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Margaret with her royal aura dares you not to pity her, nor her slums, nor her continent. Here's a link to related post and awesome photo. |
I was saddened to hear about the train crash in Nairobi's Kibera slum and found it ironic that I heard this news report as I concluded my early morning writing session that had taken me to another Nairobi slum, Kangemi. I'm kind of a believer in signs, so I took this coincidence as a signal to post about the lovely and incredible Kenyan, The Rev. Margaret Obaga, one who will be well recognized by seminary friends. Below is a short excerpt from a chapter I'm working on about how Margaret helped us deal with the awful retching that afflicted Bob when his liver failed. There was a horrible physicality to Bob's illness, that was beautifully met by one who survived her own horrific physical procedure, inflicted upon her at the age of 12.
An excerpt:
“Get me a brown paper bag,” she said to
me in her quiet yet forceful voice. Margaret stood about five feet tall, but
when she talked, people listened. Even my kids listened. Her angelic baby face belied
her power, which was firm like hard earned wisdom. While I was deferential to
authority, Margaret commanded it. I got her a brown paper bag.
Margaret was from Nairobi, Kenya but
during Bob’s illness, she and her family lived down the hall. “If I were home,
I would put dirt on the bottom but we’ll just use flour. Get me some flour.” I
retrieved a half-used bag of flour from the kitchen cupboard.
“Dust the flour on the bottom of the
bag,” she instructed me, as if she knew exactly what to do in times of coughing,
retching, and vomiting. While I had to play mind games with myself to separate
the ugly illness from the human being, Margaret seemed perfectly at ease in the
presence of affliction. If she was revolted by Bob’s skeletal appearance and
egg-yolk eyes, she didn’t let on. Instead, she leaned close into Bob and held
the bag for him as he twisted his tonsils to gag up bile, and more bile, and
more.
When I first noticed Margaret on campus the
previous year, I’d been in awe because I recognized her from the headshot that
went with an article she’d published in TheLutheran magazine on the topic of banning female genital mutilation, based
on her own true story (September 2005, You need a paid subscription to access full article. Get it!). I considered this writing courageous but
even though we had turned into sister friends, I had not mentioned I read her
article. Her writing seemed too private. It was before I considered myself a
writer but I still had the sense that writers didn’t always wish to discuss
their published work.
The piece was entitled, “It is not for
someone to take this away” which was printed with quotes around it, her exact
wording as if she was talking out loud. I can hear her voice. Her writing is
chilling yet direct, describing the ritual she had participated in when she was
12 years old: “The next day you go to the river and dive in, for the cold has a
numbing effect. Then you face the knife. In my day it was the same knife for
all of us. You aren’t allowed to cry. When they cut your clitoris off, there’s
singing.” She goes on to write that a her younger sister refused to be
circumcised a few years later, that her mother had come to learn it was wrong,
that her daughter is not circumcised, and that “Today women in Kenya are rising
up against female circumcision and calling it FGM (female genital mutilation)
because it mutilates the system God gave us to enjoy.”
I wonder if her wisdom and power comes
from that experience. At 12 years old she obediently complied with tradition. A
few years later, she started asking questions. Today she is an activist.
I also did not confess to Margaret that
I searched her name on the internet and learned that she had organized street
girls in Nairobi’s immense slums for health and education. Long before I met
Margaret I’d learned how vulnerable girls were in Nairobi’s slums, because the
study tour itineraries I planned in my day job included meetings with Kenyan
human service groups. I had once visited Kangemi, just one of the city’s six
sprawling slums with a population of 100,000 people or so, circa 2000. I had
met teenagers who were orphaned by HIV/AIDS, or their parents were drug
addicts, or prostitutes, or for whatever reason, they were alone. I remember
marveling at how well pressed their clothes were, right there in the heart of
the slum. They had all wanted my email address.
While other people may have seen
Margaret as just another student, I saw her as special, even one with
extraordinary abilities. A prophetess. A healer. I had an idea of the immensity
of her accomplishments, even though her home church and possibly even the
immediate community around us, did not. While Margaret had earned her Masters
of Divinity degree, her denomination in Kenya would not ordain her because she was
a woman.
And
yet, Margaret with her royal aura dared you not to pity her, nor her slums, nor
her continent.
*
Touche'! I feel that last sentence is one of the best I've ever written, if I do say so myself. Thanks much for coming over. Your best thoughts and prayers for the development of rest of this chapter is much appreciated.
With love from yours truly,
Natural Born Bleeding Heart
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