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Click here to read an article
published in
Lutheran Partners Magazine
(October~2002)
Excerpt:
We stood talking near the village's thatched-roofed church while the dust devils swirled around us. I inquired about the health of his family. Tears filled his eyes as he told me that his wife and his children were managing. "Except for my youngest son," he added, his chin quivering.
"Is he ill?" I asked.
"No," he told me, "he is dead, now two months?"
"I'm so sorry for the loss of your son," I told my host. "How old was he?"
"He was 12 years old," the father said. "And he was a very good boy; he helped me a lot in the shamba (garden) and with the cows. He was a very good son to me."
"Malaria?" I asked. That was a likely bet, since malaria takes so many children here. But the headman shook his head and his eyes filled up again.
"No," he said softly. "He was taken by..." he paused and shuddered as he sucked in a deep breath, expelling the words in a whisper, "...a mamba."
A crocodile! Dear God! A crocodile had taken his boy!
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