Join Me For Life at Margaret's

Meet Christina. That's her church name. At home and among her friends she goes by Koba. I share a hut with her. Older, and never having had children of her own, she lives here with her one remaining brother (of an original 10). Hard working, she doesn't complain when she gets up and down and her rheumatism twinges something awful. She's no-nonsense. Direct. And would probably strike you as rather brash at first glance. We first met on a bench outside of church. I was talking with a bunch of ladies, and she was sitting next to me. She kept grabbing at my arm to get my attention, telling me that I was going to teach her English, and animatedly engaging me in conversation. At other times, that could have bothered me, but in her case, something about her matter-of-fact way hinted at a beguiling mix of soft-hearted sincerity and honorable fighting spirit just below the surface. And I've loved her ever since.

Two weeks ago I packed my duffel and moved across town to an area known as Miṛi-Kälängä. I told my pastor I wanted to spend time visiting with families from the church, if they were willing. It's one thing to know people by seeing them at church every Sunday, and quite another to stay with them, to get to know their families, how they're connected, and what they do the other six days of the week.

 Pastor Lexon thought it was a great idea and called a meeting to talk to some of the members. I later found out that Margaret (known as Kozo) immediately offered - MUCH to my delight. She's part of the Mother's Union at my church, and works as a midwife in the local government health clinic. A grandmother still young and full of life, you'll hear her singing with her gara (gourd shaker) slightly off time and with a voice that's going hoarse, but with so much joy that my heard can't help but well up when I'm anywhere near her smiling, singing self. For some reason, she's always had so much space in her heart for me. People here are very friendly, but whether from slight reservation towards the "white" person, or hesitation on account of the language barriers (not to mention culture), they don't always go the extra step without my initiation. Not Margaret. Every time she sees me she comes right over, and no hand shaking - it's all hug, the kind where you hang on longer than the conventional clutch . . . with all the sweet persisting South Sudanese exclamations of greeting going back and forth.

Awani is Margaret's spitting image - a grandson of about three years that stay with her and her husband. He's all business at play. Revving the log in the yard that doubles for his motorcycle, absorbed in inventing new uses for scrap metal, zooming about the compound with the metal wheel of a retired bicycle, or busy following and laughing at me. Sending your children to stay with a relative is a common practice among S. Sudanese. And so an empty-nester is rarely ever a true empty-nester. And besides that, there are few families that are not caring for one or more people that are otherwise alone or unable to care for themselves. Orphans. Children whose parents are drunkards, or gone for some other reason. Brothers and sisters who are blind, or have epilepsy, or sleeping sickness. The elderly.

At Margaret's compound there are several in each category. She herself cares for Awani as well as another boy of about 11 years old (Sabiri) who has a mother that drinks and doesn't care for him. We share the compound with two other related households. One has a blind grandmother - spunky Lilian (pictured with the pot on the right) as well as two young men, one blind and just as congenial as can be - Dewo (need to get the spelling on that right) - and another epileptic whose name I still can't get.

The other household consists of my very pregnant friend Nadi, her two super cute younguns Edward and Tifo, and another 10 year old boy without parents, as well as Nadi's mother. Nadi moves about with an unruffled serenity and acquiescence that totally belie her sharp mind and voracious appetite for learning. She's the only one on the compound that knows some English. We've become fast friends. Lingering on the straw mat in the woozy afternoon heat, we pass the time reading, talking, teaching each other language, and singing song after song from the Moru songbook.

Nadi taught me how to prepare my first chicken from scratch. Moru style. And it was GOOD. She showed me the same with fish fresh from the river. Next on our agenda is kisira. It's the thin Sudanese sour sorghum bread that's eaten with sauces. I love it. And she makes it GREAT. Her baby should come any day now. I can't wait.

On Lilian's side of the compound stay Ndiŋwa, her totally adorable baby boy, and wide-smiling Minika (pictured holding said baby). Minika's voice still has the sweet song of little girl. It's like an angel. And to see her with Ndiŋwa's little boy would make your heart melt. Her father has been long gone. And her mother died several years ago.
Ndiŋwa is the tiniest little person, with the readiest smile and attitude. She might be the champion of all things work-related - going about her business with a quick step and usually an accompanying song.

Yep, that's him eating my totally manky toes...LOL!

This is life at Margaret's. Mud huts. Each pole cut with the many blows of one's own panga, and carried home on a shoulder. Grass roofs. Eating from the fruit of one's calloused hands. A rag-tag group of people: young, fresh, and smiling; old worn, and bereft. Carrying water from the bore-hole for drinking, cooking, and bathing. Grinding our gnuts and sesame into paste on our own grinding stone. Gathering firewood in the bush and stacking it on heads for the long, hot walk home. Pounding the sorghum from collected stalks on a great tarp on the ground. The creaks of rheumatism and the throbbing of toothache in the night. Stoking the fire for morning coffee - first roasted by hand, then pounded in the mortar and pestle. Soaking cassava and setting it out to dry for later. Roasting, grinding, and boiling shea nuts to extract our oil for dinner sauces. Laying on mats stretched across the ground in the hot night. Dusty. 

Life is hard, to be sure. But you will not find bowed heads, long faces, or complaining here. Here is family. Thick or thin, you're in it together, and you're not alone. Lying under a sky full of stars, our bellies full, spread across a mat with people that belong, having put in a hard day's work, talking through whatever drifts through our minds, laughing, drifting off to sleep, it's not hard to imagine that this is what wholeness looks like. And it's not hard to see that this is a gift.