GOD
and a Steering Wheel
By Gerry Hamlett*
diately, but it was six o’clock when we actually left. Those who have lived in the land of the black man will under stand this delay. The intervening hours had been spent “ chiniking” (arguing the fare), and then sitting down by the road side while a host of Africans fought for places on the back of the truck. For many it meant standing room only. In addition to the human cargo, there was much freight to be loaded. Just as the tropical sun was bowing down to tall palms in the west, we be gan slowly to wend our way out of Gombe. Our truck seemed to fairly groan beneath its great burden, but for the first five miles none of us were aware that anything was actually wrong. Suddenly, as we started down an in cline, we were horrified to discover that the steering apparatus was not working properly. The native driver stopped, got out, and announced that he would not think of driving that vehicle any farther. It was then that “ another driver” stepped up—a seventeen-year-old lad— and announced that he would get us to Jos regardless of the condition of the truck. He mounted the driver’s seat. With a crashing of gears, we were off, reeling from one side of the road to the other, never knowing just which little dale or vale was to be our final resting place. There was no doubt in our minds: this lad had missed his calling. He was meant for dive bombers and pursuit planes— not for mere trucks tied down to earth. He fought that steering wheel with his entire body, calling on Allah at the top of his lungs. Finally he announced that at the seventeen-mile post out of Gombe we would “ lighten the ship.” This we did, disposing of much cargo and a few of the natives. If this operation was made in order to make the truck more easy to handle, then it only seemed to increase the speed of this moving death row. The dirt road seemed always to be going up
Warriors of the Tregwe tribe (Nigeria) on the day of the rain festival. I LOOKED up into the star-spangled heavens of a Nigerian night and my heart cried out: “ O Lord, steering wheel or no steering wheel, it is all the same to Thee. Brakes or no brakes, noth ing is impossible with Thee. If it is Thy will, take me safely home.” But I was having a hard time; here and there were sharp darts of unbelief. Then I added a postscript to my prayer: “ Lord, if You do get us there, I will write it for Thy glory.” I was sitting in the cab of a native lorry (truck). We were weaving all over the road like a spinning top. Only that afternoon I had left the mission station at Zambuk, Nigeria, accompanied by a young married couple from a sister mis sion society. Kind friends had given us the use of a 1929 Model A Ford in which to travel the sixteen miles to the Moham medan city of Gombe where we were to use a lorry for the remaining 177 miles to Jos, our destination. To us, this little Ford was pure luxury and we sang its praises as it easily crossed the bridge less streams. Arriving in Gombe, we headed for the post office, a little mud hut with a grass- thatched roof. Our friends in America had not failed us! There were letters and packages! Soon a black boy came running toward us to say that a lorry was leaving for Jos immediately and we must hurry to catch it.. The lorry proved to be a one-and-a- half-ton American army truck which long ago had been discarded as unfit for use. But it didn’t look too bad to us; its olive-drab color seemed like a friend from fhe States. It was a little after two o’clock in the afternoon when we Were told that the lorry was leaving imme- *Missionary of the Sudan Interior Mission, Jos. Nigeria, B.W. Africa. O C T O B E R , I 9 4 8
Nigerian native police. or down. And “going down” brought the most thrills for it was then that we rode a roller coaster. Apparently the driver had a strong dislike for brakes. When asked why he didn’t shift to low gear on the down grades, he replied that it took too much gasoline. As we sped over narrow African bridges spanning rivers and ravines, we prayed with all of our hearts for deliverance. What chance did we have with 150 more miles of this? Our nerves were taut now; the long night was before us. Occasionally a star fell, spinning down to earth as if to sympathize with us! How glad I was that I was ready to meet the Lord, the Creator of heaven and earth, if this was His time. Finally we struck upon a plan: Why not suggest that the white man drive the truck the remainder of the way to Jos? He had driven trucks in America. If anybody could keep that vehicle on the road, surely he could. It took a long time to convince the youthful African driver that this would be an improve ment, but at last he relinquished his post and joined the crowd in the rear. What was our horror to hear his last instructions, given in a very matter-of- fact manner? “ Don’t use the brakes more than you have to; they don’t work!” Faulty brakes and faulty steering—a precarious combination. But even so we two girls relaxed a bit, knowing that the driver was one of the Lord’s own and possessed of good judgment. However, we had not gone more than two or three miles before we realized that this dilapi dated affair was beyond the control of even an experienced white driver. Again the missionary and the black boy traded places in the driver’s seat. As we won dered why the Lord had allowed this sit uation, we concluded that He wanted us Page Nine
Nigerian snake charmer.
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