Africa Revisited - Mercy & Bill

(Where I share some of my African experiences with you from my two trips/five weeks/South Africa, Burundi and Kenya visits this past year.)

The air is thick and musty, and I think I might cry.

This holy moment starts as Daniel, Pete, Edward and I walk from our guest house to the outskirts of Kibera, in Nairobi, Kenya. As we pass through the local market my senses are overloaded with the sights, sounds and smells. Colourful fruits and vegetables are everywhere. Clothing of every description and quality. Spices. Muzungos (white people) are not common here, so the three of us get a lot of looks. Mostly smiles, but a few frowns. One enterprising brother does his best to sell me some Marlboros.

Just like our own Downtown Eastside here in Vancouver, the simple act of crossing a street marks our entry into Kibera. A huge crowd is gathered on on the field that passes for a soccer pitch, watching a dj and dancers up on an elaborate stage. Edward tells us that it's Nestle, here flogging their instant hot chocolate, or instant coffee, or some other damn crap they've produced to sell to the world's poor. (I don't like Nestle.)

Somehow Edward spots Bill in the crowd and he greets us, polite but reserved. Bill and his wife Mercy attend Edward's church, but Mercy has been very sick for some time. Bill has met us here to walk us in for a visit. Edward knows Kibera very well, and even he doesn't trust his ability to find their home in this maze of humanity. Approximately a million and a half people living within a couple of square kilometers.

We walk quickly, plotting our course through the dirt and mud, stepping or jumping over the little streams of putrid liquid that cross our path at regular intervals. We're passing through a "commercial" section of Kibera, and most of the shacks we pass are small businesses. Food, clothing, shoes and services. Need something welded? You can get it done here. Edward estimates that perhaps half of the residents are employed elsewhere in the city, so they leave to work, but everything else happens right here.

The children become animated when they see us. Muzungos are not often seen this deep into Kibera, and Daniel's blond hair is causing quite a stir. Two greetings from the kids are standard: First, the relatively common "Muzungo", usually accompanied by pointing and laughing, and the phrase, "How are you", with a particular rolling of the "r". It's delivered as a statement, not a question. It's just what you say to muzungos. (I learned early in my Africa experience not to tell them how I was, but instead to respond, "How are you" back, which often reduces the kids to fits of laughter.)

We continue to follow Bill, turning corners and passing through gates until I am convinced that I would never find my way out of here. I smile at Edward and I sense he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "This is why I had Bill meet us," and he laughs.

Finally, one last little "yard" with a few stalks of maize growing out of dirt that is more garbage than soil, one last gate, and we are at Bill's door. He welcomes us to his home and we stoop to walk through the door.

The structure is made of mud bricks, which create a dark environment. Two or three clear light bulbs hang from wires and fight to bring light to the space. The room is divided by sheets hung from the tin ceiling, and there are photos and prints hanging on the walls. This is their home, and despite the sparseness we can tell there is a lot of love here. A couple of younger children and three teenage girls, one carrying a baby, come out from behind the sheets and greet us as Bill invites us to sit on two small couches. The girls align themselves on a bench against one of the walls. Bill disappears for a moment then reappears again, helping Mercy into an arm chair.

She looks very sick. Her eyes are watery, and she is coughing a lot. I take her extended hand as she welcomes us into her home, and I feel like I could crush her frail hand if I'm not careful.

Edward asks Mercy about her health, and she responds at length in Swahili. As she answers I hear two English words clearly and repeatedly: Malaria, and typhoid. As she talks I can see what little energy she has literally drain from her face. When she stops talking she stares off at nothing.

Edward translates for us. Six months ago Mercy contracted malaria, which is a frequent occurrence for our friends here. When she didn't respond to the usual treatment they worried that she had typhoid, and had her tested.

Tuberculosis.

For a brief instant, to my shame, I think about the handshake. And the coughing. And a million others things. Then, as I gaze around the room and then look into Mercy's eyes, I feel incredible peace. This moment isn't about me, and I have the strange sense that even if I leave with a TB bug lodged in a lung somewhere, it will be a small price to pay for the privilege of sitting in this place, with these people, at this moment.

I'm not romanticizing poverty, trust me. No doubt Bill and Mercy would jump at the chance to raise their children in a better environment, and I want the same for them. It is just such a sacred moment for reasons that I know I will never understand.

Mercy is spent from our visit, and as we prepare to leave Edward asks me to pray. I've been praying and "saying a word" all over Nairobi so I'm not surprised, but this is different. Even as I stumble through some words, I know that what I say doesn't really matter. I pray for this family, for this home, and for health. Mostly I just hold this precious family in the light. God knows what they need better than I do, and my praying is simply an act of agreement with God's desires for them. As I finish, Mercy looks me in the eye and squeezes my hand, silently thanking me.

It's time to go. Back through the maze, back to our guesthouse, ultimately back home.

I think about Mercy and Bill often. As I write this I'm sitting by the gas fireplace in my local Starbucks, sipping on a tea misto (with vanilla), scribbling in my Moleskine journal, earbuds in place. Mercy and Bill live in the real world, while I am back in the Matrix. I hope to see Bill and Mercy again in 2010, to be present with friends once again, and to die a little more to myself, God willing.

Comments

[idelette]

You did it, dude! Loved journeying with you into this holy moment.

[Joel Stainer]

I am sitting here reading this with a coffee beside me, youtube playing some quiet music as the rest of my family sleeps quietly in warm beds. Matrix is right.

Thanks for sharing this.

[Erin Wilson]

Beautiful. Challenging. Heart-rending.
I'm aching for Africa so badly I can hardly stand it.

Thank you for waking me (again).

[Dan T.]

Mike, thanks for writing this. I'm sure it wasn't easy to translate that moment into words on a page, but I'm grateful.