Colors

We’ve been hanging out in Kitale for almost three weeks now and are beginning to feel very much at home.  Where once we questioned this or that, now we walk about freely going here and there doing whatever we need or want to.  Roger even lets me out of his sight and allows me to wander around on my own now! Night-time, however, is a different story as even locals don’t feel safe from the orphaned street kid gangs, but during the day the most intimidating thing I can say is the constant staring and occasional “mzungu” (white person) with a pointed finger.  I’ve actually gotten used to being in the minority and hardly notice at all any more.  Most have given up completely on teaching me Swahili and even my friend Maggie noted when I said in a group of women that perhaps she would teach me (Swahili), that yes, she would, but then added quickly that it would probably take a very long time. (sigh!) This morning I went tripping down the stairs of our hotel quickly passing by the desk where Bilha sits collecting keys from residents who are going out and then passing them out again whenever each of us returns.  She grabbed my hand and shook it, the Kenyan custom, and said, “Habari yako” and then exclaimed, “Madame, you look VERY smart today!”  I replied, “I look smart?”  “Yes, and young, too!”  I told her then that my friends in Congo had given me the bright blue shirt I had on and how much I loved it. Last week our friends and church planters Angel and Steven from DR Congo arrived.  It had been a long time since we’d seen them and since I had received the blue shirt from a friend in Uvira, DRC.  The moment I saw Angel how quickly I remembered the beauty of the Congolese women I had met and seen.  Not only physically, but the beauty of their clothing and how they move through their cities with such grace and poise and pride as they go about their daily lives.  When they walk through the dusty, dirty, war-torn streets, they are like peacocks with each feather spread out fully, showing the full majesty of the purples and blues and greens, with heads held high for all to see, alert and excited to see what life may hold for them this day.  Their dresses are amazing:  the colors, the designs, demanding that a woman be a woman of grace and dignity and honor.  Even if life has turned out less than they had hoped or sadness would overwhelm them, the Congolese woman washes herself with the brilliancy of pinks and reds and greens to lighten her load.  Each day Angel has worn a dress more beautiful than the one she wore the day before.  She says it is common; it’s the Congo way, and I know it’s true. I’m not sure if I actually do look “smart” in the blue shirt and I definitely question if I look young, but I have reflected on the Congolese “way” and have neatly wrapped up my black shirt (pictured) into a package to give away and dream of returning to DRC to learn more from my sisters there.