White Jim's attempt to brainwash me

I've been feeling sick for the last couple of days. So has Casimir. We decide it's time to find out if we have malaria. If we've been stung by infected mosquitoes we can start medication, preventing malaria from progressing and landing us in hospital. Or on the next plane home.

Casimir chooses the clinic closest to the Catholic Compound called the African Fundamental Baptist Mission.

I climb behind the pen pen driver and Casimir straddles the sun soaked seat behind me. Our motorcycle weaves along a narrow dirt path, through a forested area.

There's a clinic around here? Nothing but trees and a few homes made out of mud.

Two children scream, "White woman! White woman!" But that's nothing out of the ordinary. It always makes me smile. I enjoy the attention from kids because when they see me, it's like they've seen Santa Claus himself.

Though some children around the Catholic Compound call me Nina. I don't know either.

More trees. No more muddy abodes.

I turn to Casimir. "Are you sure it's near here?"

"Yes," he says convincingly. "He must be taking a short-cut."

The forest clears and the turquoise building appears. Red painted letters, AFBM are scrolled under its arches.

A half-built church stands nearby, stacked from blocks of hardened sand and pebbles. Remaining rows of brown cubes dry in the sun.

We speak to a lady through a tiny rectangular window in the front of the clinic. Another woman sitting on a bench nearby nurses her daughter.

First step. Register with the clinic. Casimir and I spell our full names for the woman and the streets where we reside. She copies them out in pen across two yellow pieces of construction paper, indicating we want to be tested for malaria.

"Go through there," the lady points.

We step through a swinging door, and two men with stethoscopes slung around their necks ask us to sit beside them at two wooden desks. We pass them our papers.

They take our pulses, breathing rates and temperatures. We are both 100 over 70. My pulse is slower than Casimir's but I'm breathing faster. We are both at 97.1. I'm amazed my temperature is slightly below normal in this heat. It must be 40 degrees Celsius out there.

"You are the same temperature and have the same heart rates!" They are both very excited. This is probably thrilling for them, when the monotony of pulse-taking drones on.

Casimir's nurse continues, "Well, you are both in perfectly good health." He's pretty happy. It's almost like he wants to show us the door. Like what were we thinking? We're fine!

The other says, "They are here for a different kind of test."

They motion us down the hall. We sit on a wooden bench. And wait. A white man in blue scrubs is taking orders from a Jamaican lady who trained in the UK. I met her once at an NGO.

I look up at the wall of photographs. "The Late" it reads.

Great, dead people. That's welcoming.

We are directed into a room where another foreigner is holding a big SLR. More photos to take of the dead.

Another male nurse wipes the tip of my ring finger with alcohol. Then he takes out the device he's going to prick me with; an inch of glistening metal with a pointed end.

I'm happy the frizzy-haired girl isn't pointing her shutter at me.

I scan the room.

"You're scared!" the nurse smiles. "Don't worry, my name is Stalin," he says gripping the shiny utensil.

I laugh.

It's too quick to flinch. In and out. Fast and painful but short enough not to panic.

The tip of my finger bleeds, and he wipes the end of it with a flat piece of glass and then slides an identical one on top of it. I know it they have names. I've just blocked out biology class. Forever.

The next part is my favourite. To dry the blood, he sits the glass on top of an oil lamp. Yes, an oil lamp. One we'd take camping (in the 80s) at home. But it's daylight. Other specimens are drying there too, layered on top of each other.

We are asked to leave the room and wait for our results.

I talk to the man in the blue scrubs for a while. Then the Jamaican lady appears.

"Good news, you're both fine."

"Phewph."

"But, before you go, we just have a bit of counselling we'd like to do. Follow me."

Counselling? For malaria?

We head down a hallway and reach a doorway where one white man and one black man are sitting, looking anxious. They obviously ran out of conversation a long time ago.

This should be interesting.

The men greet us. The white man says he's from the U.S. and is a missionary. The black man is Liberian, a missionary in training. They are both named Jim.

Here we go.

"So, I am a missionary from Virginia," the white Jim starts. "And we just have a few questions to ask you." It's already creepy.

Jim is a non-descript man. Someone who could easily work for the CIA. His grey hair is parted on the left. His nose looks like it's made out of putty. He has thin lips, and his deep set eyes are hidden behind some plain, out of date, wire-rimmed glasses.

Casimir and I are sitting side by side and they are on either end of us. It's like we are eating dinner on a television show, so everyone can face the camera. Except here there are windows. At least there are green trees to look at.

The black Jim doesn't talk much. The white Jim continues.

"So, can I ask you. Do you both believe in God?"

Uh oh.

I feel stuck. Yes I believe in some sort of God. Not necessarily one man with a long white beard in the sky. I do believe there's something bigger than us that many of us choose not to tap into, for whatever reason.

But does this guy really want us to spill our guts and then lecture us about the glory of Jesus for an hour? Apparently yes.

We both say yes we believe in God.

"Now, are you going to church here in Gbarnga?"

Casmir lies and says no. But Casimir is a Brother. He has dedicated his life to the church by sharing his teaching salary from his french lessons at the university and the high school with his fellow brothers. He makes more money than most of them. But there are rules. All in the name of God.

Casimir is obviously feeling just as uneasy as I am.

I also say I'm not going to church here. That's the truth.

"Now, did you go to church growing up?" asks white Jim. "Why did you stop?" and he continues along a similar string of interrogation.

I want to run. Run far away. But something is keeping me here. Fear.

Jim is a big menacing man. Not the type of man you'd expect to be carrying the word of the Lord. He is judging us but saying he isn't. He keeps telling us stories about his life, analogies of eagles and mountain peaks.

"Do you expect to go to heaven?" he asks Casimir.

"Yes."

"Why?" white Jim questions, as if it's a trick that he will surely explain the answer to.

"Because I know God loves me," Casimir says. "I know I am a good person but that's not why I will be let in heaven. It's because of the love I share with my personal God."

"But you don't think your God is any different from any other God, do you? white Jim questions, suggesting if Casimir said yes, he'd be burned at the stake. "And Janey, what about you? Do you think you will go to heaven?"

Oh gawd.

Nobody has ever asked me this kind of question. I am offended that this stranger thinks he has a right to ask me something so private. All because of a malaria test. I didn't come to confession or to apply for my first communion.

I know I have to really start lying because if I don't, we'll probably be taken to the closest river to have our heads dunked. Choir and all.

"Yes, I think I will go to heaven. I am a good person, I try and do the right things."

I don't even know if there's a heaven. I don't really think there is. I think we all go to the same place. I want to think our spirit lives on in someway, but I'd be ignorant to claim I have any of the answers.

"Well Janey," white Jim is looking satisfied. He is finally able to reveal the trick behind his question. Little does he know, I handed it to him on a platter. I kind of pitied the fool.

"You know," Jim continues. "I thought I did all the right things too. And then I was sitting in a church pew, listening to my pastor. You could hear a pin drop it was so silent."

Jim is going for dramatic effect.

"He started telling us this story of an eagle.."

I've tuned out. I'm concentrating on pretending to care and trying not to break a smile.

"Have you taken Jesus into your hearts?" My drifting thoughts are interrupted by the ridiculousness of the question.

I scan my life for story to tell. And it's easy. The last time I heard that line was in a tennis slash gymnastics camp. My mother and my friend Katie's mother had good intentions.

I played tennis against the brick wall at school across from my house. I was excited to try out a real court. I loved gymnastics. Back walkovers and front hand springs were some of my trademarks in the backyard of my primary school.

But after camp, when my mum asked me what was my favourite activity there I said bible study. And then promptly told her that I had taken Jesus into my heart.

When Katie's mom picked her up from camp, she said, "Mom, I can't wait to die so I can go home to Jesus." Her mother nearly drove off the road.

"Well Jim," I start. "I took Jesus into my heart at camp when I was 10-years-old. My favourite activity was bible study…."

"That's great Janey. I'm glad you found the Lord so young."

Oh do shut up. I picture my Granny Pammy saying.

White Jim keeps tapping his bible with two fingers.

"This has all the answers. The bible says going to church is mandatory, not a suggestion." Adopting aggression, white Jim switches out of his sweet Virginian drawl.

The more he talks, the more I resent him. And the more I want to tell him to shove his bible and his beliefs where the sun don't shine.

I know that if there is a God, he/she/it wouldn't care if I made it to church on Sunday. I want to tell him that. But I'm looking at this other missionary in training who really does have a heart of gold. Everyone in this room believes in the bible.

I think the bible has some good lessons in it, it's beautifully written. But it certainly isn't absolute truth.

And maybe I'm not as brave as some people I know. I picture my friend Aaron getting up, saying something polite but curt and walking out the door.

But I keep imagining what white Jim would say back to me if I did the same. Something condescending. Something to make me seem daemonic. As if I were neglecting my own spirituality in some way. I don't want to go through that.

I wonder how many other people feel the same way.