We are looking out on the Gulf of Guinea, trying to spot the equator 600 kilometers away. Two young men approach us and ask for our email addresses. I suspect there is some nefarious reason they want them but I feel it would be more dangerous to refuse. For some reason it doesn’t occur to me to provide a false email address.
There were missionaries active in Ghana from as early as 1828. Their legacy is ubiquitous.
My cousin Sharon is a missionary in Africa. She comes home to find her husband in bed with a young African boy who he had drugged and raped. Sharon gets back in her car and drives straight to her death. My mom tells me about her suicide. I ask what country they were in. She looks at me impatiently and repeats that they were in Africa.
The waitress asks me “Did you go to chuch this morning?” When I tell her I did not, she responds “I couldn’t go to church because I had to work. I thought maybe you could share the Word of God with me but you have nothing for me.”