The half-finished house sits somewhere out on the edge of the sprawling capital of Yaounde. Surrounded on one side by draping rain forest and the other side by encroaching development, the grey concrete block house has only been occupied for about a year. It was built by a man from northern Cameroon. He is from the Fulani tribe whose native tongue is Fulfulde. He came here to Yaounde seven years ago with his new Fulani bride, Binta*, then just a girl of 13. Now, at almost 21 years old, she is the mother of 3 children under the age of 5. Even though he is a man twenty years her senior, he has been kind to Binta. He is a devout man, faithful in his prayers to Allah, faithful in his good deeds. One of his recent good deeds was to give me a chicken on the last day of Ramadan. Oh how he and his children shrieked with laughter when he tried to hand me the flapping live chicken and I insisted I would not know what in the world to do with a living chicken (nor how to get it into a non-living form).
Binta's father did not allow her to attend school as a child, so she did not speak any French when she arrived in Yaounde. In the intervening years, she has taught herself how to converse in French out of necessity. Recently, her husband had given me permission to teach Binta how to read and write in French.
Arriving for one of her lessons, I step from the red-dirt road onto the nailed-together slats of wood that cross a ditch in front of their house. To my right, the newly-planted maïze is starting to sprout up. As I approach the house, two little barefoot, dirt-dusted girls run out from the house and meet me halfway across the yard with shouts of "Jay-see-ka!!!! They are little friends, these two small girls. The smaller one is the 3-year old daughter of Binta. The other one is the 4-year old daughter of Fatoumata*, Binta's neighbor. Little tiny hands wrap around my neck and big hugs and lots of words of greeting fly around in both French and Fulfulde. Binta walks over in her usual laid-back and comfortable gait. Her beautiful black skin glowing in the sunshine, her eyes twinkling, her baby bouncing happily on her back. She wears a simple traditional skirt and top and her usual black rope necklace with golden colored coins dangling down on her collarbone. She grasps my hand and greets me warmly like she does twice every week. We talk the best we can as her daughter and the little neighbor girl continue to grab my hands and pull on me, vying for my attention.
We step together onto the concrete veranda that runs the length of her house. Along the length there is thin rope that is strung double to function as clotheslines. As usual, there are clothes hanging up, half dry in the afternoon sun. At the other end of the veranda, there is a pot of something, probably rice, sitting directly on open flames. This pot is almost always on when I arrive, always simmering dinner for the five people who live here and any neighbors who might drop by for a visit later.
We pause at the front door and I reach down and slip the strap of my sandals off over my heel. My shoes come off and my toes touch the cool concrete floor as I follow Binta out of the sunshine and enter the living room. As my eyes adjust to the light, I see a figure resting on the couch. She rises as we enter. It is Fatoumata, the mother of the little neighbor girl, and she is here to rest and visit with Binta. Wearing a royal blue dress with gold embroidery, she is just a beautiful as Binta. It's her smile that captivates you from the moment you meet her. She grasps my hand in welcome and we press our left cheeks together, then our right cheeks, then our left cheeks again.
We talk small talk, us three women. So different, and yet so alike. We sit on the worn rug in front of the couch and I lay out French alphabet flashcards for Binta. A, B, C, D . . . the letters are beginning to become familiar to her. These letters which were all foreign before, but are now becoming like faithful old friends. She wants to be able to read and write. She wants to be able to help her 5-year old son with his schooling. The little guy is sprawled out on the carpet beside us, doing his homework. Tracing the letter "d" over and over again in his notebook. He can't concentrate very well because like any normal 5-year old boy, he'd rather be watching TV or be outside playing soccer. The two little girls dance happily around Binta and I while we repeat the guttural sounds the letters make. The 11-month old baby crawls over and grabs the flashcards and tries to eat them . . . again. We all laugh heartily at her. We laminated the cards because the baby was prone to eat them, but we let her chew on them now since we know she can't ruin them.
After a bit, Binta and Fatoumata leave to check on the pot that is still simmering out on the open fire. Only the little neighbor girl is left in the living room now. The other children have run outside. In the light pouring through the open front door, I can see her chubby cheeks and her fuzzy soft hair in braids all over her head. She is holding her mama's keyring. It has a picture of Jesus on it. The image is commonly referred to as the "sacred heart".
The image seems as if Jesus is looking straight into your soul with tender eyes.
The two fingers of his right hand held up as if to beckon you to pause and listen to Him.
And then His left hand pointing to His own heart that is surrounded by a crown of thorns, and on fire and bursting with the warmth of His love for humanity.
I'm surprised to find it here, in a Muslim home. In a neighborhood where the parents do not want their children to hear about Jesus.
So, I ask my little friend, "Who is that?"
She looks quizzically at me, then back at the image as if studying it.
Then with wide brown eyes turned back to me, she says,
"It's you."
My first reaction is to laugh at the irony of the similarities of long brown hair and the white skin. But then a second though quickly fills my heart and it's as if the world slows for a moment:
What if it IS me?
What if I am the only "Jesus" she ever gets to meet?
What if it is my eyes that Jesus wants to use to see her soul?
What if it is me that Jesus wants to use to beckon her to pause and listen to Him?
What if it is my hands that Jesus wants to use to point her to His own heart?
What if the only chance these precious friends have to know Jesus is, in fact, me?
Moments later the mamas are back. Binta and I work on flashcards again. While we work on the sounds for the letter "L", Fatoumata grabs her prayer mat, rolls it out on the living room floor, points her face toward mecca, and bows her forehead to the ground.
And just behind her sits her little girl.
And the key chain with the sacred heart of Jesus.
And me.
(*Not their actual names.)
