Great Rift Valley – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

There in the African Savannah where acacia trees with their flat-topped enchanting forms dot the landscape, an adolescent boy, a humble cattle-tender, was cornered by thieving attackers. He made a futile attempt to seek refuge among his father’s herd of semi-nourished cows – the bounty his attackers pursued. Horrifying moments raced like short distance sprinters toward the finish tape until the boy was seized and beaten to death by these neighboring tribal warriors.

Once I heard the news, words like heartless and senseless quickly sprang to my young missionary mind.

In the worldview of the tribesmen who had slain the boy for his father’s cows, there was nothing senseless about their deed. For generations nomadic lore had dictated that all cattle were created by God as a gift for their people. Any means to retrieve what was rightfully theirs was deemed acceptable. The “retrieving of cattle” was, to them in fact, a kind of calling.

Pastor Nashon had first been alerted of his young brother’s death by the high-pitched wailing of nearby village women. Afterwards, through grapevine media common to rural Africa, word of the tragedy reached our mission station several miles to the west.

Mounting my orange and aging Suzuki dirt-bike, I ran my helmet strap through the cinch ring, securing it snugly beneath my chin. Pastor Nashon needed a friend nearby – even a recent friend whose culture and land were radically different from his own. I hoped to somehow be such a friend.

Mindful of an involuntary tensing of my eyebrows I tried to push back my growing sense of inadequacy. Comforting loved ones who’ve experience the quiet and expected demise of, say, an aged and dear family member can be daunting enough. But this defied categories.

What shall I say an hour from now once my piki-piki is brought to a dusty halt and I enter the humble, thatch-roofed hut? How do I myself process such news, much less console the grieving young pastor whose brother’s life had so recently been brutally taken?

***

“Bwana asifiwe.” Nashon, only barely my junior gave a warm smile as he offered the Swahili greeting, “the Lord be praised”. Though a common greeting among believers, the words seemed specially poignant (maybe less than fitting? I thought).

I quietly entered the dirt-floor hut which was poised on a high ridge along the Great Rift Valley. I took the seat my young host offered. My senses caught the flavor of steaming, charcoal-heated chai, its vapors loitering above the fresh-washed mug now extended my way.

What followed altered my world forever.

I had shut the kerosene flow to the lanterns and, as typical on a Bukuria Mission night, we had fallen asleep by 11:00 p.m. and for an hour all was quiet. That changed.

Ann’s bursting cry of pain shocked me awake.

“Honey, what’s wrong, what is it?”

My dear wife, young and lovely – missionary mom to our toddler and our three-month infant – had bolted upright, seizing her midsection. The pain was searing. A few frightening moments and the surge of torture eased.

In a previous week Ann had already had a flare-up – similar to this, but not nearly so severe.

Soon as arrangements were made, our little foursome found our way out of Kuria-land, bound once more for Nairobi. Ann’s doctor in the capital had determined an inflamed gall bladder had likely been the culprit shooting torment through her abdomen.

Wearied by the trip of trailing behind smoke-belching buses and lorries at varying intervals along the two-lane road of the Great Rift Valley, we thankfully arrived at Mennonite Guest House. Ann would be admitted for surgery next morning. A day we would never forget.

November 20, 1974. As the hour-hand of the Nairobi hospital clock struck eight a.m. a Lufthansa 747 Jumbo Jet just 16 kilometers away, sped along a takeoff runway. The flight was to be the final segment of its Frankfurt – Nairobi – Johannesburg route. Seconds later, barely airborne, the aircraft dropped to earth. It’s tail broke apart. Fire spread to the fuselage when the left wing exploded.

A tragic day in aviation history for the East Africa nation. No airplane mishap in Kenya has brought more fatalities. Fifty-nine of the 157 passengers and crew died, many others suffering injuries, some with severe burns. It was the first-ever 747 crash resulting in lives lost. The cause, insufficient air lift due to mechanical issues.

“We will reschedule you, Mrs. Lout, once we learn more. At present, our staff are on alert for arriving casualties.”

Remarkably, my wife was called in for her surgery the following morning. After the gall-bladder removal she was granted permission to have her nursing son join her in the private room.

Our prayers these days carried a range of emotion. Heaviness for the bereaved and the injured of Flt 540, relief and thankfulness our family could journey again soon. Back to our upcountry home.

Tag: Great Rift Valley

Death Valley

Nairobi Heartbreak