Everything is harder in Africa!

Sep 7

Everything’s Harder in Africa (But Jesus is Worth It)

Everything’s harder in Africa. That’s not a complaint—it’s a confession. A confession that comfort is a luxury and the mission field doesn’t come with air conditioning or Starbucks. Just getting here is its own act of sanctification. The flight is long, the food is weird, and the legroom is a lie. When you finally land, you’re greeted not by a red carpet, but by “chai” culture—which is not the delicious spiced tea you’re thinking of. No, this chai is a euphemism for a bribe. A “tax.” A “fee.” A “gift.” Just smile, nod, and pray it doesn’t empty your wallet before you even leave the airport.

Then come the roads—or what used to be roads. You’re bouncing through potholes, dodging goats, and hitting speed bumps that feel like mini-mountains. Maximum speed is 80 km/hr (that’s about 50 mph), but don’t worry, you’ll rarely hit that. Welcome to the poli poli lifestyle: slow, steady, and in no hurry for anything—except maybe lunch.

You finally arrive at your lodging. There's a button on the wall that may or may not turn on hot water. There might be a fan, but if it works, it sounds like a lawnmower fighting a blender. You're not sure if you're going to get cool or decapitated in your sleep.

Breakfast comes—chapati (kind of like a tortilla’s cousin), beans, and cupcakes that are, let’s just say, deceptive. They look sweet but taste like bread. Somewhere, a missionary is crying over a dry muffin and fake coffee.

Toilets? If you’re lucky. If not, it’s a “choo”—a hole in the ground—and good luck with the physics of that if you’re over 40. And don’t forget: bring your own TP or get real familiar with a John Wayne kind of toughness. Rough. Tough. And don’t take...well, you know.

Then you begin your day of mission: medical, pharmacy, cooking, evangelism—it doesn't matter. You’re out in the bush where brushing your teeth with tap water can invite parasites. Drop your toothbrush? It's gone. Pro tip: always pack two. Always.

Showers? A bucket, a cup, a dark corner, and a prayer that no one walks in. You bathe while listening to hyenas yelp in the distance, trying not to think about what might be crawling nearby. When you're clean, you realize you’ve got to walk across sandy ground back to your tent. Sand + sweat = instant regret.

And at night? Either you're freezing or you're sweating like a sinner in church. No middle ground.

Then comes the hard part: communication. You stand to preach, and it goes like this: "Jesus loves you." Pause. Translator speaks. You say more. Pause. Translator again. You start to wonder if they’re telling the crowd what you said—or reciting the Swahili version of War and Peace.

But then it happens.

You see the faces.

The joy.

The hunger for the gospel.

And suddenly, everything changes.

You realize that Romans 10:14 rings loudly here: "And how are they to believe in him of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone preaching?"

You watch children dance with joy, barefoot in dirt, wearing torn clothes—and yet they sing louder than any American choir. Their smiles aren’t fake. Their praise is pure. They have nothing, but they have Jesus. And that’s everything.

Then comes the hardest part: leaving.

You're looking out the dusty window of the Land Cruiser. Kids are running behind you, yelling, “Mazungu! Mazungu!” (white person!). They're waving, smiling, shouting “Asante!” (thank you) and “Bwana asifiwe!” (praise the Lord!). And your heart breaks.

Because in that moment, you know they didn’t just receive shoes or medicine or dresses…

They received the gospel.

“How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the good news!” – Romans 10:15

You get back to the hotel or safari lodge—ice-cold Coke in hand—and start to laugh about the terrifying fan, the bucket bath, and the mystery meat at lunch. But then someone says, “Do y’all remember that little girl with the blind eye?” And silence falls. Because yeah, you remember. You remember the hurt. You remember the hunger. And you remember the hope.

Eventually, it’s time to go home. Airport chaos, broken printers, four security checks, missing tickets, seat changes—it’s all part of the process. Because—say it with me now—everything’s harder in Africa.

But as you cross the ocean and the landscape fades, you catch yourself already planning your return.

Why?

Because even though everything’s harder in Africa… Jesus is worth it.

And you know deep in your soul: “Whatever you did for the least of these my brothers, you did it unto Me.” – Matthew 25:40