The Day I Lost My Appetite

I have a good appetite. Since I was a kid, I have learned to eat almost anything that is put on the table. With very few exceptions, I have tried all kinds of different foods around the world, including very unusual meats when I worked in the Amazon: snakes, monkeys, alligators, and turtles, among the many other options. I love eating, but I don’t like eating alone; a meal requires a strong sense of fellowship in my personal dictionary. But there was a day that I lost my appetite even though I had one of the most exquisite and delicious dishes in front of me. It happened in Mozambique.

A colleague of mine invited me to have lunch together by the Indian Ocean, at one of Maputo’s beautiful spots. The restaurant was very good, lots of people, it was on a Saturday. We chose a table in a patio outside; it was a beautiful and warm day, an invitation to step out of the place and go for a long walk on the beach. A perfect day after a long week of teaching at a new graduate school in town. Different people were surrounding us; I was able to hear different sounds: Portuguese, Afrikaans, French, German and English; with few exceptions, most of the people in that patio were Caucasian. By the description, the restaurant was for the middle-upper class type of consumer.

On the other side of a light green fence, there was a certain number of men and women working hard, trying to sell us some of their craft; all kinds of different craft: wooden carved maps of Africa, jewel boxes, paintings, and so forth. They were silent and orderly; not a word came out of their mouths. But their silence spoke louder than any possible loud speaker, should we have found one in the place. The expression on their faces and eyes had such an impact that they did not have to say a word: they were just there, working to make their little money and thus help their families. I asked my colleague about them, she told me little about their fortune; all she could say is that the restaurant owners allowed them to do that without disturbing the patrons. My heart started hurting, a sense of compassion invaded my soul. My next question was: can I invite at least one of them to seat at this table with us and share a meal together? The answer, obviously, was “No.”

Suddenly my eyes locked with one of those men’s. The resemblance in his eyes came to me as a shocking wave of sadness mixed with resignation. His eyes were black as the night, but had a different kind of brightness; it was like the deep reflection of a shining black star. But at the same time, I could almost read the center of his soul; there was both a physical and a spiritual hunger inside that young man. My heart sunk as if I had drowned in the greenish waters of the ocean behind him. Up to this day, I cannot forget that eye contact; I wish I had the opportunity to visit with him and help him a little bit. After we left the restaurant, I tried to find him outside but he seemed to have gone already.

I lost my appetite! The food was excellent, a special Portuguese Cod dish; one of my favorite meals. But I lost the desire to eat it. I cried inside when I was saying grace; I did not deserve that meal. Like a robot, I ate that now tasteless food. Now I continue to pray for that day when we’ll all be made one. As Bono put it so eloquently, “I believe in the kingdom come, then all the colors will bleed into one.” Although my colleague and I were having a fellowship meal that Saturday, I wish that fellowship was extended to those who were at the other side of the fence. Actually, I dream of that glorious day!