“That was so rude!” Michée exclaimed. “Let’s go see the mechanic again.”

Go back there? I thought. I was already planning never even to drive down that road again, let alone stop there and talk with him again.

I had just explained to fellow AFM missionary Michée Badé how I had gotten into a painful disagreement with the mechanic who owned an open-air workshop in Cotonou. Our 15-year-old “new” car had been “Africanized” at his shop, but after the work was done, the trouble began. The quoted price had more than doubled, and the mechanic seemed unwilling even to talk with me. Adding to my frustration with my halting French, the mechanic’s phone was constantly ringing, and he always answered it and seemed to have a lot to talk about with every caller. I decided to go and get Michée to help with the discussion, but the man had his workers put stones behind the wheels of the car. Eventually, since my car was blocking another customer’s car, I was finally able to get the mechanic to talk to me, but only after we were both quite upset. He agreed to lower the price a little bit, but I left angry and knowing I had left a lot of hard feelings at that shop, not sure how or if they could be fixed. The price was not enormous, but I felt violated and disrespected. Also, I knew I should have handled the situation differently.

Meeting up with Michée a few minutes later, I explained the situation to him, and he immediately said we should go back. I assumed he meant I needed to apologize to the mechanic for how I had handled the situation. “Okay, if you think that is best, let’s go,” I said. But my heart was sinking. Why humiliate me in front of that man? It is only my second week in Benin! As we drove back, I prepared my apology, wanting to remedy the bad situation but still angry and stirred up.

Back at the garage, Michée started talking with the mechanic. I could understand only a little of what was said, but when Michée started saying something about apologizing, I understood enough to get ready for the apology I needed to make. But instead, the mechanic was the one who started speaking to me. “I’m sorry,” he said in English, smiling warmly.

Shocked, I managed to stammer out, “I’m sorry, too.”

“Now give him 1,000 francs,” Michée said in English. I thought he was talking to me, so I reached into my pocket for my wallet. But then I glanced up, and the mechanic was holding the money out to me! Suddenly the pain was over, and we were all laughing and shaking hands. As we left, it was clear by the smiles and waves that I was not the only one who was relieved by the happy change of atmosphere in that greasy street-side workshop.

Micheé told me later what he had said to the man. He told him that, by blocking the wheels of my car, he had implied I was a thief, a terrible insult to a foreigner. Michée told him that, by his conduct, he was giving us a bad picture of all Beninese people, since Michée and I are both foreigners. He said he had never seen somebody act like that in Benin, and he was disappointed in him. The tone of authority in Pastor Badé’s voice was unmistakable. Watching the man was like seeing a teenager get a reprimand from his father. Michée was respectful and calm, but also absolutely clear and firm.

Needless to say, that day I learned a lot about reconciliation. Seeing how the proper application of authority and kind, direct confrontation can bring about dramatic results opened my mind to the possibilities available to us as we work cross-culturally here in Benin. I saw a beautiful picture of how a bad situation can be changed, and I thank God, and Pastor Michée, for the chance to see how laughter and friendliness can replace tension and disagreement.

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