Visits in the slums of Nairobi. Deaconess Caren in the beautiful African dress is the icon of mercy.
10 August 2014
Kawangware (one of the slums of Nairobi)
The Congo (a neighborhood of Kawangware)
The smell assaults you before anything else. Not the usual smells belonging to Nairobi and her slums—the acrid smoke from indoor charcoal fires, diesel smoke from worn out matatus, sweat, and raw sewage running through troughs in the hard dirt—no, this smell is sweet and strong. It wafts from plastic cups filled with homemade brew—alcohol that fuels the fires and loins of men who line the garbage- strewn streets and alleyways. The pale liquid torches fires in the bellies that brings out the false bravado of men to speak, lurch and touch. The clamor is great, each voice vying for the attention of passersby, especially if the passerby is of the female persuasion and happens to be a muzungo (white skinned person).
Fear overwhelms and creates tightness and rigidity. Fear causes one to clutch bags, purses and limbs to oneself, in an attempt to find some sense of security in a place that seems out of control and dangerous. Fear stirs up a strong desire to flee.
As we reach our destination, a tiny tin house—a house connected to fifty other houses via thin tin sheets, the chaos gives way to serenity. Inside this darkened room there is light. Peace in the midst of chaos. A woman sits with her baby boy. Virginia, a widow, near death several times, is now serenely reading Psalm 69 to us. Recounting the times Deaconess Caren has faithfully come to visit her, bringing hope and light in dire times.
The clamor of voices and tinny music are still heard from inside this sanctuary—there is no external peace here. No shutting the door and getting away from it all. One must find a way to that inner peace that comes from Christ. Or perhaps better said….in the midst of suffering, one learns to depend on that peace that comes from Christ. This is true for us all, but it is more evident here in the life of hardness, sharp edges, men that drink and rape. It is more evident here where the effects of poverty are inescapable.
I have walked these dirt roads for many years now and have come to love the people who inhabit these places. I have learned to step over the raw feces on the path, dodge the filthy water that runs through the ruts on the alleyways, adjust my eyes to the darkened houses, and squeeze into a space so small I cannot fathom how 10 people live there. And through it all, I have learned there is always hope, even when I am unable to see it. It is a hope that is deeply embedded in the hearts and souls of my brothers and sisters here. It is a hope that comes from the faithfulness of those who bring Christ’s mercy by their presence. It is a hope that comes from those who bring mercy in the form of singing, sharing a Psalm, a prayer, food and touch. It is a hope that is echoed through the voices here—those who give thanks to God for His steadfast love and mercy.
It is a hope that gives me hope and strength. And for that I am eternally grateful.
Always Mercy,
Pamela
