Читать книгу Hannah’s Hope - Paul H Boge - Страница 15

CHAPTER

seven

Packing when you are rich takes a long while. Packing when you are poor takes only a moment. All of my possessions fit in one bag, and a small one at that. I tossed in my only extra shirt, and a skirt, a pair of shorts, and old flip-flops that I kept only in case I lost my other pair. I could not really imagine wearing the old ones, though. I would sooner have gone barefoot. Nothing I owned was of much value to me. You cannot become attached to what you do not have.

We sat down. Grandfather prayed. He thanked God for the time he and Grandmother could share with us. He asked God to guide us as we moved on from here. I remember him thanking God for the food we were going to receive at MCF—something he himself was not able to provide, at least not to the extent he would have wanted. His faith was a mystery to me. He trusted God. Did not question Him. Did not become angry with Him. Somehow, he believed God was in control. In the midst of his rank poverty, he was a wealthy man of faith.

I saw relief and sadness in my grandparents’ faces. On the one hand, they knew that Zemira and I had a chance at having a future—something they felt a burden to provide yet had no chance of fulfilling. On the other hand, they would not see us nearly as often, and we felt the hurt that separation invariably brings. Umer in Nyanza Province is a long way from Ndalani. It’s even longer for people who have to pay what they cannot afford in order to travel there. I did not expect to see them except perhaps once a year at Christmas. I admired them for being happy for us to have what they never did.

As I went to bed that night I prayed to God. I was taught how to pray when I was younger, but I never did so with passion. I prayed because I was supposed to, because that is what good people do. I felt the passion in my grandparents whenever they prayed, and I wanted that too. That evening my prayer felt different.

Thank You, God, for this opportunity to go to Mully Children’s Family. I do not understand why things have happened the way they have. But I trust You that somehow You have a good purpose for everything that has happened. I am so happy that I get to go … But, God, I am afraid. I am a shy girl. I am so quiet. I do not speak much, and this might make it difficult for me. Please help me to do well at Mully Children’s Family. To study hard so that I can be used by You to help people get well. Help me to make friends. Help me, Lord. I am so grateful. Yet I feel so nervous. You are with me. You are with me.

You are with me.

• • •

Even when I thought the bus was as full as it could be, we would stop yet again and still more people would get on. I sat crammed between Uncle Raza and Zemira in a seat made for two. The bus bounced so hard when we hit major potholes that it sounded like the bottom had fallen out altogether. Zemira and I giggled every time we jolted in our seats.

I watched as the forests gave way to crowded streets. Whenever we slowed down or stopped, street vendors hurried up to the vehicle and tapped on the windows with their fruits and vegetables. We changed buses in the crowded station in Nairobi. I saw many buses and matatus coming and going in every direction. A matatu is a passenger van designed for about 8 to 12 people, but often the matatus were crammed with up to double the allowable passengers. It was not uncommon to see people standing on the back bumper as it drove down the road; however safe or unsafe that might have been, it looked like a lot of fun.

The whole bus station in Nairobi was complete chaos. Buses and matatus everywhere. Crowds pushing in every direction. How anyone could find their way around or make sense of the maze was a mystery to me. And yet somehow it all seemed to work together as if it had been planned that way. We boarded a bus headed from Nairobi south to the town of Sophia. We made one last change there, this time from a bus to an overcrowded matatu.

The winding and bumpy country road from Sophia to Ndalani felt different from the other roads. The hustle and bustle stopped. Everything became quieter. It felt as if I could breathe in a way you could not in other places I had known. It was as if the land allowed you to let go of your burdens, and you could just be free and take in the environment for all it offered. I saw people carrying water in jugs on their heads. A young boy corralled his small herd of sheep and one cow from the middle of the road off to the side to let us through. He waved as we passed, a bright smile on his face. A woman in a long red skirt and a white shirt, wearing a bright head covering of many colours, worked in a field planting her crop. Everything around me felt peaceful and relaxed. I wished I could relax, too. Instead I felt a combination of excitement and apprehension over my new future. My new life.

My new home.

I wondered how Zemira and I would fit in with our new surroundings. About whether the other children would like us. About whether we would meet the expectations, and what those expectations were, exactly.

I wondered about all the things children wonder about on their first day of school.

The bus slowed down. My heart sped up. I glanced out the window. To my right I saw a sign with black lettering on a simple white board, bordered by a white metal frame and hammered into the ground. This is what it said:

MULLY CHILDREN’S

FAMILY g

NDALANI BRANCH

There was nothing fancy about this sign. Nothing about it that would draw your attention. If you weren’t looking for it, you would drive right past it. This humble sign gave me the impression that a place as incredible as Uncle Raza made it out to be could also be the kind of place where a shy girl like me could fit in just fine.

The bus stopped at the sign. My uncle stood. Zemira and I picked up our bags and followed him down the aisle past the other passengers. I stepped down the stairs. My foot touched the ground.

This was it. For the first time. On MCF property.

We walked down a road that led towards a gate. The air smelled clean. Quite different from the fumes of all the vehicles in Nairobi. I felt a gust of wind blow across me as I looked up to my left. Far in the distance I saw large brown mountains. Their size amazed me, causing me to gaze with wonder. It surprised me to see only a few trees on them. I had not seen mountains before, so I could not compare what I was seeing to other mountains. Strange how seeing something for the first time can leave the impression that it does not look the way it should. More than the trees though, one large rock in particular at the top caught my attention. It sat so close to the edge that I thought it might slide off at any moment and come rolling down.

Lower down, beside me to the left, I saw a large football field. Many children played on the field, and still more stood on the sidelines watching. That sight alone told me a lot. Children having the freedom to play meant they had the energy to play and the comfort that they did not need to worry about their basic needs.

A little farther up, on the right, I saw a large field full of green crops. This, too, surprised me because from Sophia to Ndalani I had not seen many green crops. The landscape up to this point had been covered in a similar dry brown—as if someone had taken a big brush and painted the fields the same colour. But here the area looked different. Healthier. Greener.

We came to a security gate, where a friendly-looking elderly man wearing an old suit jacket and trousers stood and smiled at us. He waved as he approached us, walking with a limp. He shook hands and spoke with my uncle. It seemed to me they knew each other well because they talked and joked the way friends do. My uncle turned and introduced us to him. The man smiled, excited to see us.

“Your first time here?” he asked. We nodded. “Very good. You are most welcome. Most welcome!”

That meant a lot to me. There is something encouraging about older people who take notice of young children who do not belong to them.

He pushed down on one end of the bar, which caused the end of the bar on the other side of a swivel to lift, making it possible for us to pass through. He waved at us and I waved back, noticing that he felt an incomparable joy in letting us enter this place.

The road curved to the right. To my left, I saw so many children that it amazed me how a group this large could be part of one family. How does someone organize all of this? How did all these children come to be here? Some carried books, others held wash basins in their hands, still others skipped together over a wooden bridge.

I heard the faint sound of singing in the background. I stopped to make sure I heard correctly. I should have kept going. I should have followed right behind my uncle. It is not polite to make people wait, especially considering the incredible place I was being introduced to. But the music so touched me that I had to stop. I had grown up singing with my grandparents; I had also heard it in church. But this felt different. This captivated me. It expressed something that far exceeded anything I had experienced before. I could not make out the words, but the tone and the spirit of joy reached right into my heart, giving me a sense of peace.

It made me wonder if music could have that effect on others or if I was the only one who felt that way.

The children all around me ran with energy and bright smiles. I loved hearing them laugh. I smiled as well. Then I began to laugh too. Their happiness was contagious.

I caught a glimpse of two large stone buildings with bright red roofs in the distance. In front of them grew a flash of beautiful red and blue flowers.

As I watched the children hurry past me, I suddenly sensed something out of the ordinary, but I could not explain what it was. Sometimes things are clear to your subconscious and it tries to send you a message, but for some reason it does not get through. There was more going on here than I was able to tell. I was seeing something I knew to be unique, almost impossible. It was there. Right in front of my eyes. Still, I could not define what made me feel that I was seeing something I had never seen before.

What was it?

As we walked farther, I saw many small homes made of metal siding and metal roofs. I had seen homes like this in Ndalani and other places. With Grandfather and Grandmother we only ever had grass roofs and mud walls, so these types of houses told me that the people here were not poor. They were not starving. If you can afford good materials for your house, you can probably afford good food for your stomach.

I saw lights through the windows of the houses. I had electricity in Nairobi when I was with my father, but not with my grandparents. I wondered how someone could afford electricity for all these people.

I smelled ugali and beans cooking. I took in the aroma and wished that maybe, just maybe, there would be some for us. Zemira smelled it too and turned to me with a big smile on her face. I tried to remember the last time we could eat until we were full.

It all seemed like it wasn’t real. How could it be? MCF felt like a village unto itself that stretched on and on and on, without end, without restriction. A place where I could eat and sleep and have friends and go to school.

A place to have a family again.

MCF was a dreamland.

My uncle led us up a path to his home. He opened the blue wooden door. I expected to step on a dirt floor. Instead, I stepped onto concrete.

“Welcome,” he said as we walked in. I saw his bed, a table, and chairs. “I am so glad that you are here.” He gave us a hug. “What do you think so far of what Mr. Mulli has done?”

“Can I really say?” I replied. I was speechless. I could not even imagine a place like this in my mind, let alone explain what it was like to experience it in real life. “It is very good,” I said. “And amazing.”

“Do we get to play games here?” Zemira asked as we sat down at the table.

He laughed. “Yes,” my uncle replied. “You will play many, many games here.”

“Really?!”

“Really.”

“What about jump rope?”

“Lots of jump rope,” Uncle Raza said.

“And what about hide-and-seek?”

“Definitely. And even football.”

“Football? I don’t know how to play football.”

“You don’t?”

Zemira shook her head.

“You will learn. I promise you.”

My uncle made us beans and ugali. He scooped in an entire plateful for each of us. We sat down at his little table, and he folded his hands. We were supposed to pray too. That meant we needed to close our eyes. But it was hard to. Zemira and I could only stare at our food. This meal alone would have lasted us three days back home.

My uncle prayed.

“Thank You, God, for bringing us here safely. Thank You for Hannah and Zemira. Thank You for providing for them to be here at Mully Children’s Family. We thank You, Lord, so much for this supper. Please bless this food. And Father, we ask that You would intervene in the lives of those who have nothing to eat. Amen.”

As we ate, Uncle Raza talked to us about MCF. He told us about the opportunities for education. About rescue ministries in the slums. About MCF’s mission tours to other cities and countries. He explained about choirs we could join, even beginners like me. He also explained that MCF was a place where miracles happened. Many, many miracles. With every story he told and every aspect of MCF he shared, I fell more and more in love with all that was happening.

I felt the way people feel when they are at the beginning of a great adventure.

My uncle was about to tell us more about MCF when we heard a knock at the door.

“Welcome,” my uncle said as he stood up. The door opened. A young boy slightly out of breath and beaming with excitement could hardly contain himself. His eyes lit up with joy.

“We are all asked to go to the devotion area,” he said. “Daddy Mulli wants to meet with us.”