By: John Hill
After a long and exhausting journey—complete with unexpected challenges in Brussels and the blessing of meeting John Kaykay—I finally arrived in Monrovia. It was late at night, and the city was cloaked in deep darkness. Waiting for me at the airport was Bishop Darlington Gnininte, along with his wife Dezere, his father Benedict, and two young men from the church, Augustine and Marshal. Our reunion was warm and joyful. It had been more than a decade since we had last seen one another, and the years seemed to melt away in that moment of greeting.
After a restful night at the Maryland Guesthouse in Monrovia, Darlington and our driver arrived the next morning to begin the long journey to Nimba County in the northern part of Liberia. I knew the trip would take several hours, so I settled in for the ride.
As we drove through parts of the city and into the countryside, we passed through many small towns and villages. Along the way, Darlington’s father offered me a kola nut—the origin of the word “cola” found in drinks like Coca-Cola and Pepsi. The nut itself is white, slightly larger than a quarter, and has a bitter taste somewhat like strong coffee, though without the familiar flavor. It is naturally high in caffeine, reportedly twice as potent as a cup of coffee, and is also believed to stimulate testosterone in men.
Eventually we reached Nimba County and turned off the paved highway onto a rugged path of red African clay carved with deep trenches. It was the dry season, which meant the road—if it could be called that—was difficult but still passable. During the rainy season, these same paths become flowing streams and are nearly impossible to travel. Our SUV carefully crawled over the uneven terrain, rocking and lurching its way forward.
After about an hour, we stopped for a short rest and what travelers politely call a “bio-break.” The path was so narrow that we simply stopped in the middle of it—I hesitate even to call it a road.
At that stop we were greeted by a beautiful view of one of the taller mountains in the range. While I paused to take a few photographs, the men discovered wild fruit growing on nearby trees. The driver and I managed to pull down some of the branches so Benedict and the younger men could reach the fruit. Many were overly ripe, but a few were still good enough to enjoy. After a short break, we resumed our journey.
In this area, four villages live in close proximity. Several years ago we helped build a church to serve the surrounding community, and that was our destination. We were led inside the church, and the worshippers followed behind until the small building was filled. To make room for the adults, the children were seated on the floor at the front of the sanctuary near the pulpit. While English is widely spoken in Liberia, many of the villagers primarily spoke their local dialect or only limited English. After greetings were exchanged, the congregation began singing several songs of worship.
At last we reached a location in the highlands just outside several nearby villages. As we stepped from the vehicle, we were welcomed by a crowd of joyful children—clapping, dancing, and singing songs of welcome. As we walked toward the village, they followed behind us in a long line, continuing their singing and applause. There must have been at least fifty children gathered there.
When the singing ended, we exited through a side door to see a new structure rising behind the church. Rose Hill Church in Winterville had provided funds to construct an orphanage for the community. The building is called the African Hope Orphanage Home, and when completed it will be able to serve as many as one hundred children.
A thin red cord stretched between the front columns. At first I assumed it was meant to keep people from entering the unfinished building. Soon, however, the entire community gathered in front of it for a dedication ceremony and ribbon cutting. The children sang a spirited song entitled “The Devil Is Under My Feet,” and the local pastor spoke words of gratitude and celebration. He thanked Bishop Gnininte and me for our support and recognized the work of OFWB International in helping raise the funds for the project.
Then he placed a pair of scissors in my hand.
After the congregation had repeated the familiar words of dedication, I lifted my voice and declared, “In Jesus’ mighty name!” The crowd responded with a loud “Amen!” and I cut the cord.
Darlington and I were quickly ushered inside the building to see the progress that had been made. The structure itself was impressive—the walls and roof were complete—but much work still remained. Inside were nine large rooms along with a hallway, storage areas, and a sitting space. Despite the unfinished interior, the excitement of the crowd was unmistakable. There was a deep sense of pride among the people as they saw tangible evidence of progress in their community.
The pastor shared with me that their next great need was a school, since no reliable school existed nearby. I told him we would certainly consider it as a special project, though such efforts would take time.
Construction of the orphanage had faced many delays due to poor road conditions, limited materials, and the challenges of the rainy season. From a distance it might be difficult to understand why such projects take so long, but after traveling those roads and seeing how supplies must be transported, the delays make perfect sense. Even so, remarkable progress had been made.
After leaving the building, the crowd gathered with us in a shaded area near our truck. Several plastic chairs were placed in a row facing the people. The children pressed eagerly toward the front—perhaps curious about this bearded American visitor. I could not help but wonder if some of them had ever seen a man like me before.
Soon one of the village chiefs stepped forward and called the crowd to attention. He spoke in his native dialect, and a group of women brought forward gifts of bananas, plantains, and pineapples. The chief was handed a live chicken, which he briefly held before giving it to one of the women nearby.
Then he removed five kola nuts from his pocket. Another man brought him a large cup of water. After speaking for several moments, the chief placed the kola nuts into the water and gave the cup to another man to drink. At the time I did not fully understand what was happening, but it was clear that this was a ritual of hospitality.
Later I learned that this tradition is sometimes associated with the history of formerly enslaved people returning to West Africa. During the long voyage, kola nuts were occasionally placed in stagnant ship water to improve its taste. Over time the practice came to symbolize hospitality and welcome. No doubt the history is more complex than this brief explanation, but the meaning of the moment was unmistakable.
The pastor offered a final word of thanks, expressing deep gratitude for the support given to their community. After many photographs and handshakes, it was time to begin the difficult two-hour descent from the mountain. We hoped to reach the main road before nightfall.
As the fruit was loaded into the truck, the chicken was given to one of the local women. The children gathered around the vehicle, waving, clapping, and chattering excitedly in their language. On my way to the truck I handed out as many high-fives and fist bumps as I could.
It was a beautiful moment—an experience filled with gratitude, hospitality, and the rich traditions of a welcoming community.
Two hours later we finally reached the main road and continued on toward another guesthouse where we would spend the night.
