WELL launches on November 7th! Over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing scenes and quotes and stories from the book to give you a sneak peak.  My trip didn’t get off to a good start — my driver got my flight details mixed up and ended up being three hours late.  I had a tearful meltdown at the airport, which led to a woman sitting next to me asking, “Sista, are you sure you’re strong enough for Africa?”

***

When I got to customs, I looked for a man fitting the description of the driver the missions agency told me would be picking me up: tall, broad shoulders, early forties, holding a Hospital of Hope sign.  But he wasn’t there.

Once I had made it through all the checkpoints, I found myself in the airport’s “lobby,” which was a large open-air area with a roof, but no windows or doors. There was no air-conditioning, and the temperature was well over one hundred degrees.

I searched for the driver inside the lobby and, when I didn’t see him there, I went outside and looked for him at the passenger pickup area, and in the parking lot. There was no sign of him. With panic beginning to well up in me, I went back inside to figure out what to do next.

I didn’t know the name of the guesthouse where I was staying or how to get there. My cell phone didn’t work in Togo, and the airport’s WiFi was password protected. All I could do was wait. And pray.

I was the only white person at the airport, and the only woman traveling alone. I realized that the other travelers and the employees who ran the airport’s snack shop and currency exchange stand were all watching me.  

A tall Togolese man tried again to carry my bag in exchange for a tip. I swatted him away, and then I began to perform evasive maneuvers, hiding behind concrete pillars, the ATM and the shoeshine stand to try to escape his notice.  But he found me huddling behind a pillar, and grabbed my bag again.

This time I stood up, got in his face, and yelled, “No!”

He let go of my bag, and then held out his hand for a tip.

I shook my head. “No. I told you no at least ten times.”

He started yelling at me in French. His words were so loud and so fast, I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I knew he was angry.

Struggling with my heavy bag, I made my way outside where I sat on a bench and cried. The guy found me on the bench and continued yelling at me, holding his empty hand in front of my face, still demanding a tip for his services.

“No!” I jumped to my feet. By now I wasn’t just raising my voice at him; I was screaming and shaking my finger in his face. My heart sank at the realization that I had come to show compassion to the Togolese people and instead, here I was, screaming at a Togolese person in frustration and anger.

“Sista, can I help you?” I heard a woman ask in accented English.

I turned to see a stout fifty-something woman sitting two benches down, watching what was happening. I guessed she was from Ghana or Nigeria, nearby countries whose citizens spoke English instead of French.

“Yes!” I said, thankful for her offer. “Get this man to leave me alone.”

She leaped up, got in his face, and yelled at him in a dialect I didn’t understand. Whatever she said to him worked because moments later, he spit at my feet, stomped away, and didn’t come near me again.

“Thank you,” I said to the woman, grateful for her willingness to intervene.

She nodded. Then she said, “Sista, may I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” I said.

She surveyed me from head to toe, taking notice of my white skin, thin frame, and tear-and-sweat-stained face.

“Sista, if you don’t mind, are you sure you’re strong enough for Africa?”

I silently shrugged as I sank back down onto the bench and wiped the tears away.

I had been in Togo for less than an hour, and already I was having serious doubts.

***

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