“She is dead,” Uli said when I came home. We called her Bika. We first saw her and her two-month-old siblings fighting over a chunk of cold cornmeal mush. I brought her home about a week later to fatten her up. She picked up a bad habit of sleeping in front of the front door. One night, she got stepped on. With some hand feeding, she survived.

After five months of living with us, she still fit in one hand. We called her the Bonazi cat.

Last week, we woke up to find her very stiff and cold under the bed—not quite dead. She got weaker and then died. She was a good, sweet little kitty. She loved to sit in our shirts and sleep. She was a fighter. Oh, that we can be fighters for the cause of Christ like Bika was for life.

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