The Prayers I Prayed In A Tanzanian Prison -

I spent the majority of that day, the one ending in a Tanzanian prison, traveling by van. There were nine seats in the van and it was said by locals that vans arrived every half hour but most often the vans would drive by me full of Africans and no room for white Muzungus.

I tried to not be discouraged. I knew if there was room available, a square foot available, they would let me in. There were nine seats in a van. I counted around 25 passengers during most rides, including their bags. Before the prison later that night I would count 29.

That September was spent in Mwanza, Tanzania. The city itself is not much to speak of, it’s buildings and broken roads. But it sits on Lake Victoria, and the Masai tribesman wandering seemingly lost in a new world, their shepherd staff in one hand and Vodacom cell phone in the other and the largest boulders I’ve ever seen stacking on one another, giving eyes reassurance the world looked 10,000 years ago just as it did that September. It was my off day from work and I was heading to Lake Victoria.

Calling out Paul’s BS

For most of my Christian life, I’ve never really known what to think of prayer. Growing up, my version of the perfect way to pray was on your knees, on the side of the bed, hands perfectly clasped together, head down, eyes closed. It always began with ‘Dear God.’

But then I read about Paul’s prayers. More than once he wrote of how he prayed always. He said he prayed continuously. After that, for a while I felt like the worst Christian ever. Praying always? If I stop what I’m doing and say a ‘Dear God’ prayer once a day I’m feeling pretty good about myself. I felt terribly guilty. Thanks, Paul.

Then, I realized Paul was a busy man. He was going from town to town. He was imprisoned. He was sailing. He was too busy to be down on his knees next to his bed praying all day. I decided he was lying to his churches about praying always. At least exaggerating. This was before I knew Holy Spirit.

It was a short walk from the van drop-off to the Hotel Tilapia. I wouldn’t stay the night, but the hotel was a brief escape from squatty potties, spaghetti noodles covered with butter and Africans peaking in the windows to check out the white visitors. They had cheeseburgers, wi-fi, Kilimanjaro Lager, a pool and a perfect view of Lake Victoria. I relaxed and spent the day there.

But I enjoyed myself a little too long. The sun was setting. I knew there was still a walk to get to the van pickup to go home. I threw my stuff in my backpack, paid my bill and left the hotel in a hurry. Outside the hotel it was East Africa once more. I walked briskly but without hurry, as to not look lost. The sun was gone but its former presence still left a dark blue in the sky. My light complexion garnered attention of course and I could not be sure which eyes were directed at me and which at my backpack.

Darkness in Mwanza
It was dark in the city and full of people on the street of the pickup and there were few streetlights. Some people were simply standing around the bus stop though I could not understand why. They had lit fires for light. The entire street was full and many waited for the vans and many stood around not waiting for anything. It was very dark now.

I tried several times to find a van. Each time the door slid open the van was full and even still there was a fight for the leftover space. I walked down the street hoping to catch the vans earlier with no difference in result. Many vans had passed and worry was creeping in.

I kept trying and trying until finally I saw a space in the van and lunged forward towards it. In the same moment, an African man moved towards both me and the inside of the van. I pushed him off with annoyance and frustration.

The full vans make it necessary for two employees: the driver and the money collector. She sits in the back making sure everyone has paid for their ride. The door slid shut and I turned to the money collector. Her face was aged though she was no more than forty. Like most Tanzanian women she was chubby but not obese. Her face was soft but tired from presumably child-bearing and life and working late nights money collecting. I turned and I saw her and her staring at my backpack and it unzipped and open and empty. She was holding my cell phone.

I took it from her. The man that had bumped into me was gone because the door was closed and she pointed towards the door towards the outside. “He took your wallet! I reached to stop him and he pulled it away.” I looked at her. I yelled at the driver to turn around. He spoke back in Swahili and English. It just so happened, as I would soon find out, the local jail was across the street from the van pickup. We turned around.

The Police Station
The van door slid open again, louder this time. I looked around in the dark at all the faces and I knew I would never find him. I walked across the street to the jail. The money collector walked with me. The main room was the size of an average living room and a desk in front and two jail cells on the left side.

The jail cells were small and too dark to see inside. Black bars kept the prisoners inside and two dark hands gripped the bars of one of the cells. Those hands were the only sign of life inside. On the right side, across from the cells were two offices, one for the chief of police and one for a detective.

A heavy-set man with a thick mustache greeted me. I knew because I was a white man in Mwanza it would not take long to get help. I stepped into his office. The woman that walked in with me waited outside. The chief of police spoke English and I told him what had happened. Halfway through telling him, I realized I had no idea what the thief looked like or what he was wearing. I was wasting my time. But he was pleasant enough and I could tell wanted to help me.
Then he invited the woman, the money collector, into his office asking her to sit down. They spoke in Swahili, him with authority and her with despair. She began to cry.

Confused, I asked him what was happening. He turned away from her and came close to me. “She was the one that stole your wallet,” he said. His voice was deep. Swahili was his first language so he spoke slow.
“What?” I replied. “No. No, that is not true.”
“Yes. She was working with the man that got onto the van and opened your backpack. They are in it together.”
I asked him how he knew this. He said that he had caught her doing this before.
“You have seen this woman stealing before?” I asked and pointed at her.
“Yes. I have seen women just like her stealing from people like you,” He said.
“So you have never caught her stealing before!” I nearly yelled.
She was still sitting. Her cheeks were wet and she could not keep up with our English.

“You do not understand,” he said. “You are not from here. You do not know how it works. Just let us take care of this.” I asked him what was going to happen to her. “She will stay in the prison overnight,” he replied.

I looked at the jail cells and their darkness and at the money collector sitting in the chair. The detective was in there now and another man, perhaps their assistant or a police officer, and I looked at him too and I looked around for God and then back at the police chief. I prayed. “I’m not leaving this prison unless she leaves with me,” I told him.

“Pray continually” – Paul
As I said before, most of my life has been a struggle to maintain a dialogue with God. Every time I prayed I felt like I was entering some holy realm of which I was not worthy. There was pressure in prayer, the words needed to be write, balancing specifically what I was asking for and conscious to not offend the Lord. It was not an enjoyable time of conversation so I battled my desire to avoid it against the guilt that came with not praying.

I guess the paradigm shift began to slowly take place the same time I began to understand my identity. It was nearly time for Jesus to leave the world and his disciples. Thomas asked how they would possibly know the way without him. Jesus said, “Before long, the world will not see me anymore, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live. On that day you will realize that I am in the Father, and you are in me, and I’m in you.”

Jesus Christ, the hope of glory, the redeemer and king of kings lives in me. He’s not somewhere up in the sky. He’s not waiting to arrive when I say, “Dear God”. He’s alive in me. In Ephesians, Paul says to be filled with the Spirit. Jesus is alive in me, I am filled with the Spirit, the one ‘that came to guide me into all truth’, and it’s hard to describe these days what praying looks like for me. I often do not understand when people say they need a lot more time to pray about a decision or about what to do in a situation. “What does your Spirit tell you?” I think. “What do you want to do? Jesus is alive in you!”

I don’t worry anymore about how much or how little I’ve been praying. I believe I’m praying for someone, interceding for situations all the time, whether I voice them or not. I stay in the spirit. I know my Father. I have perfect, direct communication with the Lord through the Spirit that lives alive inside of me, who laughs at my most random of thoughts, but who also is there when it’s the loneliest, darkest, and scariest of days. And there are times that I need intimate moments with him, when I don’t feel like I’m in the Spirit that I drop to me knees and speak to him. Those prayers are different, but no better than my prayers throughout the day. I

Time to go
“You can not stay here tonight and she can not leave,” said the chief of police.
I had been at the jail nearly an hour now. My team back home would be getting worried. I knew, filled with the Spirit, I could not leave. It wasn’t a voice and no angel came to me, but “Stay with her,” is what I heard. It seemed she had accepted her fate to stay in jail over night. I wondered if her kids were waiting for her to get home from work.

Finally, he sent her out of his office and closed the door. “I will release her, but only as a favor to you.” He was not happy. I grabbed her arm and walked out of the office and out of the jail. The driver and the money collector drove me home. She was still shaken by the nights events. The van door slid open and we both got out. It was late and I was very tired.

She was shorter than I thought sitting in the chair at the jail. I put my hand on her shoulder. “God told me to stay with you tonight,” I said slowly so she could follow. “It’s only because he told me to that I stayed. He wanted me to not leave you.” She nodded that she understood. “Just like tonight, Jesus will never leave you. He loves you so much.” I prayed for her and my team was there too and they prayed for her and the driver and she wept. I hugged her and she thanked me. They got back in the van. The door slid shut and they drove away.

I’m quite certain she did not steal my wallet, but maybe she did. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I knew I couldn’t leave her. In that moment, when the chief of police told me he would take care of it and to go home, I didn’t have time to get on my knees and pray. I couldn’t ask for a small room to go in and light some candles and say a prayer starting with Dear God. But I prayed, and I knew.

“When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth, for he will not speak on his own authority, but whatever he hears he will speak, and he will declare to you the things that are to come.”

Is praying enjoyable for you? Do you feel pressure when you pray or guilt when you don’t? Did you actually read the longest blog of all time or just scroll down to the bottom?