Fiery Challenge

After consuming spicy meals twice-daily in Ethiopia, I began to pop my favorite Jalapeño peppers into my mouth, much like one might devour dill pickles on a hot, summer day. The intense spiciness of the East African peppers had peeled twelve layers of skin off my upper lip in just three months, so how much worse could the peppers of West Africa be? At least, that’s what I reasoned when accepting the kindly, African pastor’s challenge around our dinner table.

“You might want to re-consider,” his Swiss wife said. “Even the crushed version of those peppers is fiery hot.”

“It’ll be okay,” I said. “I’m used to eating spicy foods; I think I can handle it.”

Pastor Omar exploded in raucous guffawing. Startled, I dropped my fork, which poured fuel on his laughter. “You’ve never tasted the peppers from my country,” he said. “Most white men can’t eat them.”

“We’ll see tomorrow,” I said smiling, confidence rising up from deep within my being. I’d put myself on the line for my race and gender. I looked forward to his defeat.

The following day, the four of us took our places at the front-patio table, enveloped by the Sahara heat. Margaret lifted the lids off the colorful enamel serving bowls–one large pot of steamed rice next to a smaller bowl of spicy, red sauce. From previous meals, I knew small pieces of meat and chunks of vegetables would be found under the oily, red layer, but something the size of large golf balls floated atop the sauce.

“Those are the red peppers,” Pastor said, forking one out and onto his plate. “You can always concede and save your tongue.”

“You’d like that, but I’m not going to hand the victory to you.” I laughed, and stabbed the pepper. As soon as it reached my plate, I began cutting it into small bits. I figured the smaller bits would blend well into the heaping mound of rice, diluting the intensity.

Margaret’s voice interrupted my stirring. “Look what she’s doing!” I froze, fork in mid-air. “Omar, she’s mixing the peppers into the rice.”

“So she is,” he said with a chuckle. “She can eat it anyway she wants to, dear.”

“But–”

“Shhh; maybe that’s the way Americans eat their African peppers,” he said to his wife. His huge grin alerted me that I’d somehow made an enormous mistake.

“How do you eat the peppers?” I said, continuing to fold the red bits into my rice and kicking myself for not asking earlier.

“Me? Well, I open it like this,” he said demonstrating a slice only large enough to split the cooked pepper. “Then, I rub the pepper over my meat like this.” His demonstration ended with the small morsel of meat slipping from his fork to his tongue.

“You only rub it over the meat? What about the rice?”

“The pepper’s cooked in the sauce to give the flavor; then, that’s poured over the rice. We never eat the whole pepper.”

Struggling to disguise my shock, I slipped the first forkful into my mouth. The second move of my tongue over the food punctuated the gigantic mistake I’d made. Unfortunately, I’d mixed the bits of pepper so thoroughly through the rice that each mouthful increased the internal flames.

“Whoa!” Omar said, “If you can eat that rice filled with peppers, you’ve beat me.”

When the frequent sips of cold water no longer eased the growing pain, I stood and pushed away from the table. “Excuse me for a moment; I need to use the restroom.”

I controlled my retreating steps, listening to the murmured, Okay, but once inside the house, my feet took flight.

Recognizing I couldn’t hold unfiltered water in my mouth, I cupped my hands, splashing furiously while breathing deeply. The spicy flames licked through my ear canals and nasal passages. Stop this, you prideful child! My membranes screamed in agony.

“No way! Toughen up; I’m winning.”

Membranes partially-soothed, I straightened my dress and returned to the table.

The scene at the sink had to be repeated twice more before presenting my empty plate to the pastor. I wondered if my face appeared as red on the outside as it surely must be on the inside. It hurt to breathe.

“I concede. You’re the champion!” Omar said.

Proverbs 16:18 warns, “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.” Mercifully, God’s forgiveness for my pride included repair of the damage my fiery triumph had caused.

Author’s Note: This true story took place in Burkina Faso, 1987.

Do you have any stories you’d like to share about your own journey to get a grip on pride? I’d like to know I’m not the only one out there.

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