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Africa Inland Mission
April 24, 2017 8:03 pm
Published in: Ministry Life

It was the end of the school year for the extended primary school at the station on which we lived. The head teacher, and the other teachers and staff, worked with the students to plan a “end of year” program and party.
The school served grades 4 through 8. Each grade developed their own program – and, of course, vied to make theirs the best and take home the prize. The prize was to be Fanta Orange (a mild orange-tasting soda) and maandazi (African doughnuts). This, to the winners, was something to strive for.
For the life of me I cannot remember the skit/programs the other grades put on. But grade 8 nailed it – and the whole crowd, both students an lookers-on laughed loudly and gave them a resounding ovation.
The sun had gone by the time grade 8’s slot came up. Through the darkness, by the light of a pressure lantern, several boys brought out a table and chair. The lantern was placed on the table along with a spoon and an upturned metal pot.
Another young man appeared, dressed in what was supposed to be official uniform. He sat down at the table, started tapping with the spoon on the metal pot and writing on a tablet which he had brought with him. It became obvious that he was supposed to be a telegraph operator. He was “receiving and sending” messages to and from far away places.
With a shriek, another boy entered as an old man dressed in skins with a feathered headdress and a cow-tail whisk in his hand. He was obviously supposed to be a community “witch-doctor”. He came with a small bucket which, it turned out, was said to contain some fresh meat.
As he did so he said to the telegraph operator, “you know my son has gone to study at University in “Bulaya” (England). “Yes”, replied the telegraph operator. “Please send him my greetings”. Tap, tap, tap. Message went.
“Did he send a reply”? Tap, tap, tap. Reply came. “Yes, sends his greetings to you also”.
“Tell him that I am sending him some meat because I hear the food in Bulaya isn’t very good”. Tap, tap, tap. “Done. I have told him and he is expecting it in about 2 weeks if you send it by airmail”.
“Send it now. It will spoil if he has to wait 2 weeks”.
Tap, tap, tap. The “witch-doctor” looked into his bucket and saw the meat still there. In anger he said, “I told you to send it now”! The poor telegraph operator tried to explain that he could only send “words”, not actual things.      The old man was not mollified. “I demand you send it right now! The Bazungu (white people) have always said they can do wonderful things. If you can talk with my son, you can certainly send him something”.
The crowd watching the skit were in hysterics. Shaking his whisk in the telegraph operators face he said, “if you don’t send it I will “kuloga” (bewitch) you and your family”. The crowd roared – was it in embarrassment because that actually happens when the desires of the witch doctor are not met.
The poor telegraph operator leaned back in his chair to escape the flailing whisk. He toppled over backwards onto the ground (all this was happening out on the soccer field), gathered his wits and ran away into the darkness, leaving the irate witch doctor muttering to himself as he gathered up his bucket of meat and stalked away. The crowd loved it! Grade 6 took the cake – prize, rather. It was an enjoyable evening for all.
And for me – a crowd like that presented a real opportunity to witness, to present the message of Salvation. No, I didn’t preach. The hyenas were soon to begin their howling and folks had to get home but no way were they to go home without at least a Witness Unto Life.
P.S. – this was all pre-independence when the African population took liberties to criticize the British colonists. Tensions were running high to “kick them out of our land” and even primary schools were not immune from this attitude.

April 17, 2017 6:53 pm
Published in: Church Ministry

It was a very busy day – Holding several open-air evangelistic meetings where the story of creation and God’s plan of salvation were explained. A counseling period with those who indicated a desire to accept the Lord as Saviour. Packing up the loud-speaking system. Bumping over remote “non-roads”. Going without a noon meal.
But it was all rewarding and the evangelist and the others with me on this outreach safari were very satisfied with the entire day’s activities. Now we all were looking forward to a good African dinner and a restful night. After all, we were to do it all over again the next day in another area then the following day in another area then the following day…! We were on safari for 2 weeks.
We had made the evangelist’s home compound our starting point that morning. Before we left in the morning he had given instructions regarding the evening meal and made instructions as to the housing for all of us.
Now, some supporting information. In Tanzania there was a plant that produced very small red peppers – chili peppers. And they sure were hot! If one used them in cooking they had to make sure very few were used otherwise ??? – You can guess it.
Enter our evening meal. “Bugali” (stiff corn-meal mush), boiled chicken and gravy, heaps of boiled rice, sweet tea at the end. Man, nothing better!
But this time, the first dipping of the “bugali” into the gravy, caused sharp intakes of breath and frantic requests for water – which, of course, brought no relief. The meat could hardly be chewed without “hot-mouth” results so was basically swallowed quickly. The rice had to be eaten plain without pouring the gravy on it because of the fiery peppery taste. Tears streamed down the cheeks of each one of us.
The evangelist left to go out to the cooking hut to find out what happened. Even he had never experienced something like this. He came back in and reported that his wife, who was in charge of the cooking preparations, had instructed that “because the “nzungu” (foreign) missionary was eating in their home, make sure to put in plenty of pepper because that is what foreigners like”! And they did with abandon!
Wow! Me and hot peppers don’t get along that great! But, we survived. The kindness and concern of our hosts was most encouraging. And it was all a part of ministry. But that day the admonition to “endure all things” took on a new meaning!

April 12, 2017 3:14 am
Published in: Ministry Life

The father was a sorcerer and a witch doctor. Africans came from afar to seek his advice and his traditional medicines and he had a fearsome reputation. His first-born son grew up in that atmosphere and determined that he, too, would follow that profession. Days of training, revelations of cultural lore and secrets, learning the right incantations and potions – and exacting premium prices (cows, goats, chickens) for his services established his reputation.
Over the years, his reputation increased. He married, established his own village and increased his wealth and position. In fact, he now became a “consulting sorcerer”. Other sorcerers came to him for advice and direction.

His daughter became ill. His potions and incantations were fruitless. She got progressively worse. A number of miles away was the Mission hospital, Kola Ndoto Hospital. Though he rejected the message of God’s Word and didn’t want to admit his helplessness, he ended up taking his daughter there. There she was treated with “modern medicine” and slowly began to mend. There she heard the message of Salvation preached. There the Spirit of God pricked her and spoke to her. There she accepted Christ as Saviour and now her life was transformed.
Because she has previously been deathly ill, she needed an extended period of recuperation and continued observation. Patients discharged from “lying in” hospital had to take up residence in one of the supporting hospital huts. Immediate family came to live with them and provide food and support. Since she was an only daughter, with a number of younger siblings at home who needed the care of their mother, her father came to stay with her. And, one of the requirements of care was to attend daily Bible teaching.
The “consulting sorcerer” resisted the message. But he couldn’t avoid it. His daughter had a positive testimony; the hospital requirements demanded his listening; the hospital evangelist himself visited often. Continued resistance was futile. The Holy Spirit worked miracles in his soul and a positive decision to believe in Christ was publicly declared.
In due course he and his daughter returned home – both now believer and, in addition, she was healed of her illness. ‘Way out there in the bush neither the church leaders nor the missionaries knew what was happening. He, without prompting or external pressure, destroyed all his witchcraft paraphernalia and witnessed to the surrounding villages. They were shocked, but he persisted. They actively ostracized him, but he persisted. A few, hearing the message and seeing the evidence of the change in his life, believed and he began to gather them together into what became a church.
In spite his only having had a 2nd grade education, he was appointed “church evangelist” in his home area. His faithfulness and effectiveness established relationships and credibility. The Word of God prospered under his ministry. Culturally, and because of his old profession, the relevance was his message was felt.
Faithfulness and effectiveness brings recognition. In spite of perceived lack of education, he was chosen to attend the Bible School for special Pastoral Training along with a number of others. Though he had difficulty because of the lack of reading skills, he finished the training and was ordained.
In those days, newly ordained pastors were assigned by the church to the place where they would serve. For some reason, he was asked for his preference. His choice? Kola Ndoto Hospital station, “Where I came to know the Lord and where my daughter was made well.” So, to Kola Ndoto he was assigned.
For more than 40 years, Anderea faithfully ministered there. Hospital patients, many of whom had also come there for help following a witchdoctor’s failures, were witnessed to by him who had been down that path himself. Many came to Salvation during his years there. The influence and scope of the church in the area increased. When the Lord took him home, many, including former witch doctors, came to his funeral not only to comfort the family but to attest to his message of “Life unto Life”. Praise the Lord!

April 3, 2017 11:35 pm
Published in: Ministry Life

Aroni welcomed me to Kijima when I first arrived on the field as a missionary in 1956. He lived just off the Mission Station and was the station evangelist (later was ordained a pastor), basically in charge of the church when the district pastor was away on general district church oversight responsibilities. There were at least 32 “out-churches” so the pastor was quite busy.
Aroni seemed to have deep understanding of the needs of new missionaries – language learning and possible “traps”, cultural sensitivities and understanding and general adjustments needed. Even though I had been brought up in that area of Tanzania, there was a lot I needed to learn. I had been gone for many years and Aroni was there to work me through all these adjustments.
I went out single; Carol still had 2+ years of Bible School left. In fact, at this time I hadn’t even proposed yet. That was done later by mail! So I spent much time in his village and following him down the paths as he (we) visited around. All this served to work me back in to church life and to smooth over my transition. Aroni was also very interested my possibilities for a wife. I told him of Carol, back in Bible school in the States, but that nothing had been “settled” yet.
In due course I proposed, Carol accepted and the Lord provided for her to come out to the field. Her arrival was a joyful time and the Field Council assigned her to live on another station about 70 miles away (with her future in-laws!). Even then, when I had time, I “managed” to get my vehicle to drive down that way to visit!
Back on the station, one morning, Aroni came up to the house dragging a big fat ram. He presented it to me saying, “This is to help you get married”. I didn’t understand and I must have looked at him with questioning and he said, “Mr XXX, (another missionary man on the station) said that you had spent all your money bringing your “to-be” wife out from America and now you didn’t have what is necessary to pay for her bride dowry. He (missionary XXX) said that your trips away from the station were to try to find the cattle needed to provide for that dowry. I want to help, so here is a good fat ram to help”.
Explanation was now in order. I told him that all that was needed before our wedding was for permission from the Field Council and that in America the matter of dowry was not the custom.
With a bit more explanatory details, his face fell but then turned into a huge grin. He now knew that “his leg had been pulled” by that other missionary man and he fell into the flow of the joke. Still grinning, he put the rope that was tethered to the ram into my hand and said, “This, then, is a gift to make the wedding party happy.”
And it did. The approved wedding date was a month or so away but I transported that ram on the roof-rack of a Volks Beetle the 70 miles down the rough road to where Carol was staying and there they cared for it until later we, and many others, were able to enjoy a savory mutton meal.

April 3, 2017 11:15 pm
Published in: Ministry Life

Aroni welcomed me to Kijima when I first arrived on the field as a missionary in 1956. He lived just off the Mission Station and was the station evangelist (later was ordained a pastor), basically in charge of the church when the district pastor was away on general district church oversight responsibilities. There were at least 32 “out-churches” so the pastor was quite busy.
Aroni seemed to have deep understanding of the needs of new missionaries – language learning and possible “traps”, cultural sensitivities and understanding and general adjustments needed. Even though I had been brought up in that area of Tanzania, there was a lot I needed to learn. I had been gone for many years and Aroni was there to work me through all these adjustments.
I went out single; Carol still had 2+ years of Bible School left. In fact, at this time I hadn’t even proposed yet. That was done later by mail! So I spent much time in his village and following him down the paths as he (we) visited around. All this served to work me back in to church life and to smooth over my transition. Aroni was also very interested my possibilities for a wife. I told him of Carol, back in Bible school in the States, but that nothing had been “settled” yet.
In due course I proposed, Carol accepted and the Lord provided for her to come out to the field. Her arrival was a joyful time and the Field Council assigned her to live on another station about 70 miles away (with her future in-laws!). Even then, when I had time, I “managed” to get my vehicle to drive down that way to visit!
Back on the station, one morning, Aroni came up to the house dragging a big fat ram. He presented it to me saying, “This is to help you get married”. I didn’t understand and I must have looked at him with questioning and he said, “Mr XXX, (another missionary man on the station) said that you had spent all your money bringing your “to-be” wife out from America and now you didn’t have what is necessary to pay for her bride dowry. He (missionary XXX) said that your trips away from the station were to try to find the cattle needed to provide for that dowry. I want to help, so here is a good fat ram to help”.
Explanation was now in order. I told him that all that was needed before our wedding was for permission from the Field Council and that in America the matter of dowry was not the custom.
With a bit more explanatory details, his face fell but then turned into a huge grin. He now knew that “his leg had been pulled” by that other missionary man and he fell into the flow of the joke. Still grinning, he put the rope that was tethered to the ram into my hand and said, “This, then, is a gift to make the wedding party happy.”
And it did. The approved wedding date was a month or so away but I transported that ram on the roof-rack of a Volks Beetle the 70 miles down the rough road to where Carol was staying and there they cared for it until later we, and many others, were able to enjoy a savory mutton meal.
district pastor was away on general district church oversight responsibilities. There were at least 32 “out-churches” so the pastor was quite busy.
Aroni seemed to have deep understanding of the needs of new missionaries – language learning and possible “traps”, cultural sensitivities and understanding and general adjustments needed. Even though I had been brought up in that area of Tanzania, there was a lot I needed to learn. I had been gone for many years and Aroni was there to work me through all these adjustments.
I went out single; Carol still had 2+ years of Bible School left. In fact, at this time I hadn’t even proposed yet. That was done later by mail! So I spent much time in his village and following him down the paths as he (we) visited around. All this served to work me back in to church life and to smooth over my transition. Aroni was also very interested my possibilities for a wife. I told him of Carol, back in Bible school in the States, but that nothing had been “settled” yet.
In due course I proposed, Carol accepted and the Lord provided for her to come out to the field. Her arrival was a joyful time and the Field Council assigned her to live on another station about 70 miles away (with her future in-laws!). Even then, when I had time, I “managed” to get my vehicle to drive down that way to visit!
Back on the station, one morning, Aroni came up to the house dragging a big fat ram. He presented it to me saying, “This is to help you get married”. I didn’t understand and I must have looked at him with questioning and he said, “Mr XXX, (another missionary man on the station) said that you had spent all your money bringing your “to-be” wife out from America and now you didn’t have what is necessary to pay for her bride dowry. He (missionary XXX) said that your trips away from the station were to try to find the cattle needed to provide for that dowry. I want to help, so here is a good fat ram to help”.
Explanation was now in order. I told him that all that was needed before our wedding was for permission from the Field Council and that in America the matter of dowry was not the custom.
With a bit more explanatory details, his face fell but then turned into a huge grin. He now knew that “his leg had been pulled” by that other missionary man and he fell into the flow of the joke. Still grinning, he put the rope that was tethered to the ram into my hand and said, “This, then, is a gift to make the wedding party happy.”
And it did. The approved wedding date was a month or so away but I transported that ram on the roof-rack of a Volks Beetle the 70 miles down the rough road to where Carol was staying and there they cared for it until later we, and many others, were able to enjoy a savory mutton meal.

April 3, 2017 9:45 pm
Published in: Ministry Life

Aroni welcomed me to Kijima when I first arrived on the field as a missionary in 1956. He lived just off the Mission Station and was the station evangelist (later was ordained a pastor), basically in charge of the church when the district pastor was away on general district church oversight responsibilities. There were at least 32 “out-churches” so the pastor was quite busy.
Aroni seemed to have deep understanding of the needs of new missionaries – language learning and possible “traps”, cultural sensitivities and understanding and general adjustments needed. Even though I had been brought up in that area of Tanzania, there was a lot I needed to learn. I had been gone for many years and Aroni was there to work me through all these adjustments.
I went out single; Carol still had 2+ years of Bible School left. In fact, at this time I hadn’t even proposed yet. That was done later by mail! So I spent much time in his village and following him down the paths as he (we) visited around. All this served to work me back in to church life and to smooth over my transition. Aroni was also very interested my possibilities for a wife. I told him of Carol, back in Bible school in the States, but that nothing had been “settled” yet.
In due course I proposed, Carol accepted and the Lord provided for her to come out to the field. Her arrival was a joyful time and the Field Council assigned her to live on another station about 70 miles away (with her future in-laws!). Even then, when I had time, I “managed” to get my vehicle to drive down that way to visit!
Back on the station, one morning, Aroni came up to the house dragging a big fat ram. He presented it to me saying, “This is to help you get married”. I didn’t understand and I must have looked at him with questioning and he said, “Mr XXX, (another missionary man on the station) said that you had spent all your money bringing your “to-be” wife out from America and now you didn’t have what is necessary to pay for her bride dowry. He (missionary XXX) said that your trips away from the station were to try to find the cattle needed to provide for that dowry. I want to help, so here is a good fat ram to help”.
Explanation was now in order. I told him that all that was needed before our wedding was for permission from the Field Council and that in America the matter of dowry was not the custom.
With a bit more explanatory details, his face fell but then turned into a huge grin. He now knew that “his leg had been pulled” by that other missionary man and he fell into the flow of the joke. Still grinning, he put the rope that was tethered to the ram into my hand and said, “This, then, is a gift to make the wedding party happy.”
And it did. The approved wedding date was a month or so away but I transported that ram on the roof-rack of a Volks Beetle the 70 miles down the rough road to where Carol was staying and there they cared for it until later we, and many others, were able to enjoy a savory mutton meal.

March 28, 2017 2:56 am
Published in: Family Life

How should I tell this story? The thought of African “Killer” bees provokes a lot of fear to everyone. There is so much background and supporting detail to this story that leads up to the “bombers”. Anyway, here goes – with some added particulars for clarity.
This, I understand, is what happened. On the mission station where we lived there was a missionary who had a kerosene refrigerator. (So did we, but that is not the point.) This missionary was very meticulous when it came to cleaning her fridge. After emptying it of everything, she had it carried outside and put in the shade of a tree while it was thoroughly cleaned. While it was drying, the kerosene tank was drained and the kerosene emptied into a container (of course spilling some in the process!) and the exhaust/flue pipe up the back cleaned of all built-up soot deposits. Of course those kerosene soot deposits fell on the ground, but who cares?
Which now comes to the next detail. Bees from an undetected nearby hive went crazy that day over the smell of kerosene. They swarmed down to the now empty tank, swarmed around the kerosene which had spilled on the ground and swarmed all over the ground where the soot had been dropped. The whole area was a-buzz with swarming bees which buzzed around in their crazy furor.
Which now brings a crucial detail. The “refrigerator cleaning” had been done just beside the only path which led to that missionary’s house.
Yes, you know where I am going. Carol had to go down to that missionary’s house for some reason or other. The bees allowed her through and she finished her business there. But the return trip was something else. Their “kerosene fury” was now directed at her.
With a shout, she started running for home, all the time slapping the bees that followed her. Her long hair proved to be a trap, entangling many bees which then found her scalp “sting-able”. I saw her running up to our house and she collapsed on the front steps. With quick hands I started slapping her head, killing the bees and pulling their dead bodies out of the tangled mess.
Fortunately, the stings hadn’t done too much to her. She was a trooper and that was the first time – and the last – I had to slap her around the head!

March 20, 2017 9:09 pm
Published in: Church Ministry

The pastor for the district had been very ill (actually, bedridden) for a long time. He was unable to perform even the pastoral responsibilities of chairing the church councils or to conduct the Lord’s Supper. The African church leaders had no one to replace or assist him in any church functions. Even the preaching in the main church was mostly done by one of the elders.
At that time, I had been appointed the Mission’s Field Director (later called Field Secretary) and our family had been moved to Mwanza which was the central town for all Field activities. I remodeled the former bookshop to make it into a Central Church Office and had been given a room in that building for Mission office matters. There I cared for much of the legal matters regarding the Mission in Tanzania and matters relating to missionary personnel.
Having now moved into “administration”, my involvement in direct church matters was very sporadic. Yes, I did quite a bit of preaching in various churches but that was at their invitation and without actual continuing responsibility. Yes, I was invited to “sit in” on church council meetings and give input but actual leadership responsibilities fell to the African pastors of the areas.
The leading pastor of the African church asked me if I would be willing to be appointed pastor of that sick pastor’s area. By road, it was about 50 miles from our home in town and my actual presence there would be limited. But, because of the pressing need, the church leadership felt sure I would be able to help the church “out there”.
 And, me? It didn’t take me long to agree. After all, our previous 20+ years in ministry had been mainly in direct church work. Administration was not my forte, but it had to be done and I had been chosen. So, in anticipation, I agreed. The leading church pastor went out with me, introduced me as their interim pastor and committed the ministry to the Lord.
And I had a ball. The pastoral area had, I believe, about 17 small out-churches and it was a joy to visit most them. Rain or shine, mud or dust, floods or ruts – for over 2 years my trusty vehicle took me to all those places. It was a joy to share God’s Word with them in each place, to encourage the evangelists and church leaders and – of course! – to fellowship around those good African meals that were served. Baptisms, the Lord’s Supper, church councils, opening a couple new churches, assignment of new evangelists – all part of ministry. It was further fulfillment for that which the Lord had taken us to Tanzania.
Fast forward – 20+ years later. I heard there was a Tanzanian student at Columbia University in South Carolina. When I finally got the phone number, I called. As I explained who I was the student, on the other end, excitedly broke into the conversation and said, “I know who you are. You came to my village church in Usamao and preached.” He was now here in the USA studying Bible theology and has now gone back to minister in church life out there. Praise the Lord

March 13, 2017 3:37 pm
Published in: Ministry Life

One of the oldest mission stations in Tanzania (formerly Tanganyika; formerly German East Africa) was Kijima. That station was first occupied in the early 1900s, about 1910. As a result, buried in all the accumulated clutter, there were a lot of old things from former missionaries who had lived there and left them behind when they moved. And, would you believe it, there were at least 5 old Model T engines – well rusted after lying outside for so many years.
Enter “me” – Rusty Baker – in 1956. When I first arrived out there as a missionary, I was assigned to reside with my parents who were on that station and to get busy with “language learning”. After they were moved to another station, I lived there alone until Carol became my wife. I had seen those old engines sitting around and, just for kicks, tried to work on them – but they were well seized up and many essential parts were missing.
Geography now! Between the mission station and the main road was a river and wide seasonal swamp. The rains between November and April made the swamp mostly impassable; the river often had quite a bit of water in it, even on into the early part of the dry season. Getting out by vehicle entailed getting across that swamp section, down into the river and up out on the other side. Once you got out of the river it was smooth sailing the 5 miles further to the main road.
The complication to the whole equation was getting down into the river, across the bottom of the river and up the other side. It was all black clay and very slippery when wet. It was hard to get  enough traction to make it all the way up the other bank and often several attempts had to be made.
Enter “me” – Rusty Baker! Over the years resident missionaries had put up with all the difficulties and I decided to make “improvements”. I carried rock down to line the bed of the river. For the deeper spots, I decided to use those old, rusted, no-good Model T engines. Into the river I dumped the engines. Around and over the engines I distributed rocks of varying sizes. Now the river wasn’t as much a problem. Even after a rain, with the rocks/engines on the river bed, one could get enough speed to get up the bank on the other side with little trouble. No more major problems – at least until the whole swamp flooded again and kept you from getting even to the river!
As I basked in my glory, one of the older missionary men who had lived previously lived on the station came to visit. He stayed for a day or so and, as he was getting ready to leave, asked where “his” Model T engines were. He wanted them. And I was chagrined. I had to tell him what I had done with them. I told him where they were and said if he really wanted them he could go and dig them out. (No. I didn’t offer to retrieve them.)
I guess it wasn’t that much of an issue with him. Maybe he just “kept it in” until he drove away to go home. Anyway, I found out later that what he really wanted were the magnets in the clutch assemblies that the old Model T’s had. What he wanted them for I have no idea!
But I guess I have to keep in mind that abandoned “stuff” still has an owner. I just need to find them!!

March 7, 2017 6:01 am
Published in: Ministry Life

Talk about diet! Sour milk and boiled dried fish was not my choice but relationships in African homes often called for “fellowship” around a meal.

First, descriptions. Milk came from the cow into usually a wooden “chanji” (vessel). And, being of wood, it was hard to clean properly and milk from a “chanji” wasted no time before turning sour. And, the longer it stayed in the “chanji” the more lumpy and sour it got. But that wasn’t a problem for them. That was the way they liked it!!    BUT ME? NOT!!

Now, for the fish. Tilapia was caught by nets in Lake Victoria. Because there was no refrigeration, and the best market for fish was ‘way beyond the lake shores, the fish had to be dried to make it marketable after lengthy (days) transport, usually by bicycle.

To dry it, the fish was split open and usually set out on the ground in the hot sun. Drying properly took several day; if a day was cloudy is slowed down the drying and often gave the fish an “unripe” smell – to say nothing of taste! Sometimes, the fish was dried on a platform over a fire and that made the drying faster. But, in the process that added a smokey taste to the odiforous (sp?) dried fish.
And, here I was after a long morning of roofing a primary school, on into mid-afternoon, ready for a break and a good meal. The head teacher invited me to his house, the wife brought in the meal – ugali, sour milk and boiled dried fish!
I survived – though I swallowed with reluctance. And the sweet milky tea she brought in to close the meal took most of the taste out of my mouth.

But the problem was that what I had swallowed seemed to stay with me for several days and I was sure others could tell what I had eaten!