Remembering Papa Camara

I've been reflecting quite often lately on the time I spent in Mali, West Africa when I was a student missionary with Adventist Frontier Missions in 2005-2006. A couple of months ago, I started compiling emails and e-newsletters that I wrote to family and friends while I was there. It is an ongoing project that I hope will eventually result in a printed book as a personal keepsake.

After working on this project more heavily this last week, it seemed strangely coincidental that I received an email just this morning from the missionary family I served under, a certain blast from the past.

The email, besides being a friendly Christmas greeting, was filled with this news:

I'm sorry to have to write this but I thought you would like to know that we just heard this morning that Papa Camara died last night.  Apparently he died in Bamako at a hospital and they are bringing his body back to Kangaba today.  We know that you guys had a great relationship with Papa Camara and his family and we would certainly appreciate your prayers for the family and for us, that we will be able to be some sort of blessing to the family in this time of their sorrow.   

Papa Camara was a beautiful, gentle, intelligent man, who was also my host for four of the nine months I was in Mali. He was not only the head of the courtyard we lived within, he was the head Imam of the village - the Muslim religious leader.

Though he knew we were Christian missionaries, he took us into his household, providing us with shelter, food, and the companionship of his family.

In memory of dear Papa Camara, here are some excerpts from my correspondence to family and friends.

The three student missionaries--myself,  Nicole Van Allen, Krystal Peck--with Papa Camara.

September 13, 2005

After eating our lunch at the Curry’s house, we met Papa Camara—our host. He greeted us and seemed happy to see us. He is a tall, skinny, elderly man. Delightful. He chuckles often and smiles even more. I took to him right away.  

[...] It is customary for visitors to adopt a Malian name while here. Later in the day we met with Papa Camara (on our choice) to have him name us. I am now Aminata Camara, named after his daughter.

[...] The first two weeks here are "immersion time" so Papa Camara has been providing us with breakfast every day. Breakfast is the same thing every morning. It’s called moni, and it’s a type of porridge with little bites of soft dough, much like the texture of soggy rice. It's interesting. We eat it with him right on the steps in front of his house. We don't talk while we eat. We just listen to the sounds of the chickens in the courtyard and try to slurp down the porridge without grimacing too badly.

I love Papa Camara. Talking to him is so pleasant. We spoke to him briefly before bedtime and he seemed pleased to have our company. Kangaba - Mali - Africa. It's a wonderful place.

November 4, 2005

It's customary to bring back a little something from Bamako and one of those things is bread. We gave some bread to Papa Camara, who was so happy to see us. He came to greet us and also to give us a bag of dates from the feasting. How sweet!

December 6, 2010

When we brought Pastor Rich to meet our host, Papa Camara, he was so thrilled! It was amazing. He just kept saying over and over again how happy he was that Pastor Rich had visited. It was neat to see him smiling so much and so happy.  

March 11, 2006

At the end of our trip,  Krystal and I were able to make it back down to the first village we lived in, Kangaba, and visit old friends for the weekend. Seeing the smiling faces of our friends, who we thought we would never see again when leaving in January, was a delight. Seeing our old courtyard, and little, old Papa Camara, our host, was priceless. His big grin and warm heart welcomed us.

We pray for the Camara family and hope Papa Camara's heart was truly seeking after God.  He was always a good and godly man, so gracious to us and our student missionaries.  May God's love comfort and draw them at this time. 

Maybe one day I will see you again, Papa Camara. I hope you knew that we loved you.

Once Upon a Night

Tonight is a melancholy night.   

I'm not sure exactly why.  I had a normal day.  A good, productive, though longer than I prefer, work day.   Then I came home hungry.  

Tonight is a comfort food night.  

I don't usually spend much time preparing meals, especially when it's just me at home.  But mashed potatoes and vegetable steaks were calling my name.  

Later, I sat down in my papasan prayer chair.  And I just sat.  Thinking.  I gazed at the many books on our bookshelves, wondering if I was in the mood to read.  But I couldn't decide on which one.  So I turned on some soft music instead.

Tonight is a Christmas music night.  

Not just any Christmas music.  My saxophone Christmas music.  I love the atmosphere Christmas music brings.  It makes me reminisce. 

Tonight is a missing Africa night.

My thoughts turn to Buakar.  His sweet face flashes in my memory.  My dear African child whose life was taken by something described as a cold. Possibly malaria or even malnutrition.  I wonder if I will ever make it back to Mali.  Visit my sweet Berthe family. 

Tonight is a night to ponder.

I wonder where I will be in a few years from now.  Still in Lansing?  Still at the same job?  I wonder what changes the coming years will bring.  I invite them.  I look back at the years past and notice how I've grown.

Tonight is a night to dwell at the throne of my Savior.

In a different kind of way.  It's a time to say, "Here I am, Lord.  This is me.  What do you think?"  It's a time to reminisce with Him.  "Remember when ..., Lord?"  This is one of my favorite things to do, that I don't do often enough.  Remember when we went on that date to the beach?  I really needed that.  Remember when You helped me make that important phone call?  I was such a basketcase.  Thank you for being patient with me, Lord.  I know I'm Your typical last-born, impulsive child.  Oh how many times You must have said to me kindly, patiently, "Oh Tennille,  come on back.  Come back over here where I Am."  

Silent Night, Holy Night. 

I've missed these kinds of nights.

Ne hakili be yen

My spirit is there.

Hakili is a Bambara word used to describe ones essence--their substance, spirit, lifeblood, heart, principle, soul, core. Bambara is the language of the Malian people.

Every once in awhile, without realizing at first, I still speak Bambara to myself. I am glad for this. It reminds me that yes, I did indeed spend a little portion of my life over there, even though that time seems so far away now, as if a dream. Usually it is when I have just finished a task and I say "a bana." It is finished. Or something bad happens and I say "a manin." That's too bad. Or "doni, doni" (little by little) when trying to console myself when I'm not changing or learning as fast as I want to be. Or "Ne be se ka i ka furna ta wa?" Can I borrow your stove? (Just kidding on that one. I don't really need that survival phrase anymore)

My dear friend, Ma, has been listening to the dramatized Bible stories we created while I was over.  The stories are on a solar-powered, hand held, MP3 player-like thing. She calls it the wajuli machini "preaching machine."

Have you ever felt like you were somewhere else? Perhaps it takes the form of daydreaming in class. Or getting lost in a good book or movie. I was once sitting in class, thinking about this funny moment I shared with someone. Apparently it was obvious I was daydreaming because the teacher asked me in front of everyone what I was thinking about that gave me that smirk on my face. I blushed and the class and I laughed. Or maybe it's one of those moments in which you have studied so long that your brain feels shut off to any new information. "I'm gone," you might say to the person you've been discussing a group project with for the last five and a half hours. I don't know where I am, I'm just definitely not here.

Ne hakili be yen. My spirit is there. I don't know where yen (there) is, necessarily. I just know it's not here. Maybe it's sleeping in my bed, where I should be. Maybe it's in Mali. Maybe it's in North Dakota. Maybe it's not in this world. I hope not. This isn't a good place for one's essence to be I don't think.

Remembering Africa

I'm missing Africa. I'm particularly missing my host family in Kadiolo, a small village in the southern part of Mali, a country in West Africa.

Will you indulge me while I remember?  While I remember:

My Africa.

Ma was my dearest friend. We would laugh together and cry together. We would vent about our troubles and end it all with our running joke "Men are bad." She rescued me from a bat once. She taught me how to make "to", pound corn, and cook chicken. I found out she recently had a dream about me, that I returned for a visit. She is Ma, and I love her.

Fatuamata and Korika were hysterical. We would always be laughing. Mostly at me, but that was okay. We visited eachother weekly. They braided my hair and dyed my feet. They taught me how to say "Can I borrow your stove" in their language, among other survival phrases. They were dear friends, and I miss them.

Buakar was my baby. My very own. He would fall asleep on my lap or in my room late at night. He would hug my legs or rest his head against my shoulder. He had the most precious giggle. He had the most dear eyes. Wherever I was, he was. Or maybe it was the other way around. May God grant him a peaceful sleep. He was my love, and I mourn him.

My courtyard was full of children. So full of life. There were late nights of Skip-bo and jacks. There was coloring and crafts. There were balloons and sponges. I loved each member of my African family for who they were and what they added to the courtyard and my life. Geneba was tough and confident. Madou was quiet with a gorgeaous smile. Abi was a jokester. Wasa had attitude. Kofne was shy. Ara wanted all the attention. La Vielle just wanted to be involved. My dear ones. Do you know I love you? Do you know I miss you? Do you know I still think about you? Do you know you're in my heart for always?