Mbayani - Part 2

February 20, 2008

After the children’s program concluded, our hosts took us down “Main Street Mbayani”. A filmy water flowed down the crevices of the dirt road. The air had an oder of sewer. I wished we had worn sneakers. We were all in sandals. We were accompanied by adult committee members, a small entourage of kids who were very interested in Terra and Jordan, and others who were just curious. We walked past lean-tos selling plastic knick-knacks, cell phone batteries; mostly stuff that we could not imagine anyone needing or buying. How do these people survive? One of the committee members said he was a carpenter. He made tables and chairs. “Like Jesus?” I asked. “Yes, like Jesus!” We both smiled and laughed.

We turned down a path that led to a tiny house. Sitting on the ground outside of the door was an old thin woman. Her eyes were red and puffy from infection. Her face was hollow. Dirty feet protruded from under her ragged skirt. Our hosts introduced her. She was the mother of five children. Her children were dead; all five dead. She was responsible for raising six grandchildren ranging from age 8 to 17. A couple of her grandsons were there. We were invited to ask her anything we wanted. Liz looked at me and I looked at Liz. It was extremely awkward. What do you say to someone who has experienced suffering beyond anything we could ever imagine? The silence hung in the air like pestilence. We asked her to tell us about herself, and she deferred to our hosts-she said she didn’t like to talk in front of others. We asked the grandsons what they did. “Piece-work.” (odd jobs.) “What did she need?” “Food.” More awkward silence. Our hosts encouraged us to go into her home. It was a two room mud brick hovel. No windows, no water, no electricity. It took a while for our eyes to adjust to the dark. The grandmother slept in the outer room which was a small space with a blanket on the floor and a small wood stove in the other corner. The back room was the bedroom for the grandchildren. It was about the size of a large closet with one bed. A few filthy clothes were strewn around. It was difficult to imagine anyone living there. We came back out and were asked to say something. Liz thanked her for sharing her story with us and I said a prayer. We looked once more into those empty red eyes, and left.

We walked up a steep bank where a filthy stream flowed down behind hut after hut. We stopped in a building where they grind up the maize (corn) to make flour for nsima, the national food that keeps the people of Malawi alive. Nsima is maize flour mixed with water into a white paste that people eat with their fingers. It has very little taste, and is usually mixed with whatever else is on your plate-if you have anything else. Then we came to our second stop.

A young emaciated woman sat outside of an even smaller hut. She had a baby in her lap-maybe 10 months old. The baby was her niece. She smiled when she saw us coming. Her face lit up. She was waiting for us.
She is “positive.” Her husband died from AIDS several years ago. She was being kept alive by ARV’s (anti retro viral drugs-the “cocktail” of AIDS medication, recently provided for free by the government.) She talked openly about her feelings. We asked her if she was afraid, and she said no, not since she was on the medication. We asked her how the coummunity responded after finding out she was positive. She said that people had been very caring. The people from the committee would come to her house and help her clean, and take care of things. She also allowed us to see her house-a place she rents for K700/month (about $5). It was tiny mud hut with two rooms, again no windows, pitch black inside. We lit a candle. The house was kept very neat.

Liz asked her if she was a Christian. Yes. Could Liz pray with her? Yes. Liz touched her arm and prayed. It was a beautiful moment. Two woman who could not be more different-one a mother-healthy, white, rich, married- reaching across the huge gulf to an impoverished, dark, dying widow and connecting in the name of Jesus who came to break down the walls and barriers that keep us from becoming one. We left with a feeling that we had spent a few minutes on holy ground.

Throughout this amazing afternoon, we wondered why were here, and why our presence meant so much to these people. We were told, “You bring them hope. You are showing them that someone on the outside cares.”