Categorical Living

The world is divided into black and white – you are one or the other.

"How come whites create and blacks don't?"

"God must really love whites [to give them hair like that]."

Let’s be clear – the ‘white’ world is made up of Chinese, Indians, Koreans, Brazilians...  I think everyone who was not born and raised in Africa, but I’m not sure.  By this definition, I don’t think the black world includes Obama, Beyonce, or Kanye West.  

It’s a bizarre distinction, but one that is very clear for the people here. 

Locals literally do not see a difference between me and Carrottop (a freckled strawberry blonde).  When I say I’m different from a white person, they look commiseratingly at each other and laugh: White people and their foibles... 

It’s even more incomprehensible when I jokingly say “Niko mucongomani!”  [I’m Congolese!]

Malians were much more willing to accept foreigners into one tribe or another; mostly to recruit more members in the never-ending (friendly) war over who eats the most beans (FYI, not the Diarras).  But here, it’s us against them – us being highly divided anyway and usually harbouring some prejudice about such-and-such a tribe that loves sex or is made up of liars or thieves. 

And yet, while there the locals do defer to white people (by which I mean ‘foreigners’), there’s no real preference for light skin, as there is in India (though I do see skin-lightening soaps and creams on sale).  In fact, the Queen of Sheba announced one day as we were cooking that she does not like people who are too brown.  Or too black. 

I assumed that both of us fall within the acceptable spectrum of visible light, but was too afraid to ask.

The biggest danger to come out of all this is that I’m starting to insist less and less on the fact that I am Indian. 

Maybe I’m Chinese. 

Maybe I’m a white person covered in a layer of the silt that comes through the pipes. 

Who really knows?

So I pray. 

Especially when people ask me for a job (usually at their place of work) in the small, vain hope that they will be accepted into the hallowed ranks of an NGO and thus be paid regularly and beyond their wildest dreams.  I’ve tried to tell them that I’m here as a volunteer, to which they eagerly reply that they’d love to volunteer.

I might not be using the right French word.

I know of an NGO which hadn’t paid their chauffeur in three months.  He was advised by the magistrate to sit outside the office with his wife, their three young children, their mattresses, and their cooking implements (including the charcoal pot o’death).  Thankfully, he was talked down off that ledge and paid some of what he was owed, but it was a close thing. 

So when these people ask me, of all people, for a job, I’m caught between cynical laughter and heartbreak.

And prayer.

Of course, sometimes these conversations are just guys asking me for something I’m not entirely sure I want to give them, but being frustratingly coy about it.  I think they’re only asking me out, but as anyone close to my advanced age is married with children, I’m suspicious.  Whether it’s for a job, a date, or venture capital, my answer will be no, but the forms would vary: a sorrowful no vs. a mumbled series of negatives over my shoulder as I skitter away.  Luckily, the people here tend to saunter and I’m able to hit Roadrunner speeds (and meeps) when uncomfortable.  But sometimes I’m trapped in conversation.

One well-dressed gentlemen said he’d stamped my visa (he hadn’t), asked how my job with MONUSCO was going (I don’t work with MONUSCO), and wanted money for a moto because he was late for a meeting (no).  Another older man from church keeps assuring me that he hasn’t forgotten about our meeting; each time I fervently pray that he does because I’m fairly sure we have nothing to offer each other but vague niceties on Sunday mornings.  Another guy was in a great hurry to be somewhere (excellent!), said he saw me walking to work every day (I don’t) with admiration and pity, and wanted to meet me (presumably to give me a piggyback ride).  As I find it hard to guess what these ‘meetings’ might be about, I also find them hard to turn down.

“I think we should meet.”

“Uh, well, I’m very busy.”

“Just for fifteen minutes.”

[To do what, you mad fool.]  “I’m very involved in my church.”

“In the evening?”

“Well, you know, I’m not out much in the evenings because I don’t know this area.”

“So we can meet in the evening for fifteen minutes.”

“I don’t think I have time, but thank you.”

“For fifteen minutes.”

“I hate doing this, but you have left me no choice:  I can’t.”

“So what should we do now?”  [I.e. How should we progress.]

[To quote Disney’s Mulan as she is in imminent danger of being identified as a female in the Chinese army:  “We could just... close our eyes and... swim around!”]  “Um, maybe I’ll see you again.  You’re busy; you should go.  Bye!”

“Bye.”

He stared after me for a few moments, so I’m not sure he understood that was the end of the conversation, but my rapidly retreating back was probably a clue. 

That was another prayerful moment. 

To be honest, most of my really fervent prayers were from the back of a motorcycle on the way to work every day last month.  I’ve been marginally less pious since deciding to wake up earlier, walk fifteen minutes to the nearest bus (and I use this term loosely) route, take a twenty-minute bus ride, and then race the five-minute walk to my place of work.   

This change occurred after some close calls on a moto – once when my driver’s bracelet got hooked on the handlebars of another moto, and once when my driver and another were aiming for the same tiny gap in traffic.  Thankfully, nothing happened both times, except that I realised how much I love both my legs and decided they would be safer (along with the rest of me) in a rattling metal box on four wheels, usually with a broken windows and a sliding door that is barely attached and rarely closed. 

I pray daily that I handle myself and these situations with grace and patience, that I present myself in a way that is gentle and kind.  That is what I love most about my overseas mission: the constant reminder of reason for prayer.  Even without daily moto rides, I still have to remember that I’m a stranger here and that God has to go before me to soften hearts, to make my way safe, and to lead me on a level path when the society is rumbling in the ominous prequel to an earthquake. 

When it takes a day to load my email inbox and my blog post grows paragraphs like a hydra because the government is apparently trying to limit the knowledge of the massacres in Beni – so that tags like #WeAreBeni get less hits than #SaviourBarbie – I can still trust in justice. 

When the bathtub tap starts spitting out leaves, possibly fish scales, and string with staccato fire epilepsy, I can't always take it in stride.  I can handle the presence of silt, but when my bucket contains a starter kit for a nest, I need some consolation and hope for a brighter future. 

Stifling the urge to blurt, “You look just like Randall from Monster’s Inc.!” takes supernatural help.

All of which is why I’ve been immensely thankful for more opportunities to pray with others; every morning at work - with the added benefit that a group of Congolese sound like a barbershop octet with little to no effort - and with the Queen of Sheba every night. 

I like black-and-whites.  Greys make my life difficult.  As someone who struggles to walk the line between I can't do this and My way is better, I also struggle with God’s sovereignty in my life.  This is most highlighted when I decide what I can pray for and what I will not offer to God because I think it’s silly or unworthy.

Or because I don’t think God can change it. 

I'm still confused by what people think is 'acceptable' to offer to God and what isn't, by what people say and what they seem to believe.  Having come from a place where I never believed prayer worthwhile, I never again want a powerless God.  Or even a partially effective one.  If I'm supposed to pray for healing, you'd better believe I pray for the hearts and intentions of my coworkers and friends.  I think Jesus knew how difficult it is for us to believe in these things we can’t see – like the Spirit at work in people’s hearts.  We would rather hear him say to get up and walk than that our sins are forgiven.  That sort of change is immeasurable, requiring constant repentance.  Which, frankly, we’re not sure that God or others can sustain. 

What right does Jesus have to say that?

I am thankful that I have a God who invites me to walk with Him and speak with Him.  Not only about the big things like physical healing, but also about the little things like the heart and personality and cultural differences and money management and leadership. 

I want to be ashamed. 

I’d rather hide.

But fig leaves are pitiful cover for how far I and those around me have fallen. 

Instead of hiding behind temporary solutions and ‘manageable’ requests, I’m thankful that I (and my church family here) choose to ask for miracles on behalf of the people we love, the leaders of this country, and the NGOs at work here and trust that God will shield us in the palm of His hand.