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January 30, 2008
Kinshasa is one of the most visually overwhelming cities I have ever visited in my life. It’s the capital of the Democratic Republic of the Congo situated in Central Africa. It is also home to more than seven million people and hosts one of the biggest slums in the world. The place is an absolute soul-destroying quagmire.
While visiting the city last year I had the privilege of meeting a wonderful man named Mr. Wemba. Mr. Wemba lives in a shack near a clinic I was visiting.
At one point during my visit I was so overwhelmed with the stories of how most of the women in the clinic, including the nurses, had been raped or abused that I took a break outside the building and chatted to the driver of our United Nations vehicle. Then I sketched in my journal trying to capture some of the surroundings.
I looked around at the crumbling, broken down buildings and the forlorn corrugated tin shacks and saw discarded plastic bags and scraps of paper dancing a somber ballet in and around the structures.
The stench matched the nauseating sight of old tires, rusted tin cans, cardboard boxes, abandoned vehicles and other junk that lay piled up against many of the dwellings, which were in fact, people’s homes. There was dirt and filth piled everywhere.
As I looked around trying to make sense of what I was seeing, a patch of yellow caught my eye. The color was totally out of place.
“What’s that?” I said to the driver, pointing toward the yellow structure.
“What?” he said.
“That yellow thing down there, with the purple and green?”
“I don’t know?”
We got up and walked toward the splash of color.
“I think it’s somebody’s house,” said the driver as we got a little closer.
We stepped around a rusted out VW bus and there, in front of our eyes, was an amazing sight. Nestled between the broken-down, mangled and filthy tin shanties was a yellow corrugated dwelling with purple and green accents. It was a sight to behold. This little house was made out of tin and wood, like the others surrounding it, but it was immaculate.
The immediate area around the house was clean-swept and beautiful. It was like a perfect rose growing in amongst coils of rusted barbed wire. The front and sides of the house were embraced by a magnificent flowerbed filled with colorful blooming plants. Also on the sides were dozens of old paint cans filled with flowers. Under the window, which was actually a plastic-covered hole in the wall, was an old commode, filled with soil and beautiful hibiscus tree.
Words do not really do the scene justice and because the UN advisor warned me not to take any pictures, I have no photographic record of that truly amazing sight. (Although I do have a powerful picture in my mind, which, I don’t think, I’ll ever forget.)
It’s amazing how some people are inspired to use anything and everything in their power not to become part of the fabric of their surroundings and situations.
As we were standing there a man stepped out of the house and introduced himself as Mr. Wemba.
“I am sorry to be standing here and staring,” I said, “but your home is truly beautiful.”
“Thank you,” he said, pointing to the unkempt houses around him. “The others around here are not to happy with me. They say I am making them look bad. Well what can I say?”
I raised my eyebrows. He chuckled heartily.
“American?” he said to me.
“Born in South Africa, now living in America,” I replied.
“Your grandfather is a good man,” he said.
“How do you know my grandfather?” I said.
“Nelson Mandela,” he said. “He is the grandfather of all South Africans.”
I chuckled. “Madiba. (As Nelson Mandela is known in South Africa.) Yes indeed,” I said. “He’s a wonderful human being. An amazing guy actually.”
“What brings you to Kinshasa?” said Mr. Wemba. “I’m sure you are not here on holiday.”
“I’m visiting with the UN.” I said. “I’m with a delegation trying to help children affected by the war.”
“I believe that would mean every child in the whole country,” said Mr. Wemba.
“I know,” I said. “It’s heartbreaking.”
We chatted a little more about the Congo, life in Kinshasa and how much work is needed to give the children hope for the future. Mr. Wemba waved goodbye and went back into his lovely home.
As we walked away from the house, the metaphor of ‘children in war’ being like ‘Mr. Wemba’s flowers growing in amongst the gloomy broken-down shacks’, did not escape me.
For the sake of the children in the slums, orphanages and refugee camps in Africa may there be an abundance of Mr. Wemba’s helping kids grow and blossom despite the situations that war, poverty and famine have put them in.
Posted by trevor at January 30, 2008 05:32 PM