Alain Nshimbi, his wife Georgette, and 3 year old son comprise one of our seminarian families from DRC; we enjoy greeting each other with “Bon jour. C’est va?” In the midst of reeling from the seminary’s loss, on May 4th a joyful much-anticipated event took place. Georgette had a C-section and delivered a beautiful, healthy baby girl. Cordesh and her mommy were discharged from one of the public hospitals a few days later. But it soon became apparent to her parents that she was sick. They took her back to that hospital several times over the next two weeks, only to be told there was nothing wrong, and were sent home. By the time her frantic parents finally got someone to pay attention a week ago, the hospital-acquired blood infection had thrown her into multisystem failure. Cordesh was in critical condition. They took her to another public hospital. There the NICU staff did all in their power to save her.
Through the tangle of tubes and machines our interim president Peter Storey and Dean Sox Leleki baptised her last Wednesday. Two days later Alain requested the support of Shayne and Wesley Olivier, along with other family and friends, as the life-sustaining equipment was turned off.
Cordesh’s funeral was very difficult for the wonderful village. As part of ministerial formation, Alain had been assigned to Metro, an integrated Methodist inner-city congregation, so the service was naturally held there. It was the same type of funeral service I was accustomed to, except for the meat locker temperature inside the sanctuary. The presiding minister prayed the concluding words, The Lord has given, and the Lord has taken her back”. I heard a soft voice directly behind me countermand, “No, it was NOT the Lord, it was the hospital!” Not surprisingly, it was Peter Storey, who had led the Christian churches’ fight against Apartheid. Last night in Chapel he vowed to challenge this horrific incompetence and indifference rampant in public health care here. Doug whispered to me, “The lion lives again!”
At the close of the service, a fellow Congolese seminarian carried the tiny casket out of the sanctuary. Mother Georgette collapsed into wailing, sobbing repeated piercing staccato cries of high-pitched AYE-AYE-AYE. Caught off guard, this hysterical outbreak startled me so I almost screamed. Her distress, like a wave, echoed off the church walls, releasing a flood of tears from the entire congregation.
A train of cars tortuously crawled to a private cemetery, ironically in the shadow of the very same hospital that had killed her. Here Metro Methodist Church has purchased land for church members in need of burial plots. On a hillside were about fifty new graves, behind which were headstones peaking up from tall swaying weeds. Psalm 103 came to mind: “As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more.” A hole had already been dug literally inches from another fresh mound of red earth and stone. Fraying pieces of red carpet were draped over the sides and set under a row of rotting cloth chairs. A temporary wooden cross adorned with handwritten words was stuck in the dirt off to one side. The minister intoned our Lord’s final words of comfort. As the diminutive wooden box was tenderly lowered into the hole, he invited anyone who wished to toss in a handful of dirt. Georgette commenced wailing as fellow mothers surrounded her in mourning. Ten seminarians took turns with two provided shovels to refill the hole, disregarding their dress shoes and clothes. My big job was to hold suit coats as the men strained in the hot sun. They lovingly sculpted the mound and planted the cross, reminding me of desert burials in old cowboy movies. Eventually a permanent grave marker will replace the wooden cross.
And so a new life has commenced for this precious little family. But they remain in the loving support of the wonderful village called SMMS.
