No Hurry in Africa by Brendan Clerkin Page A

mosquitoes biting.
    One night before the rains stopped, I was in the car with Sr. MM when we came upon two lorries that had toppled on their sides off the dirt roads in the rain and lightning, just outside Kitui village. For once, I was breathless with anxiety, fearing the curious crowds that had assembled in the darkness and the possibility of bandits among them, maybe intent on opportunistically looting the contents of the lorries—or passing vehicles.
    We were on our way to visit the mission house of two convivial Irish Kiltegan priests, Fr. Frank and Fr. Liam. Fr. Frank and Fr. Liam were in their sixties, typical of the age profile of the Irish missionaries in Africa. We spent a long time that night on the verandah admiring the squadrons of glowing fireflies dancing in the rain. We were exchanging stories.
    ‘There was uproar the other day when everyone in Kwa Vonza village refused to be confirmed,’ Fr. Frank told us, in between puffs on his trademark pipe. ‘They had heard about the Holy Spirit coming down upon them; they thought it meant evil spirits would possess them. It was time for a bit of basic theology.’
    As the topic of conversation turned to witchcraft, the electricity suddenly went off in the mission house. We lit candles and pondered, as we always did, whether the electricity going off was caused by the rain, or if gangsters had cut the electricity supply for the village in order to raid a house. No one ever said aloud what he was thinking. Would we get a knock on the window?
    Sr. MM had told me that, earlier in 2005, a gang of armed men called to the mission house one night when Fr. Frank was alone. All the missionaries have a watchman outside their homes during the night, but Fr. Frank’s had a habit of falling asleep on the job. The gang was surprised when Fr. Frank opened the door to them, smiled and simply said ‘ Karibu ’ (you’re welcome in). They had a good search round, and were disappointed to find nothing. Fr. Frank owns only a couple of changes of clothes, some books, his characteristic cap to protect his bald head, and an old ink-ribbon typewriter that he lets some of the villagers use. He gives everything else away.
    If Sr. MM was like my aunt, then these two were to become like uncles to me. Yet they were so different in personality. Fr. Frank was a calm, contented, jovial and robust hardworking man from the Dublin Mountains. Whereas Fr. Liam, from Tipperary, was eager, energised and animated behind his big glasses; his generosity and conscientiousness were testaments to his character. Both had a sharp wit and could tell a good story. Fr. Frank was, on occasions, to be seen clad in a big heavy jacket in the afternoon heat, alighting from his battered old motorbike after doing his priestly rounds. Fr. Liam preferred the bright safari suits his parishioners had sewed for him while he attended to his duties.
    Fr. Frank was known to one and all as Mnambo, the Kikamba word for lion. He either did not know why or was too modest to say—although I heard a rumour that he had started it himself decades previously. As he and I were driving to Mass, very early the next morning after the rains, to an out-station near Nyumbani, his small jeep became stuck in the mud of the dirt track, half way up a slope. Not a man to give up lightly, Fr. Frank revved and revved, then finally yelped,
    ‘Uh oh!’
    Gently, almost in slow motion, the jeep toppled over side-ways—with us inside. We abandoned it and trudged through the muck to reach the out-station, carrying all the paraphernalia for the Mass in our hands.
    All the Africans we encountered along the track were delighted with the recent rain, telling us about the amount they had captured in barrels and buckets. They did not seem to mind the effort involved in hauling the oxen and carts through the deep mud. We greeted all the barefoot schoolchildren we met along the way. They were carrying copybooks and pencils, as well as some sticks for a fire in