For eight years, from 1965-1973, Ian and Sheila Finlayson served with SIM (Sudan Interior Mission), and along with my parents, were stationed at Egbe (pronounced egg’-beh). Egbe was one of the largest SIM stations in Nigeria because it boasted two compounds: a high school and a hospital. A wide dirt road ran out from Egbe town to the station and then further into the bush.

The hospital compound sprawled along the left-hand side of the road, and the high school fanned out to the right. The houses for the hospital staff were built in a semi-circle behind the hospital, and the homes for the teaching staff similarly flanked the back of the school campus. Ian was a teacher at the high school, called Titcombe College, and Sheila was a nurse at Egbe Hospital. They lived close to us, along with their four stair-step sons: Derek, Colin, Andy, and Gordon.

At the end of every August, all the missionary kids were flown 400 miles north to attend the mission boarding school called Kent Academy (KA), and we returned for four weeks of Christmas vacation. Then back to KA for the spring semester and home again for three months in the summer. I dreaded the separation from my parents, and so did Derek. To me, Egbe was my home, my life. The months away at school were just a parenthesis – a pause – putting life on hold until I was reunited with my family and all that was familiar. Even though we had friends at KA, Derek and I both felt desperately alone in the crowd. We would have much preferred to live at home with our families. The best days of my life were those spent at Egbe

Missionaries from different countries of the world resided at our station, but the Finlaysons were most notable to me — probably because they were so fiercely proud of their Scottish heritage. I heard frequent stories about the beauty and history of Edinburgh.

Uncle Ian I particularly remember. (We fondly called all the missionaries “Aunt” and “Uncle.”) In the sunny, humid mornings he rode his bicycle down the hill to teach his mathematics classes. When he spied me standing under the huge flame tree in our front yard, he shouted out a cheerful greeting in his booming voice, “Ach Lassie! It’s a bonnie day!” As I placed my little baby in her buggy and waved “hello,” he added, “That’s a lovely wee pram for your dolly.”  And he rolled the “R” in pram as if there were three or four, not just one.

Derek and Colin Finlayson often climbed trees with my brothers Larry and Mark, hiked to the swimming pool built by Uncle Cal Balisky, and trekked up Mt. Baldy. Sometimes I tagged along, because the other girls on our station lived further away and weren’t available to play. One summer, the boys built a tree house in our backyard, in the tall, straight tree at the border where the farmer’s rows of green corn stalks grew. The impudent young men made sure to nail the ladder just high enough so I couldn’t reach it, declaring boldly, “No girls allowed.”

On one particular trek up to the swimming pool, Derek stopped short as a large black snake crossed the dirt trail. We all had heard stories of the venomous Black Mamba. Thus, using the better part of valor, we turned and ran! Many afternoons we all had afternoon tea at our house. Black, loose-leaf tea in the British manner of course — with milk and sugar.

Andy Finlayson and my youngest brother, Grant, were best chums. For hours on end they rode their sturdy bikes around the compound, down the dirt road that circled Titcombe College, past the homes of the Frames, Prices, Hershelmans, and Haneys, then on past the curve toward the Balisky’s and MacPherson’s homes. There was a short stretch of road that had tarmac, and there the boys stopped, laid their bikes in the dirt, picked a handful of ripe pitanga cherries, and savored the tangy-sweet taste of the bright red fruit.

After pedaling madly around the bend, the adventurous pair, now huffing and puffing, parked their bikes at the mechanic’s garage, and joined Olu Mechanic, Uncle Cal, and other workers eating spicy-hot stew and pounded yam around a wood fire. There they met up with Soji and Oluwale, two Nigerian lads their age, ambled to the Titcombe tennis courts, and then explored the hospital compound (where the Campions, Weeses, Jacksons, Warrens, and other medical families lived).

Gordon Finlayson, still only a preschooler, had a firm friendship with my little sister Cindy. When the rest of us kids were away at KA, those two youngest-of-the-families kept each other company. They drove their Matchbox cars through tunnels and over finger-drawn roads in the soft dirt that covered the hardpan of our circular driveway. Occasionally the pair even played Barbie dolls with never an argument. Gordon managed to teach Cindy how to climb the tetherball pole in their front yard.

I once teased her in a sing-song voice, “Gordon is your boyfriend.” Cindy looked me straight in the eyes, with her jaw set and her eyebrows meeting together in the center, and firmly stated, “No. He is my friend.” And that put an end to that. Nonetheless, they always dreamt up some new adventure either at our house or two hundred yards up the hill at Gordon’s home (where the Roger Anderson family and Kraakevik family previously lived).

Cindy discovered that Aunt Sheila served her family eggs, either scrambled, fried or poached, every morning for breakfast. Eggs were a luxury on our station, so we surmised the Finlaysons must be wealthy British upper class.

Every so often I trudged up the dirt road to the left of our house, the road lined with white crepe myrtle trees on one side and a water-filled ditch on the other. Following its rutted track, I passed by the house on the left where the Allens lived (and later the Les Williams family, the Sharps, and the Rideouts). I finally arrived at my destination at the top of the small hill: the Finlayson’s home. Aunt Sheila served me a cup of tea at the dining table and we chatted while sipping leisurely. Then we moved to a comfortable sofa where I read numerous “Lady Bird” Early Reader Books from Scotland. I felt a twinge of sadness for Aunt Sheila because she lived alone at the top of the hill with all those boys.

Both Ian and she had lovely voices. Their lilting Scottish accents joyously belted out melody and harmony during worship services on Sunday evenings in the Titcombe College Chapel. Some of my favorites were “Onward, Christian Soldiers” and “A Shelter in the Time of Storm.” Even the thunderous roar of a tropical rainstorm on the corrugated tin roofs couldn’t drown out the jubilant tones.

We regularly gathered together, all the families on the Egbe station, for a potluck supper. One such happy event, held up at the swimming pool, was to commemorate the 4th of July. As we stood in line holding our empty plates, mouths watering at the wide array of warm casseroles and sweet desserts, I asked Uncle Ian if he we offended him that we were celebrating because they lost the war. ”On the contrary!” He exclaimed.

I sighed with relief, then giggled at his explanation.

“We were glad to be r-r-rid of you!”

The Finlayson family flew back to Edinburgh in 1973 when they finished their second missionary term. Derek had just completed grade 6, Colin grade 4, Andy grade 3, and Gordon grade 1 at Kent Academy. That year my parents accepted a new teaching position, and we moved to the tiny village of Shao (which rhymes with now). As the only missionaries there, our house stood solitary on its own compound, a mile outside of the town. I had just turned thirteen.

At that crucial age, friendships and social contacts were so important, but I felt lonely and isolated on the single-family station. The Finlaysons never returned to Nigeria. That farewell marked the end of an idyllic era for me.

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