Mama Afrika does it again

Dear friend,

The day after my last post, despite still feeling completely wiped, after four days in bed I needed some fresh air so I walked over to the Kalene Mission Bookstore. A cute, Podunk, little building with a handful of shelves filled with books on sale, it contained writings in English, French (for the visiting Congolese), Portuguese (for the visiting Angolans), Lunda (the local tribal dialect) and even Bimba (another tribal dialect). There I bought the book, “Ndtolo” (= “Doctor” in Lunda), an account of the life of Dr. and Mrs Fisher, the missionaries who set up Kalene Mission Hospital in the early 1900s. I finished the book, cover to cover, in a matter of six hours – and what a blessing and a treat it was!

Imagine being a missionary to Central Africa in the late 1800s, a time when the slave trade was still rife. To come inland you needed 100 “carriers” for a party of six to walk with you for months on end. (The carriers were locals who, for some calico, would carry a load of whatever it was, including the women who weren’t allowed to walk but sat in a hammock requiring four carriers!) When Dr Fischer and his family first arrived in Kalene there was literally… nothing. Everything they needed he built with his two hands.

It’s amazing because this couple (and their family) sacrificed every aspect of their lives to this calling, even a most precious child. Yet they never grumbled, never complained, and were never self-righteous. All they wanted was to please God, breath by breath, day by day. They did not go down in history recognized for their work; their names are little less than whispers in one moment in time, here one minute, gone the next. And yet I cannot find a better example of what it means to be “the change you want to see in the world.” A hundred years later their imprint of their love for God and their heart for service remains.

There is still so much darkness here that goes unnoticed by the world. I know the bush here on the borders of Zambia, Angola and The Congo is not the only place in the world where such darkness prevails, but being here has been truly insightful. The people here are crippled by fear of “dark spirits” and superstition, the witch doctors the only ones to gain from such fear. After someone dies the relatives, the community, will go see the witch doctor; the witch doctor will then tell them who it was that put the “spell” on the person who has died. They’ll then either gang up to expel the that person out of their community, or, sadly, gang up to kill them for the sake of the “greater good.” The other common practice is something they call “flying coffins,” where, as the coffin of the dead is being burned, the direction of the smoke will point out the person in the crowd who is to blame. A month ago three members of a nearby village were beheaded because they were unfortunate enough to stand in the wind.

Despite there being so much progress since the days of Dr. Fisher I was amazed by how little has changed in the grand scheme of things. And the call to be “the light of the world” feels almost literal in this kind of place.

On Saturday a group of us made an afternoon trip to the orphanage, also originally set up by Dr. Fisher and his wife. Of course at that stage it was pretty crude; today they have a large site about 15kms from the hospital, complete with dorms and a substantial farm, all run by the great, great grandson of Dr. Fisher. It was so beautiful, so special, simply to see forty children who were plump and smiling and clean. As we were walking through the gates the children ran out to greet us, shouting in Lunda, “I’ve bathed! I’ve bathed! I’ve bathed!”

It’s stunningly unbelievable what a series of individual people can do over time. The hospital, the nursing school, the high school, the orphanage. The hydro, which provides continuous electricity to a random area in the middle of the African bush, was developed from beginning to end by one orthopaedic surgeon from Newcastle who comes here to volunteer three months on, three months off (including all the fundraising!).

In this past week I have once again been truly humbled. I have come to realize just how self-absorbed I have been for most of this trip. Why am I not enjoying myself? Why am I so exhausted? Why is no one appreciating me despite ALL I have given to be here and ALL I’m doing here!?! Every patient is just more work for me! Every patient just wants to take a bigger piece of me! There is so little I can do, so what am I even doing here?! Me, me, me, me, me! I, I, I, I, I!

There is a building the missionaries set up many years ago, a refuge for old women who have been accused of witch craft and cast out of their villages, sometimes even by their own children. Currently there are about half a dozen in residence. Beautiful, radiant women, they work out in the fields to provide for themselves. After being introduced to these women a couple weeks ago I keep running into one of them in particular on my dawn walk. Tiny in stature, hunched over, with only half a left arm, she carries hoes and shovels on her shoulders as she walks to the fields every morning at 6.30am. Every time she sees us, without fail, her face glows with joy and love as she claps and bows in respect and happiness before giving us the biggest of hugs.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

Yet another turning point, Mama Afrika has done it again. It has taken me eight weeks but I am finally starting to remember all the things I fell in love with two years ago. I find myself falling in love with Mama Afrika once again.

I have been humbled by the strength and resilience of her people. I have been inspired by the outsiders who have come for a lifetime of wholehearted service. And I have been broken – only to be put back together, once again. Thank you, Heavenly Father.