One day Maryknoll Brother Cyril and I were camping out in the bush in Tanzania. We shot a gazelle and were roasting it over a campfire in the quiet of the evening when suddenly before our eyes stood a tall, black, somber warrior.  He stood there, leaning on his spear, watching us.  Completely surprised, I greeted him in Swahili, the language common to East Africans, and asked, “Can I help you?”

He answered in Swahili, “Have you seen my calves?  My young son was herding them today and six are missing.” Seeing him suspiciously eye the animal we were roasting, I said, “No, we have not seen your calves.  This is a gazelle we shot.  Have you eaten?” “No,” he said quietly. “Come, sit and eat with us,” I said in an inviting way, emulating the marvelous, spontaneous hospitality of African people. With my hunting knife, I cut some roasted meat and handed it to him.  I also sliced pieces for Brother Cyril and myself.  As we began chewing, I noticed our guest just sitting there with the meat in his hands.

“Don’t you eat gazelle meat?” I asked. “Yes, we do.” “Why do you not eat then?” I asked, a little perplexed. His response caught me off guard. “Don’t you pray first?” Embarrassed, I admitted, “Yes, we pray.  I forgot.  Do you pray?” “No,” he said.  “We don’t know how to pray.”

His answer never left my mind.  I’ve always taken it as an invitation to go to teach the Watatulu how to pray.