Today, February 18, is my dad’s birthday. When I was a child, I thought all famous men were born in February! Dad passed away in November 2015, and a few months later I began writing my childhood stories. Here’s one of the first memories I documented but am just now publishing. Let me know what you think of The Shiny, White Truck…

The morning sun blazed through the African sky at our mission station in central Nigeria, as I grabbed the door handle of the shiny, new work truck parked in our sandy driveway. The top of my head barely reached the floor of the huge cab. So, I stretched my arms high, grabbed the bars under the driver’s seat, and struggled to pull myself up.

“You can do it!” encouraged my brother Larry, a big seven-year-old, who stood behind me ready to give me a boost if I needed it, while our dad worked on the engine.

My feet searched for a grip on the running board, then on the door frame. This is just like when I climb the tall flame tree in our front yard. Finally, I scrambled into the padded bucket seat.

“Vroom! Vroom! Vroom!” My voice rumbled as I pretended to start the engine. With Larry in the passenger seat beside me, I cranked the steering wheel to the left, then yanked it to the right dodging imaginary potholes in the red dirt road.

“Daddy, can I go with you tomorrow?” I squinted out the windshield and through the gap under the raised hood to watch my dad pull the measuring stick out of the oil tank. He wiped it on a rag.

“Please, please, please, Daddy? I’m six years old, so I won’t be any trouble.”

My brother chimed in. “Yes, Dad. Can Debbie come with us this time? I’ll watch out for her.”

A Drive into the Rain Forest

My tall, slim father, wearing khaki shorts and a grease-stained T-shirt, lifted his head from under the hood of the engine. “Sure, if you think you can look after her, Larry.” He replaced the dipstick with a satisfied grunt. “It’s our first trek with this new Mercedes Benz, so it’s going to be a special day.”

“Yippee!” I reached over and hugged Larry then settled into the seat. Returning to our imaginary jungle journey, I concentrated on steering the lurching monstrosity over the rough West African terrain. Larry patiently waited his turn.

Early the next morning, Dad, Mom, Larry, and I, along with our younger brothers, Mark and Grant, set out on the once-a-month preaching circuit.  

First, we drove to the chapel and two dozen young men from the high school jumped in the back of the shiny truck. Dad steered expertly over washed-out roads through tall Savannah grass and on into the jungle. For mile after mile, the tires sprayed so much dirt on the outside of the truck that soon the white paint turned reddish-brown. 

Along the way, at a dozen stops, smiling villagers gathered, and two or three students hopped off to preach. We continued to Omi, the last village on the rutted route.

There we were greeted by a large group of churchgoers in front of the rock-walled building with its metal pan roof. We took our seats on the wooden, backless benches. The singing started and everyone joined in. Then my dad stood up and preached in English while our good friend, Mr. Adeyemi, interpreted into Yoruba.

Though the window shutters stood wide open, only a tiny breeze blew in. Sweat drops started on my forehead and under my arms.

How Did My Skin Peel Away?

Six or seven village children sat on the floor around me, giggling and patting my arms. I shifted closer to Mom. She said, “You’re the first white-skinned girl they’ve ever seen. Be patient.”

The kids scooted closer and chanted, “Oyinbo! Oyinbo!” Then they tugged my short, straight brown hair and pinched my skinny arms. I sat as stiff as a palm tree.

My brother leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Oyinbo means ‘white man’ or ‘peeled one.’ They’re trying to figure out how your black skin came off.” He waved at the kids to stop. Then he took a piece of notepaper out of Mom’s lap, folded it in half, and fanned my sweaty face.

When the children went back to sit with their parents, my mom sketched an airplane on the paper for me. Then she handed me the pencil and said, “Here, you try it.” She taught art at the high school and was good at drawing, but my scribbles looked more like a half-peeled banana than a plane.

For two hours we sat on the hard bench, and my brothers and I got pretty fidgety. At last, Dad said, “Now, I’ll close in prayer.”

More Adventures in the New Truck

The villagers said goodbye and followed the winding path through the trees to their homes. Then Mom unpacked our lunch under the cool, leafy shade of a mango tree next to the church. We had a fun picnic eating SPAM® sandwiches and carrot sticks while sitting on a blanket. My brothers dug around in the dirt looking for beetles.

After Daddy talked with some of the students for a while, we began the return drive home. At each village, we stopped, and the other students climbed in over the tailgate, telling their stories of activities in each community.

Once back home, I pulled on my short-sleeved pajamas by the dim light of our kerosene lamp and smiled. I got to go on the Sunday trip with Dad in the new truck!

 When Dad came in and sat on the edge of my bed, I wrapped my arms around his neck. “I’m so glad I got to go along with you today,” I said. “It was a long, hot, dusty journey, but I get lonely when you go without me!”

Dad kissed me goodnight on my forehead. As I drifted off to sleep, I dreamed of my next adventure in Yorubaland with Dad. My imagination careened down a rocky road while I madly steered the shiny white truck.

To read more about my childhood as a missionary kid (MK) in Nigeria, check out my about page here.