She’s a whisperer, her method not so much imperious as imploring. She works the loose edge of the smaller-than-desired crowd drawn by her pastor, Pastor Lou from Kansas, who has arrived this morning and will leave the country this evening. She’s one mzungu among many. She doesn’t know that term. It means white. Rich. A little dizzy, a little lost. It can be gentle, teasing. It can be hard, descriptive. It can mean white. It can mean fool.

She means Jesus. “I am a vessel,” she says. “He works through me.” She turns away. She looks for one who’ll receive. Her mouth flicks between smile and frown. She looks for girls. She bends down. She whispers, “Can I pray for you?” She does. Her hands close together, as if she’s been given something precious to hold. A small piece of a girl’s shoulder, her hand reaching around the girl’s back, flat across pink polka dots, drawing the girl away from her friend. These girls already believe. But do they believe enough? Believe like she believes? She can’t be certain. We never can.