Conclusion to my blog posts on A ... or not.

On Thursday I arrived back in Kenya, and had finally thought to write a no doubt riveting post on my now ex-toaster. Instead I'm closing off the few blog posts I have written on A.

[http://andysweet.blogspot.com/2010/11/praying-to-god-wondering-if-youre.html,

http://andysweet.blogspot.com/2010/09/normal-normal-for-who.html,

http://andysweet.blogspot.com/2009/11/october-this-is-month-that-was.html]

On Sunday morning, A passed away after what was most likely a collision with a vehicle while on a bicycle the previous day while out researching on fish for a new business venture.

I had received a text late on Saturday night informing me of his admittance to hospital in some pain. During the night he passed away from internal bleeding. I had not expected this at all. I had assumed he had a broken leg that would be set in a cast. At the beginning of the year we’re always so optimistic on the future. He had had a good few weeks in December that were free from medical issues, he had a health insurance card in process and had received funds from a micro-finance institution to start a small business selling fish in Nairobi that he would buy at lake Victoria and transport to town once a week.

I wonder if it’s better to know your near the end of your life and have everything in order, or rather it’s better for it to sneak up before your ready, yet at a time you're at peace. A had plans afoot, but I’m still thankful that he did not have to wait for AIDS to take his life through one of many illnesses that would come with increasing regularity.

A had called me on Friday (which happened to be his 35^th birthday) and it was good to chat. My parting comment was something like “I’ll be praying that 2011 gets off to a good start” and his response was a nervous laugh. Maybe heaven counts as a good start to the year...

Addition: (Two week's later)
There's not a great way to write this paragraph, without it sounded clunky.
The medical centre gave the wrong information to A's friend. He had in fact been transferred to a public hospital in order to save costs and was discharged two weeks later. On arriving at his home, every one was freaked out thinking he was a ghost and didn't sleep a wink. A's friend had arranged to transport A's body to his family home. Somehow, a body was released which the friend took without checking the identity, and now that grieving family want it back. It's difficult to not acquire a complex when so much goes wrong around A. My hope and prayer is that these issues will be resolved quickly, so that A can get back to business and life.

My very own courtroom drama

This time last week I was sitting in Kibera Law Court. The building's located a couple hundred metres into the edge of what I consider the Kibera slum. The road is still paved, but it is a thoroughfare for those walking, and both sides of the narrow road comprised a tightly packed row of shops made out of corrugated roofing, painted in bright colours of the brands they sell, or the names of their establishments.

The courthouse itself was a concrete structure, painted a yellowish colour. As Nairobi is very dusty, it's hard to put an age on the building - it could have been as young as a decade old. On arriving I parked up, and myself and Kones, one of our drivers from the office, went over to the entrance which was closed. Though the summons said 8am, we would have to wait a little while, and knowing this to be the case, we had arrived around thirty minutes late.

When the doors opened we made our way inside and sat down in the courtroom, only to realise that we were in the wrong one, and so we got up and moved to court 3 where traffic offences are dealt with. It was already bustling with people. The room had three rows of benches for observers. We sat down here. At the front was the judges podium, a step up from the rest of the room. In front of her was a table with benches in front and behind. And on the right was a long bench, maybe for a jury. To the left was a box, where a defendant may stand. Behind the jury's bench was a door. The whole room was painted a functional grey, and had lines of wood along the walls. The room was nice and cool and airy and the benches comfortable.

Most of what was going on around me was happening in Swahili. There were many uniformed people - shades of blue, camouflage, military green, and a man in a Salvation Army uniform was sitting in our courtroom. Someone in a police uniform started trying to organise us, and so defendants sat in the visitors bench to the left, and those observing to the right. And now I was asked to submit my summons slip. On the back was a place to sign and date if you were guilty. I signed mine.

In just a few minutes at 9am the judge arrived. The table in front of her now had a team of people who were maintaining the courts functions - reading charges, receipting payments, ordering paperwork. On the other side of the table sat a few lawyers. The cases they began with seemed to involve those who had been unable to post bail, and one by one, or in groups of up to 14 they came through the door to the judge's right, and stood in the bench I had assumed was for a jury. Being a Monday, there must have been a whole weekend's worth of cases. Mostly events happened in Swahili. With so many cases, there seems little room for compassion. one by one, lawyers would tag-team at the front as defendants came and went. Some cases were re-scheduled to January as new evidence was submitted. Eventually, people in the room were starting to be called up to defend. I soon realised that almost everyone in the room had a case, and sometimes people from out the back of the court would come forwards, there being no where left to sit.

Eventually, at around 10:30 my name was called. I quickly stood up and made my way to the bench on the front right. My charge was read out to me, together with the particulars of the place, date and time. "Is this correct?" "It is correct," I said. There was now a pause, as by this point there was a lot of paperwork in motion from previous cases. I stood patiently, my heart beating faster than normal, needing the loo - it's a classic stress response - but I hadn't been prepared to go earlier as I hadn't wanted to miss my name being called. After a minute the judge said "10 months in jail or 8000 shillings". I thanked the judge and turned to the official next to me "Can you pay?" "Yes," I said, and reached for my wallet. I passed him the money and went to sit down at the back of the court to wait for my receipt.

Praying to God, wondering if you're the answer to your prayers... or something like that.

A week last Friday a Kenya friend who I've mentioned before - A - who lost his daughter in a bus crash in August went for chemotherapy. A lymphoma that had been operated on but was trying to grow back. Somehow, Kenyatta Hospital in Nairobi agreed to pay for his drugs and couriered them, wrapped in ice to a small care facility near the Ugandan border where A would be looked after. The first round was done on the Friday night. On the Sunday came a text from his phone asking any recipients to put the carers in touch with A's relatives as he was in a coma, and breathing only very shallowly. Emergencies are normally managed through family structures, and people normally give what they can. A's family did not come to help. Maybe because of strained relationships, and the cost that his AIDS treatment may have been to them in the past. As a church home group that A used to attend, it was a tough decision to know whether to get involved. Not least because with our friend being in a coma, he was not the one requesting money from us. When someone has AIDS, you know that medically speaking it will eventually take it's toll and maybe this is that moment. My thoughts even stretched to the need for the costs of a burial needing to be covered if that was to happen. A had believed that God was granting him  few more years, and on hearing that he was not on IVs, it seemed that the fight between life and death was not balanced. Hearing that news late on Monday I prayed that my mind would be swung the way God wanted it to.

One of the first verses I read in my Bible happened to be Luke 11:42 where Jesus is talking to the Pharisees about their hypocrisy.

Woe to you Pharisees, because you give God a tenth of your mint, rue and all other kinds of garden herbs, but you neglect justice and the love of God. You should have practiced the latter without leaving the former undone.

To me in this context, this verse said to not help would have been to neglect justice for A in the level of care he received and neglect God's love for him. Thankfully, God turned the hearts of several others of us in supporting, and so it was that we paid about £75 for an ambulance to come from Nyanza General Hospital and collect him, and hoped that the hospital bills would not come our way (they don't release you if you don't pay, rather the bill continues to increase indefinitely). That was last Wednesday last week. From then we heard nothing.

Yesterday morning, a week later, who do I get a call from, but A. He's in Eldoret - 120km from where his treatment was begun! We didn't pay for an ambulance to get his that far. He doesn't know how he got there, and he's been discharged for free but doesn't have his wallet or phone there (maybe they've been stolen, or maybe the care home has kept them safely). He remembers nothing of the chemo, no pain, no discomfort. What a miraculous turn of events. On the night before I had candidly told the home group that he could well have passed away, and we had asked a local pastor in Kisumu to search for A at Nyanza General Hospital (of which there are two). Amazing. It felt like he was back from the dead. I wonder if Lazarus would have been as confused when walking out of his grave in the Bible.

Today I'm reminded of the great testimony to God's goodness that he provides, but of the great trials that still run through life, as I hear of a family I know back in Wales whose youngest daughter was yesterday diagnosed with a brain tumour. I don't have anything special to say, other than that I'm planning to remember them every day in prayer, and I know that God has it in his hands and he knows best.

How to break into a house in Kenya – preferably your own

On the 28^th of February 2009, I was a bit tired. Earlier in the day I had arrived back from the Masai Mara with my parents. And now we were heading out to have food with a few of my work colleagues (including Janet who had her parents staying).

We went to Carnivore Restaurant off Lang’ata Road, which is a honey pot for tourists are supposed to go and get their fill of game meat. (In fact, the Brazilian Barbecue at the Panari Sky Centre is better, not least because it is quieter). Anyway, on the journey I get that cold dread that I’ve latched the door and padlocked the grill with the keys on the inside.

So on arriving at Carnivore I was wondering what to do. I ate for the first fifteen minutes, before deciding that some action was required, so I excused myself saying I need to go and break into the house and I’d either be back while they were eating, or they would need to get a taxi back.

I called a couple of people and they met me at the front door with hacksaws. I rang the neighbour’s doorbell, and politely explained how I would like to climb over the high wall from their garden into the garden of my house. At this point it should be noted that I’d never met the neighbour before, as the house I was breaking into I was just borrowing. He was very helpful, and even began to explain his own methods of breaking and entering his own house. I stopped him before he had divulged too much.

In the neighbours garden (in the dark), we now climbed up the bars on their windows, onto the high separating wall, and then down the other side. The barred patio door was now before us. Conveniently, the latch in the sliding door no longer worked, and so we slid it out of the way to make room for the hacksaw. I was very pleased that I hadn’t put any wood in trough.

The hacksaw did nothing to the padlock. If anything, the hacksaw was wearing out quicker than the padlock.

 

Now it was time for Plan B. We drove about 7 kilometres to an office where we knew there was a very large pair of bolt cutters that had been once bought to break into a container when the keys got lost. If nothing else, the security guards must have been a bit bemused as it was by now around 10pm. Driving back to the house, we now repeated our steps through the neighbours and over the wall. Sliding the patio door out of the way once again, we fed the bolt cutters through, and each took hold of a different arm, and pushed then together. Three seconds later we were in. Shockingly easy.

And just five minutes after this, my parents arrived having been dropped back by a taxi.

And so, the lesson was learnt. My next question was wondering what to replace the padlock with – one that was breakable, or one that will last more than three seconds. I went for the latter and made made sure that a spare key was safely stashed away.

Normal?! Normal for who?

Lately I've been thinking on what is normal. What is my expectation of a normal life for myself? What about for those around me and a mile away in Kibera? Do they have the right to the same expectations of normal as me? A few weeks ago I drafted up a long blog entry about A and his daughter C (aged 6) who I last mentioned in November 2009. They've been through so much over the past year, and so I wrote it all down succinctly as a steam of thought. The paragraph stretched to a side of type. I'm sure I missed some events off. Such a crazy year. On Saturday 22nd August his daughter passed away instantly in minibus crash on returning from a funeral. A had been too unwell to attend.

What can be said after a year of hardships? My church home group here in Nairobi were regularly praying from A and C, that God would bring them through this period of trial to be able to lie down in green pastures in the manner of Psalm 23. With A being regularly unwell, there was always some concern for the future that his daughter would have been orphaned and so I take the view that she has gone on to heaven ahead of him. Yet it's still hard to understand.

I'm reading through Job at this time in my Bible reading. In Job chapter 21 verses 7 to 14, Job says:

 ⁷ Why do the wicked live on,
       growing old and increasing in power?
 ⁸ They see their children established around them,
       their offspring before their eyes.
 ⁹ Their homes are safe and free from fear;
       the rod of God is not upon them.
 ¹⁰ Their bulls never fail to breed;
       their cows calve and do not miscarry.
 ¹¹ They send forth their children as a flock;
       their little ones dance about.
 ¹² They sing to the music of tambourine and harp;
       they make merry to the sound of the flute.
 ¹³ They spend their years in prosperity
       and go down to the grave in peace.
 ¹⁴ Yet they say to God, 'Leave us alone!
       We have no desire to know your ways.

This is what I and my home group ask - why do good things sometimes, or dare I say often happen to bad people? Yet we also know that those who plotted evil against A and C, (who have even used the occult to attempt to bring misfortune) on them will one day be judged, and that will be an awful thing for them. For A, he has never had much prosperity to be restored as was the case with Job but our prayer is that God would continue to speak to him and tell him that he is good and his love endures for ever, even though it can seem hard at times.

So that's that. But what about the wider discussion on normalcy? Do I have the right to except God to keep me living comfortably? No. Do I have the expectation that God will one day remove everything I have other than himself? No. But he could. Would this change may understanding of God's character at all? Yes and no - my hope would be that it'd make me more into the person he wants me to be.

I'll continue dwelling on these things some more.

Mild Tempora-phobia - a fear of time passing

The view from my bed, Tiger leaping Gorge, day 2

We've all got a little of this phobia I think. It's been a while since I last wrote. 33 days left in the UK, then back to Kenya. I spent a couple of weeks in China, travelling with a friend there. I'll add a photo stream giving a flavour of what I saw. I'm not sure I can do the stories justice in a blog. Maybe one day I'll give it a try.

Congo - my ramble in the J...angle

So... Congo. For me, the trip was many little moments stitched together so I'll try and share a few with you:

While on the plane, seeing Roger find a magazine behind the seat in front of him that was dated from 1989, and the thought that firstly, the plane was that old (the laminate wood effect interior should have given it away) and that maybe the plane hadn't been cleaned in that long.

Flying from Entebbe in Uganda, I was awestruck at the beauty of Lake Albert and the steepness with which the hills fell away into the lake. On the Congolese side, from the air the hills looked like they were covered in thick moss with steep river valleys calved their way into them.

On the approach to Bunia, my eye was caught by the well ordered grid in which the town was laid out - this said “welcome to French-speaking Africa' to me”. In contrast, Nairobi is very clearly British-speaking Africa, with the roads strung together in a rather haphazard way. Once we had landed and disembarked, the first thing I noticed was the Bangladeshi soldier sitting next to a high calibre machine gun and armoured personnel carrier - this is the town from which the UN's MONUC mission is based. Half the airport had UN written on it - it's a bit like when you're at school and your Mum writes your name on things; she doesn't want you to forget what you own. I wonder how much the UN would misplace if they didn't label?

Bunia Airport terminal was about the size of a large bungalow. It was a bit dank, and on the TV there was a Kenyan soap opera airing. We were lead through to a little room where we had to each pay $25 because the passports had not been used in Congo (or maybe just at that airport) before.

At customs, men search men's bags, women search women's – here it seems that there is an undercurrent of superstition present.

On leaving the airport, we skirted the town and headed north on roads of compacted mud. There was normally a channel calved by rainwater down one half of the road, and it was rather bumpy. We were in a 4x4; our bags were in a pick-up truck.

On the way we passed the site of an alleged mass grave, caused by peacekeepers that had been weary of local gatherings and misread scenes, such as church gatherings.

Had to stop at a police check point - across the road was a rope and on the left, three men with guns and on the right a group of mud-walled and thatched-roofed huts. What were they after - $6 in road tax. As we were in a church-owned car our local colleague talked us through as church related journeys are exempt.

We arrived 45 minutes (and 15 kilometres) from Bunia at the conference centre.

On the Sunday I walked with three colleagues through the village. We greeted possibly 500 people and saw a few pick-up trucks carrying about twenty folks apiece - there were even people reclining on the bonnet, leaving just enough space for the driver to peer between them. One woman told us (in French) that before the  war it had been common to see white people walking round - we felt humbled - I think that's the right word - at the thought that by simply being there, someone would remember back to normalcy and wonder if it had finally returned.

Our evening entertainment  consisted of  My Big fat Greek Wedding, and Mamma Mia - awesome :o)

On the Wednesday I left to return to Nairobi. An hour of travelling got me back to Bunia, though to the high street where some of Congolese workers went to by fish - or rather a massive lump of fish, cut up with a panga (machete) - I've never seen any fish so chunky in my life (other than a porpoise), and in Eastern Congo it’s likely to be fresh water. It was at this point that a phone call came to tell them that their plane was already waiting at the airport, so they dashed off in one vehicle, and I went to spend an hour or two at the local university campus. It was great to see such vibrant campus with so many people crammed in. As it was by now lunchtime, we slowly ate through the Pringles I had bought at the duty-free store in Entebbe.

When I finally reached the airport I had to pay taxes to leave - about $125. Just the previous Monday, a new tax of $10 had been added to the cost. What's unnerving is that dollars are not the currency of DRC and there are no cash machines anyway - quite how you are meant to leave the country if you do lose your possessions is anyone's guess.

The journey back to Entebbe was in a small a 6-seater Cessna 205 (that’s not a Peugeot if you’re wondering). As I am disappointingly light and underweight, I was relegated to the back row where you cannot really sit upright or stretch your legs. The flight was just over an hour. On getting near to Entebbe, flying over Lake Victoria, there was a whole cluster of islands that looked like green bubbles on the water - wonderfully bizarre.

And so that was my trip – a wonderful adventure. Such a beautiful country. So big. You cannot help but wonder why it had to be subjected to so much hardship over the years.

These views are my own and based on just a few days there. I hope I have conveyed my experiences accurately and sensitively.

Hearing but not herring

The scene is that I'm walking past Nyayo Stadium on Saturday afternoon with a Kenyan friend. Inside an event is taking place with a very load MC.

Me: I don't like it when things like this are on. The constant droning from the stadium I can here from my house - really tires me out.

Friend: [Looking towards the stadium] He's a Canadian, but they're not laughing.

Me: A Canadian?

Friend: Yeah.

At this point I was confused. After a few more seconds the penny dropped ... he's a comedian.

The Preacher and the Frog

Last week I heard this short story:

One Sunday, in upcountry Kenya, there was a preacher. And he was preaching and preaching, on and on, he just kept going. By chance, a frog hopped through the open doors at the back of the church and at this the preacher paused and said "what's the frog doing here?" To which a woman near the back replied "He says 'Let my people go.'"

True story? Hope so.

Something what not to find behind the seat infront on a propeller plane...

...an international relations magazine from 1989, commenting on the Russian withdrawal from Afghanistan.