It was a Sunday. As usual, the six-hour bus ride between Kisumu and Nairobi was shaping up to become an eight-hour journey, for reasons unknown. When we were somewhere near Kericho, my fears were confirmed: there was a preacher on board. It started innocently enough: a couple worship songs, some encouraging words and a prayer. Then the anointed man of God got up and started screaming the love of Jesus at the top of his lungs. Sweat poured off his face, veins bulged out of his neck and forehead. He appeared to be having an aneurysm. I tried not to have a panic attack; the bus was hot and claustrophobic and the potholes in the road kept me bouncing out of my seat. There I was, a missionary, doing all I could to keep from leaping over the large woman next to me and clubbing this preacher unconscious so that I could endure this brutal bus trip in peace. Welcome to Kenya.
This was about a month into my three-month trip across Eastern and Southern Africa. The journey took me across five countries, ranging from the asbestos mines in the mountains of Swaziland to the turquoise waters of Zanzibar Island, Tanzania. I was traveling alone, teaching about practical methods of water sanitation and hygiene, and instructing groups in the construction of Biosand water filters. Another large portion of my time was spent working with drug-addicted youth and AIDS orphans.

Because I was working independently, traveling by public transportation and living primarily in the slums where I was working, I got a very unsheltered view of foreign aid, religion, government and poverty in Africa. This also meant that I was exposed to frustrations and realities that had no simple solutions. I saw governments whose greed was so insatiable that they would deprive their own citizens of available emergency aid unless they were paid off with a substantial bribe. I saw generations of Africans so accustomed to handouts and aid that they no longer knew how to help themselves. And through it all, I saw the ever-present spirit of religion, a Christianity that had completely permeated the culture but had changed almost nothing.

Everyone was a Christian, but that could mean that you put a “Praise the Lord” bumper sticker right next to your foldout of a pin-up girl; it might mean that you follow a set of rules that forbids you from holding your girlfriend’s hand; or, it might mean you get your jollies from screaming salvation at innocent bus passengers. What seemed to be missing was a dynamic relationship with Christ that was centered on love and grace, and a way to address a stagnant Christianity and the socioeconomic problems of Africa in one go.

The solution is complex. Throwing money at it won’t help. Trying to instill Western ideals won’t solve anything. Overthrowing all of the governments would be a start, but then you have the mess of trying to rebuild them by finding people who are less corrupt and less power-hungry to rule. The real solution is in finding and empowering Africans by teaching them how to solve their own problems and then getting them to teach their neighbours to solve theirs. As Westerners, we feel the need to name a solution, patent it, publish it and associate it with an organization or a person. But it is much more subtle than that. It begins at the individual level—planting seeds to change mindsets, getting people to think for themselves and all the while sharing a Christianity more about unconditional love than emotional highs from fiery sermons or a set of rules to follow.