Surprise Gift

Yesterday morning there was a call from the hallway, “Mama Mary.” I opened my bedroom door to see Maou, our guard, standing in the hall. “Mama Furaha apeleka huyu” (“Mama Furaha sent this.”). He held out a small, thin plastic bag, the ubiquitous shopping sack of Beni. Inside the bag were four handfuls of freshly cut, tender basil leaves. They glistened in the darkness and smelled glorious. 

“Mama Furaha hapa?” (“Mama Furaha’s here?”).

“Hapana. Watoto alipeleka” (“No, the children brought this.”).

I’ve known Mama Furaha since 2010. Until last summer, she served as cook at the international staff house, a role she had for four years. Mama Furaha makes the most succulent samosas and the crispiest frites. She pays attention to what people like and accommodates (and surprises) with her culinary skills and a charcoal stove. She is a consummate teacher, whether she is showing how to make samosas or coaching Swahili in a gentle, encouraging manner.

Mama Furaha lives out her name in spite of hardships. Health issues, a husband who struggles to maintain a job and sobriety, and raising three grandchildren do not dampen Mama Furaha’s spirit. Furaha means joy or happiness.

Mama Furaha knows that I like basil and enjoy a salad of it with chopped tomatoes, fresh spinach (if it’s available), avocado, and a little onion. She also knows that we don’t have basil growing at Bethel House, the guesthouse where I’ve been living for the past several months. Her gift yesterday was an expression of love. Last evening, while relishing my salad, I offered thanks for Mama Furaha and her loving kindness.

This afternoon I’ll visit her to say,“Thank you, dear friend,” and ask her to join me when I move to my own home here in Beni, in two weeks. I’m hoping she will be willing to help manage the house, cook, and continue as my Swahili coach. I’m hoping she will continue to grace me with the joy of her spirit.