awkward – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

Green – Naïve – Novice – Ignorant. String them together and you had my name tag.

The rambling house that my wife, myself and our bundle of Julie settled into had been built by missionaries who pioneered the work three decades ahead of our coming. The pioneers had fashioned the dwelling from local soil – rust-tinted bricks fired in a home-built kiln.

A day or two after our Bukuria arrival, a chorus of male voices took us by surprise. Not a musical chorus but a mix of busy voices growing loud, fading back, then loud again.

Are they angry. . . enthused. . . something other. . .which? Their language was neither English nor Swahili. Kikuria, no doubt. Unsure of their disposition and ignorant of who they were, I touched the screen door. And moved to the open veranda where the dozen or so African men had assembled.

I was twenty-seven, my wife twenty-three. It was clear most of the men out-seasoned me – their skin weathered from years beneath an equatorial sun.

The group of strangers – all male – coming unannounced, still left me uneasy.

Do we invite them in? If so, what do we do next?

Are these gents all friendly to the Mission. . . We have a six-month-old girl.

Whatever else Ann and I knew, one thing was certain. We were out of our element. These were waters we’d never swum.

One of the older men – their spokesman? – moved closer. His English was broken, his accent challenging but I could make it out easily enough.

“We come to greet. We come to welcome you here to this place.”

I drew near.

“Hello”, nodding. “Hello”, smiling. “Hello”, I greeted, shaking each extended hand one by one. Though I felt more at ease and was touched by their welcoming us to Kuria-land, I was still conflicted how to respond. Only to offer repeatedly. “Thank you, Thank you, sir. Thank you . .”

I searched awkwardly for some cultural bridge to temper the situation. Answers eluded me. The visitors glanced toward one another, voiced some quiet, mysterious words. And eventually, slowly, went their way.

It was months before I learned I had made a marked impression that awkward day. By then word had got around. It took a while to redeem our name. . . “They did not even welcome us in for tea.”

The new resident-missionary – come to live and serve among the Wakuria people – successfully offended a welcoming delegation of church elders.

Like the snaking road leading past the Mission, another bend in the way lay clearly ahead – our Taranganya learning curve.

“I need to what?”

“No, Jer, you need to get proactive. You must tell him. It’s what you do.”

Moving from Bukuria to Suna brought new discoveries, new challenges. Tensions. A lot of things differed between these two tribes, the Kuria and Luo. Traditions. Customs. Worldview.

Rally the courage, Jerry. . . and just do it.

Our colleagues, the Harmans, were off to Canada for a time and it fell to Ann and me to oversee Suna Mission Station in their absence. The Mission sat a stone’s throw from Tanzania, 45 kilometers east of Lake Victoria.

My disquiet was prompted by a visit to our home by a nearby pastor to discuss church affairs. . . Nothing weighty – a simple interchange to do with common matters of mission work.

By the time our second and then third visits rolled around I struggled with a dilemma. Four simple words could sum it up. . . how to part ways. I was stumped over how and when a visitor simply leaves for home once a visit is finished.

I had noted a pattern. . .

***

“Welcome, Brother Tom,” I smiled, “Come in.” We settled into a pair of living room chairs. Ann appeared, greeted the visitor, then moved toward the kitchen. Soon a kettle was whistling. Mugs of hot chai would soon rest on a serving tray before us. So far so good.

The pastor brought up a point. I introduced another. We covered one item, then a second. Cup of chai number two had arrived and gotten drained. Nothing odd here. . . the Locals like their tea.

By the time our third mug of spicy-sweet chai was drained, our discussion matters had wrapped up. The pastor’s visit was finished.

So I thought.

Tom didn’t move. Nor did I.

The pastor glanced at his watch about the time I snuck a peek at a wall clock. Snatches of small talk came and went, broken by moments of awkward silence.

Ann’s tea pot weighed considerably lighter since the first servings. Finally, in a series of awkward back-and-forths, my visitor arose. I did the same. Tom was gone.

***

“Here’s the thing, Jerry”, my Luo-savvy friend privately responded when asked about the dilemma.

“The thing is – once you’re done with business or whatever, the visit is done. It’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to tell him to go home.”

My eyebrows crinkled. “Say that again, please.”

“Sure, it’s like this. In this culture, see, it’s really rude of a visitor just to get up and – like us westerners would – just head for the door. We’re used to the, ‘Gotta go now, see ya later’ thing. No, where you live now you must invite your guest to leave.”

“Hmm.”

Tag: awkward

Sensibilities

The Door Please