as well and Mr. Jordan attended every ministry event we put on. His heart was softened to Jesus through the years, so much that he confessed, “I think I believe in Jesus and I would become a Christian, but I’m too old. I’ve spent my life as a Muslim. The Rangi are Muslim, I am Rangi, so I will die a Muslim.” I can only pray that the Holy Spirit did a miracle in his heart and on his death bed he cried out to Jesus. Only God knows if one day I will see him in glory. Lord, may it be so.
