My Tarnished West

 

After doing life in the red zone of DRCongo for a few months, Kenya is my West. Here, I have showers that, though cold, do not involve wishing and waiting for our bucket to fill and a jug. Here, on most days I can fill a kettle and flick a switch and make a cup of tea – no charcoal teepee or pot-lid-fanning of a fire into flame. Here I am able to escape to a coffee shop 30min away and order a cappuccino, use fast internet and eat frozen yoghurt if I so choose. More than once this month. I did so choose. Chocolate and Velvet Vanilla with a dash of Tart Guava – sheer chilled delight in a cup, with sprinkles. But right here, in my West, I cannot escape the brokenness and the desperation and the hurt of those trapped in the sex-trade industry – those being bought as well as those who pay for a few minutes of empty pleasure, often having travelled a million miles to do so. The streets and clubs and back alleys of our village - notorious for its dirty clubs, immorality and its sex-for-money industry – is filled with some of my favourite people in the world. My favourite because they’re God’s favourite.

 

I haven’t managed a blog in too-long awhile… And so as I finally sit to fill the world in, I am suddenly overwhelmed by all that has happened since I wrote last.

And my best friend... She came too!

We hosted an Iris team in DRC for 3 weeks over Christmas – it was perfectly fun! New friends of the forever kind. 3am fires and feasts of Uji (local porridge). Village feeding. Village outreaches. Bush trip awesomeness. Connections with new soldiers. Re-connections with ‘old’ soldier friends who have recently returned to the village. Miracles. Signs. Wonders. The gift of two hours of conversation and prophetic truth in a bank queue with UN soldiers… A little somethin’ I’d requested for Christmas. And the chicken’s heart on Christmas day! I did it, with a smile and… would do it again, in a heartbeat (or lack thereof) – It’s a high honour to be fed the heart, and so, as I snuggled under the covers as Christmas day drew to a contented close, I shed a few quiet happy tears in the darkness at the magnitude of this gesture.

I then spent 4 days in Uganda with some incredible friends who love incredibly well and who were excited at the idea of white-water rafting the Nile… Diving into 2014 looked far more literal than usual as we spent a few days, thrilled by God’s love, thrilled by His favour and thrilled by some of the world’s biggest white water. But this really requires a blog post of its own… It was THAT much fun and THAT profound!

Then. A whole lot has been happening in Central African Republic. A nation that current reports say runs the risk of genocide. A nation for whom my heart breaks and a nation for whom Heaven is the strategy. A whole lot has been happening back home, in South Africa, with the death of Nelson Mandela and as we prepare for elections again. Again, Heaven is the strategy. And a whole lot has been happening in Mozambique. “Reeeeeaaaaad all about it!!” But right now… As I’ve spent the most part of this month here, on the sex-strip of Mombasa along the Central East African Coast, it’s again His favourites caught up in the lie of provision and satisfaction through an industry we’re believing to come crashing down, for whom my heart aches.

I like to go into the clubs and connect with the men and the women – both parties often clothed in shame, masked by cheap liquor and reeking of even cheaper cologne and smoke. Both parties desperate for someone to hear their stories. For someone to really listen. For someone to ask about their dreams, to ask about the deep desires of their hearts and for someone to offer an alternative to the obvious sadness which curtains their eyes. One of my new a-stranger-on-Tuesday-friend-on-Wednesday friends this week, wept as I shared the truth of Papa God’s love with her, right there on the bar stool – her skirt, way to tiny to be called a skirt and her heels way to high not to call the act of walking a circus trick. But right there. FREEDOM. Tears of resounding truth quickly turned to tears of ecstatic joy. And then there was the man… Old and a little crusty, to be honest, but so much fun to laugh with as we encouraged him and listened to stories that began with, “18 years ago…” As we cheered on his solo Spanish dancing and heard about his wife back home, his “I think I will behave tonight,” made me giggle because that’s not what it’s all about… In the time we spent with him, he was a little less lonely. A little less bitter. A little less sad. And a lot more loved! Jesus wins. (I did walk away silently praying that he would remain good on his word though… not for me, but for himself and for his wife).

But I LOVE to sit on the street corner… A straight more than a corner really… and talk to those we’ve been building a relationship with for a long time; or to those who take an interest in the mazungu (white person) or the free coffee or biscuits or high fives and hugs. To those women who work the streets and fill the brothels behind our worship and well-ness office. Last night, into the wee hours of the morning I listened to their heart aches and fears… I listened to their very deep understanding of the risks they take every evening that they put on a skirt a little shorter than is culturally appropriate (okay… a lot shorter than is culturally appropriate) and hit the straight. As they take off running mid-sentence, mid-cuppa, my heart breaks a little more. The police raids mean handcuffs and 4 months (or an enormous 20 000KSH). Essentially, the police raids mean that children will wake up in the morning, their mom not having returned from ‘work’. As the women slowly return to their cup and to our conversation and cannot help myself, but love them more and scream, “FREEDOM!!” from my heart with a little more fervence.

The time is coming; and it’s coming soon when the dodgy coffee shop (run by the sweetest lady – an entrepreneur and nation changer) on the straight will be a lot nicer because the straight will be a lot cleaner because our friends will be trained in a skill and will have opportunities different to that which their current reality dictates. Dare to dream with us for Beauty Himself to consume the brothels and Courage to grab hold of the corner of His robe to overwhelm these precious women. Dare to believe with us for freedom for the pimps and the johns. Dare to declare with us that Mombasa will be a tourist destination because of its beaches and not because of the industry. Dare to get excited about my West becoming a little less tarnished and a lot more polished, that Kenya, Africa’s jewel would be JUST that!!

And so… as I prepare to head back to DRCongo in a mere two days… As I purchase last minute I-can’t-buy-this-in-a-warzone-essentials, I can’t help, but get excited about all the next few months hold for my dear friends on the straight. And I can’t help, but get excited about all the next few months in the Congo holds. Hope. Freedom. Opportunity. The roar of His truth.