Kamikaze Donkey

This is a true story. Many laughs have stemmed from this experience. I thought I would write it down and share it. Enjoy!

It was another day in the remote village of Kenieba, Mali. Myself, along with four students from California Baptist University, and my African friend Bala Musa, were driving down a narrow side street in the village. We came to Mali to paticipate in a short-term mission project. For some of these students, it was their first go at international travel and a crosscultural encouter.

Bala Musa was driving the brand new Toyota Land Cruiser. It had been borrowed from a partnering agency that was so generous in aiding us in taking the two day trek to our village. Bala Musa is a character. He and his wife Jiita are dear friends of mine. Bala Musa often drove me to my village three hours away when I lived and worked in Mali. He is known around town by his outgoing and free spirited personality. His laugh can be heard for miles accompanied by a smile as bright as the sun.

As we approached the main dirt road that dissects the village of Kenieba, I caught a glimpse of a gray blurry object approaching us from the right side of the Land Cruiser. Before I can process what this object was, I hear muffled screams and see bits and pieces of twigs from a fence being projected through the air. Then I see it, but I do not believe it. A gray donkey moving at the speed of light is running through a neighboring courtyard fence and headed straight for us. BAAAM! Before I could even warn Bala Musa, the donkey plows head first into the right front fender of the shiny new Toyota and then falls over dead-like in the road next to the truck.

Silence.

Shock.

More silence.

My mouth is now open wide wondering what just happened. No one is speaking in the car. My first gut reaction is not concern for the damage to the Land Cruiser, but it is concern for the donkey I just killed. I envisioned a mass of people surrounding our car accusing me of murdering someone's livelihood. Still, no one has said anything in the car. I slowly turn and look at Bala Musa. I am sure he could see my tonsils because my jaw was laying on my chest. My eyes were bulging as were his. Bala Musa then broke out in the loudest laughter I ever heard. I turned and looked at the poor students in the back seat. All of them looked like their kitty cat just died. I did not know whether to laugh or cry.

I said, "Bala Musa, what just happened?" Between the laughter, he sputters out, "Fatoo Faloo!", which means 'crazy donkey'. I was still sober and on the verge of getting angry at his laughter. I jumped out of the car to see this large donkey laying limp on the ground next to my door. Bala Musa comes around still laughing hysterically. We both stood over this donkey. It was the largest road kill I had ever seen. At this point, I am discussing with Bala Musa, between his giggles of course, about how I am going to need him to explain to the owner that this was a suicide mission and not murder. This made him laugh even harder.

In that moment, the gray blur returned. The 'dead' donkey laying between us begins to stir and kick. A cloud of dust arises and the donkey jumps to his feet like Lazarus from the tomb. All I could do was jump on the hood of the truck while Bala Musa scrambles to keep from getting kicked or trampled. The resurrected donkey immediately took off in a flash and made a beeline for a group of women cooking under a baobab tree. Through the cloud of donkey dust, I could hear screams and clanking of pots. Then a stampede of women, with children and cookware in hand, scatter like ants. The donkey zoomed right through the middle of their encampment running full speed. It finally disappeared over the hill with nothing but a trail of dust and a dented fender to show for.

I was later informed by Bala Musa that it was mating season for the donkeys. He stated that they actually announce on the radio station this fact and instruct parents to keep their children close to keep them from being trampled. I missed the memo.

To this day, I laugh thinking about the kamikaze donkey of Kenieba. The moral of the story? Always look both ways at a crossroad because you never know...a frisky, suicidal donkey may just be coming straight for you.

Fear Will Not Capture Me

Viscous, hot air rouses Charlie. A hunger for fresh oxygen and the smell of musty cotton urges his emergence from the green stained fleece. For an instant, Charlie Barton forgot the reasons for his man-made cotton womb.

Blow flies, with their tiny feathery legs, occasionally land on his exposed soiled ankles in hopes to extend their curly tongues to find a few morsels of nourishment. These frequent visitors are reminders of the reasons for his chrysalis state within the fleece. Their painful tickles are maddening. Their monotone buzzing reverberates, replacing the usual sound of Charlie's obnoxious radio-alarm clock.

The twilight air is cool and dry yet the oasis would soon end. The large African sun is now peeking through the statuesque baobab trees as it exhibits its grace before its fury. The brawny, thick trunks and heightened arms of the baobab trees seem to be the sole guardians for the village from the igneous sun. African roosters wail as the sunrays creep over the rocky earth. Their shrill crows echo as piercing cries of a mourning mother over her lifeless child.

These sounds are unfamiliar to Charlie within his cocoon. Crying children awaiting their first suckle of the day, sheep bellows and donkey brays replace the sounds of honking horns and city chatter. Charlie misses the sounds of the city. The new stimuli frightens him.

Charlie's dusty cotton tee shirt and rolled up Duckheads are moist from the warmth and perspiration, yet the safety of the blanket seems more important than his comfort in the moment.

Why am I afraid? Charlie wonders.

Can I really be here? Is this a dream?

His wonderings accompany his dilemma concerning his birth from the safety of his blanket.

(Shuffling and sliding of feet over loose gravel)

"I ni saxuma!" states the unseen voice and forced the appearance of Charlie from underneath his fleece.

For a moment, Charlie considers not acknowledging the mystery voice and pretends to be asleep in hopes of a few more minutes alone to gather the courage to engage in his new world. Charlie's honest spirit refuses this temptation.

Charlie rolls back the green fleece. His dilated pupils disappear as he tries to combat the early morning sun that found its way to his bedside. Numerous figures stand between him and the sun. Their fuzzy appearances bare the likeness of ghosts as the sunlight flashes in and out from behind them with each movement. Charlie's eyes focus.

A tall African man stands center before him. His skin is as black as the African night itself. His medium, muscular frame is covered with a red and black soccer jersey adorned with the number "1". His trousers are amber and rolled to his ankles. They are torn and patched with mismatched fabric. A small hand-woven rope serves as his belt. A wooden handled hoe-like tool hangs on his shoulder. The handle is smooth and shiny from hours of use. The smile on his face assures Charlie that his outer appearance is of no concern.

Five children stand at each side of the man. Each of them are situated according to height. Their innocent faces reflect happiness and curiosity. Light brown, earthy powder appears as makeup covering their faces and bloated bellies. Their bright eyes and mesmerizing smiles counteract their beggarly appearance.

"I ni kee!" utters Charlie hoarsely in response to the man's unannounced presence. These were the only words that he remembers in Malinké which meant "hello". He recalls this phrase from the airport and the travel literature he had read before arriving. The children giggle and increase their ivory smiles at the pale stranger's attempt to speak their language. The tall young Malinké man responds, "Mbaa!"

The young man extends his hand. Charlie reaches out and grasps it. The strong grip and calloused palms invite Charlie to pause in respect and assume that his morning greeter was on his way to work in the field.

Charlie is not dreaming. Every sound and smell is as real as his uncertainties. Charlie continues to question his reality as the stranger walks down the rocky path to his field. The children scatter after the man waving goodbye to Charlie.

One little girl lingers. Her bowed legs, possibly from polio, cause her to lag behind the others. Strength and acceptance of her crippled state seeps from her as she pulls her limp leg from behind. She is no more than five years old. She waddled to the edge of the wooden entrance of the courtyard. She turns to wave and offers a smile. Charlie returns the smile and waves.

This is Charlie Barton's new home. He is not afraid anymore.

Mom's Eternal Impression

Dearest Mom,

It is in these moments the finality of your physical absence punches me, leaving me short of breath. The duel between my soul and flesh heightens as I try to grasp the reality of your death. My soul shouts “REJOICE!” in the reality that your suffering is over and that you are finally in the presence of your Savior. My flesh screams “IT’S NOT FAIR!” that the world carries on not even noticing you are no longer here, not appreciating who you truly were, nor recognizing the love and change your life brought to so many.

The sun still rises and sets. The flowers and trees in your yard still grow. Your children even laugh occasionally and temporarily forget the pain that shrouds us each day. I miss your laugh and your smile, the way you always kept “us” together. Your warm meals and hugs are no longer tangible, but their value is priceless. I smile thinking about the funny way you said “OPtober” and the way you made us laugh by doing your infamous “camel walk”.

It isn’t fair, nor is it easy, but it IS. The vaporous life you lived for 72 years has transitioned into eternity. You were and are my best friend, something I never fully appreciated nor verbalized, yet it is true. I want the world to know that you, Alma Ruth Luke, wife of 56 years, mother of eight and child of God that your presence on earth meant something. You changed lives. You loved, served, lived, and laughed. Your investments were and are eternal.

Mom, I miss you so much. The pain of you not being here doesn’t subside. I don’t want it to. I don’t want to forget. I want to forever remember you even though my children may not ever know you in this life. You mean something to the world mom; to your husband, children, grand children and great grand children. You will always mean something. I long for the day of our reunion. Until then, goodbye!

Your beloved son

In memory of Alma Ruth Luke “Mom”
1935-2008