Porfela was laid up in bed dying, so weak he couldn’t even stand up to watch out the window of his one-room hut as his children played outside. I walked into his home, knelt by his bedside and held his hand as I listened to his story and told him how much he is loved by God his Father. It seemed bizarrely inappropriate to be there supporting him, trying as best I could to encourage and inspire him, when I was the one who went away the most transformed from our meeting one another. That was April 2010, and I will remember Porfela forever – his was the first home visit I ever went on in Africa, all those months ago on a two week trip to Zambia. Fast forward to just before Christmas, 2011. Having been hurried out of the Congo during the country’s volatile presidential elections I’d found myself back on the soil of my first African love – Zambia. I had since learnt that a few months ago Porfela had passed away. That big slum in which I visited him was just up the road, and so I was absolutely set on going back. I hoped to return and spend a night staying in the community. Preparations were made, few of them by me, and soon my Swazi friend Sibusiso and I were being driven into the huge slum-compound under the cover of darkness, so as not to draw attention to our presence. Having no idea with whom I was going to stay I trekked through the buzzing slum, amidst crowds of drunk youngsters and echoes of “mzungu!” (white man!) all around me, following a care worker to the home in which I would sleep. As we turned into the yard of the tiny decrepit hut I knew instantaneously where I was; it wasn’t my first time there. I don’t know how I recognised Porfela’s home so quickly, having only made a brief visit there over a year before and now returning in the dark. I guess the experience was etched on my memory, the face of that dying man and the feel of his hand etched on my heart, more profoundly than I had ever realised. His wife, a big mother-hen type woman who seemed to carry the weight of all her family’s pain alone, and yet bear it with joy, came out of the house to greet us. I was so overwhelmed, so overawed that God should arrange it that I stay in the home of a family that touched my heart over a year before, that I couldn’t contain my excitement. It seemed I didn’t need to ask if she remembered me, but I did anyway. She told me through the care worker’s translation that she remembered, and giving me a motherly hug she pulled me into her home. There I met Porfela’s children for the first time, the three boys: Akim (14), Renard (12) and Mwenya (9), and a beautiful little girl with an incredible attitude called Naomi (3). Akim, the man of the house, spoke the best English of them all and was gracious enough to translate for me so that I could speak to the family. We spent the evening playing games, sharing a meal, chasing and tickling Naomi until she screamed, drawing in my notebook and trying to pack more and more visitors into the one-room hut as they arrived hour by hour throughout the evening. I learnt that Renard was suffering badly with malaria. Too weak to stand up, he laid in the corner of the room, sitting up every now and then so I could put my arm around him. Akim took care of him with all the love of a father. Porfela had suffered bitterly for a long time, and so Akim had become the man of house long before his father passed away, and long before his childhood came to its end. But he bore the weight of responsibility with such unnatural maturity.
That night I lay down to sleep in the exact spot where I had found Porfela over a year previous. Renard laid beside me, tucked together under a single sheet on the cold muddy ground. Every time he turned over and his arm touched mine I felt the scorching heat of fever that was taking its toll on his young body. How does so young a heart bear such a season of pain? His hollow gaze betrayed a hurt deeper than sickness. The whole family bore the same wound - they missed their father, Salome missed her husband; and though Akim carried with courage so much of what his Dad left behind, the family’s pain spoke even to a stranger like me of something unmistakeable: that Porfela was a good father. In Africa, where so many are left fatherless at the hands of disease and death and so many more left behind by fathers walking out the door, a good Dad is a precious and prized thing. To leave behind you a family so tightly bound, so knitted in love and faithfulness that even without you they continue to grow closer – that is a legacy to be desired by every man. Porfela was such a father. I wish I had met him earlier, and yet I think to see what he left behind – a family bound by such incredible intimacy – is a greater testament than anything I could have seen whilst he was alive.
I left Salome’s home the following day. We prayed together for Renard and Salome, I said my goodbyes to the family (and about a thousand neighbours), and headed off. I had to leave Zambia just a couple of days later, but couldn’t go without wrapping and sending a few little Christmas gifts for the family. I understand they liked them very much, but I’ll have to see for myself when I go back, which will be very soon. I’ll keep you updated. In the meantime, pray for Akim, for Renard, for Mwenya, for Naomi and for Salome. And know that if anywhere the hope of Africa is shining, like sunlight streaming through a clouded sky, it is in the lives of such as these – a family that bears, in the midst of terrible agony, an unshakeable and extravagant love.
