Where is my fork? I bristled.
Starved and tired, I’d finally gotten some food from a little store round the corner but couldn’t eat it. I tried to be patient, tried to wait, tried to distract myself.
This is Africa. I can be patient. I took a deep breath.
But at the end of an adrenaline-filled, heart-thumping week of several highlights visiting rural villages, the sudden emptiness of four walls, the deafening silence without the usual squeal of my own children, the loss of strong arms intertwined around mine to hold me… and the conflict of a painful miscommunication, hit hard.
The fork was the final blow that sucked the last wind out of me.
An hour later, forkless, I’d lost it. I sat on the floor in my room, heaving hurt, in a puddle of tears.
This was familiar to me- this cross-cultural disorientation, this agonizing alone-ness after the sheen of novelty had worn off. No matter how much I’d prepare for it, no matter where I was in the world, it was inevitable.
This time, my first time away from Cliff and my children, the ache felt deeper.
“When you love deeply, separation is felt keenly,” a friend said.
Starving and forkless, the loss of control in my new, alone, disoriented life threw a punch to my face.
Finally, a knock on the door. Hurray, the fork arrived!
But the African girl, with her beautiful face aglow and her short, curly hair crowning her head, perfect as a sphere, found me, heaving with sobs, my face stained with tears.
Ruthlessly, shamelessly, I lashed out, voice breaking, “Is it SO HARD to get a fork around here?”
Back home, I wouldn’t have needed help for this. The missing fork taunted me, reminded me of how far away from home, how alone I now was.
She watched me heaving with grief. “I am so sorry,” her eyes were soft, her body gently leaned forward.
I finally ate. Inkhaka (african stewed spinach), beetroot and Emasi, a kind of local fermented milk- what tasted like a delicacy when I’d first arrived now tasted sour, bitter, even.
Hours passed alone.
Later that evening, on a walk outside my room, my eyes searched for her. “I am so sorry for what happened, Khosi. It wasn’t your fault. In fact, you helped me. I lashed out at you when you went the extra mile for me. Would you forgive me?”
Without missing a beat, she asked, “Are you a believer?”
My face flushed. I felt as if a carpet had been pulled from under my feet.
“Oh gosh. How embarrassing. Yes, I am,” I hid my head in my hands.
I wanted to bury myself.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said. “What I mean is- I knew you were a believer from the day you stayed here. I knew something was wrong, something so painful was hurting inside your heart.”
“What do you mean you knew?” I wiped my tears, still streaming down like a waterfall. “What a terrible, awful witness I am!” I laughed bitterly between tears.
“No no, you’re the only one here who greets us every day. You remember our African names. You ask us what they mean. Other people who come through here say they’re too difficult to remember. You learn our language, you SEE us. I knew from the start you were a believer and I know you’re just having a terrible day. You miss your family, you’ve been here too long. Can I give you a hug?”
Tears streamed down my cheeks.
In Eswatini, their greeting “Sawubona” means “I see you.”
Little did I know how learning their language had changed me, too.
Just as how God taught me to SEE them, Khosi had seen through my pain, beyond my rudeness, my unreasonableness- to love on me. In my brokenness, God sent Khosi (meaning “Passover” because she was born that calendar day) to minister to me- even when I was unloveable. Just as how God allowed destruction to pass over the homes of the Israelites to protect them, God used Khosi in an extravagant act of kindness to “pass over” my sins.
Just like the man who gave a cup of water to one who was thirsty, as unto the Lord, Khosi humbled herself to give me what I needed.
With a fork, she loved me.
On Valentine’s Day yesterday, as I felt the incredible pang of loneliness hit and yet unable to call Cliff because of the time difference, I stood stunned when told I couldn’t eat at my usual spot.
“We have a huge celebration here today. And the whole place is full.”
In typical African celebratory extravagance, they had scattered rose petals all over the floor for couples to enter in.
“It’s full?”
I turned away, stunned. Where would I eat now?
I was always petrified of the supervisor of the place- a large, broad African lady with coarse features like a bulldog and a gap between her teeth. I thought she disliked me, since she never smiled at me.
“Busi,” she called out. Everyone here called me by my Swazi name, the shortened term of affection for “Sibusissiwe,” a name my local colleague had given me which means “We are blessed (because of you.)”
“Busi, you are family here, we will make space for you. Kitchen is closed tonight for others but we will make something you want. Anything.”
Such is the loveliness of the angels God places to love us – even when we are struggling and feel all alone.
Khosi hugged me and said, “You’re family to us. We see you.”
