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| Grace, in April 2010 and April 2013 |
April 2010. 5 very white
people step off a steamy bus and into the blazing African sun. The place -
Mulenga, a brawling slum of tin roofs and taverns housing 30,000 of Zambia's
poorest; the people - 5 intrepid travellers, church goers from East England looking
to partner with an African charity which they at this point know little about. And
amongst them, me. That was the day I first walked in Africa.
Then a 20 year old
theology student, I was the youngest of the group. Africa had presented itself
as a happy opportunity - two weeks in the sun and an experience to take back to
the halls in which I studied and the homeless shelters in which I worked. I had
never intended nor imagined, then or after, that I would come to call the place
home. And yet, a year later, I would find myself on this red soil again. What
happened that first day, and what followed after, is the story of why I came
back. Looking over it I can see that it all began in that moment, stepping off a
bus for the first time into the African sun, when a small hand wrapped itself in
mine and turning around I laid eyes on a beautiful little creature in a blue
dress.
Her name was Grace.
She was lost in the
crowd, nothing particular to set her apart from the sea of smiling faces. Yet
hers was the face that left the deepest imprint upon my heart. It was funny
really, I knew nothing about her. Over 3 or 4 days I heard her say little more
than her name, yet for the time I spent in Mulenga slum, I spent every moment I
could with her. Frantic to know more than only this little creature's name, I
asked anyone and everyone I could if they knew anything about her, but none
did. It was for her that God had brought me to Africa those 2 weeks, of that I
was sure. Or I can say, it was for me to meet her that God had brought me. I
didn't ask myself why, I understood well enough. God will not expect you to
weep for the world. But he will bring you the world; one story, one face at a
time. And I never knew compassion until I met Grace. That was why he brought me
to her, and her to me.
So that two weeks
passed, and with it, my precious time with Grace. Leaving her behind, in just
the same state in which I'd found her, I left for home.
April 2011 and I was
absorbed in my studies, my final year of University drawing to a close. The
future lay before me; continuing to work with the UK's homeless and
dispossessed was all I could think or dream about. And then something began to
stir inside me. A restless doubt, was the path set before me the one God would
have me walk? I longed that God would have me in London, working with the
homeless there as I had done the past couple of years. Yet in my secret and
sincerest prayers, I knew that God was bidding me elsewhere. I didn't
understand it; after all, I'd never had a heart for Africa. Africa, and all
that I had known of it, had faded to me. And yet I was restless, and in the depth of myself I wrestled and fought with
the disarming truth of it - that the face of a 7 year old girl in the crowd had
never left me. Grace followed me, and with her a call to come back.
'You may not have a heart for Africa, but you do have a heart for
Grace. There are many more Graces I want to show you, many more stories and
faces; but you will never know or hear, unless you go back.'
And so I lost the fight.
In September 2011 I arrived for the second time in Africa, set to discover what
God wanted to do in and through me in this wild place, with one great goal in
the thread of it all: to find her again. It was her that brought me back, and
so her story was every bit entwined in mine. I told many people both in Africa
and at home that I'd try to find her. And so, when I was sent to Zambia in late
2011, my first stop was the tin roofs of Mulenga compound. I met many of the
people I'd known before, and throughout regular visits built a great
relationship with the care workers (local volunteers) that live in Mulenga,
providing parental care and support to the slum's most vulnerable children. I
walked with them from home to home amidst the vast bustle of 30,000 people, the
one photo I had of Grace in hand, searching for her. I never found her.
Months later, a good
friend of mine was volunteering in the area with Hands at Work. She knew my deep
desire to find Grace, and so took to searching herself, walking around the
homes asking after her. She didn't find her either, but she was able to track
down her mother's phone number and a family that knew of 'Mwaka' - Grace's
Bemba name (the local language of northern Zambia). They had bad news. Grace
had moved with her mother to Makululu slum, 160km south of Mulenga and the
largest single community in Zambia, boasting a population of over 80,000
people. But there was hope yet. Makululu, whilst enormous, was a community in
which Hands at Work operates, supporting local care workers to care for
children just like in Mulenga. They are served by one of Hands' local offices,
operating out of the nearest town - Kabwe.
I met with the
opportunity to spend some time with our team in Kabwe. Jumping on a bus and
heading down, I came equipped with a photograph of Grace, asking tentatively,
if they had the time or chance, to ask the care workers if they knew the little
girl. They did more than I asked. 30 care workers in Zambia's largest slum began
to walk from home to home, asking after Grace.
160km north, I had
since made my home at Kachele Farm, the base of operations for Hands at Work in
the region and happily just down the road from Mulenga itself. Night after
night I would call Grace's mother on the number my friend had tracked down for
me. No one ever picked up. After a few months, the phone was answered by a
seemingly intoxicated man who spoke little English and had no idea who or what
I wanted. As it turned out, it was, it had always been, the wrong number. It
was shortly after that that I got an update from the head of our work in Kabwe.
The care workers had been unable to track down Grace. I don't know if I ever expected
they would.
More months passed and
while the search seemed futile, my hope didn't fade for an instant. It was 3
years since the day I first met her. I wondered if I'd even recognise her if I
saw her. After all, I had only ever possessed one photo of her. I wondered if
she'd recognise or remember me too. That didn't worry me too much though. I
knew that I wanted to see her not in the vague hope that she would remember me,
but because she had changed my life in the most real and resonant way that anyone
ever could. And then, this week happened. I'd been hosting a team from my
church in the UK, 'coincidentally' the same church that I'd come with in April
2010. It was their 4th visit since that time we first came to Africa, and one
of them, Ken, was on the original team itself. He had been there the moment
Grace first grabbed my hand and every day following. Few people knew as he did how
deeply she had impacted my life, though just about everyone I know has heard
her name since. And so this week I found myself sitting in the passenger seat
of a 4 x 4, this time one of 6 very white people, inching our way down the
ludicrous dirt tracks that map Mulenga community. Stopping to wave at a group
of children I looked out my window and saw a familiar face. For an instant, my
heart literally stopped. Turning to Ken in the driver's seat I said, "I
think that's Grace." I dove out the car so quickly I startled the girl. Looking
into her face and exchanging a smile, I brought her by the hand to one of the
Zambian women we were working with. I told her the story, 5 words a second
tumbling out one over the other, and having taken it all in she bent down and
asked the little girl in their local language, translating for me as she did
so,
"What is your
name?"
"Mwaka," she
replied.
"Do you know this
man?"
"It's my friend
Adam," she said.
"And how long have
you been friends?"
"A long
time."
I was lost for words,
lost for thoughts. I didn't laugh or cry as I would have expected to. I just hugged her, set her down again, took
her hand, and we walked together. That morning I was scheduled to visit some of the homes of
the children and patients we care for. But before I did, my first visit was to Grace's house. We met her aunty and her father, who had recently
returned to Mulenga with Grace from Makululu. They sat silent and dumbfounded
as I told them how and why I had searched for her. I wondered what Grace
thought. She didn't respond much, only rested on me as we sat together,
listening to the whole story. When we eventually had to leave, I asked Grace if
I could come back to visit her again soon. She said she was free Wednesday.
Laughing, I told her I'd try, and we left. But a few minutes later we found
that she was following us, so putting my arm around her, we walked together. 3
hours we walked in and out of the homes of patients, orphans and grandmothers,
listening to their stories. Every time I looked at Grace sitting silently
beside me I could think of nothing but how impossible a thing it was that she
was there, that we were there, together. She threw me shy smiles across the
room whilst we sat in people's homes. Eventually the day drew to a close. We
walked back to the car and for the second time I said goodbye to Grace. Her
confused face was lost in the crowd of smiles as we drove away. But this time everything is different. This weekend I will go back and see her again. I don't know if there is anything
more God would ask of me. I will not take it for granted. I know why Grace was
such a gift to me then, and what compelled me to find her now. Because it was through her that I discovered not
only the truth that, in His own time and in His own way, God will give you the desires of your heart,
but more beautiful still - that God will lead you a long way until the one
great desire of your heart becomes to follow the desires of His.
