What matters and what doesn't

The journalists

On my first morning in Kinshasa, after a comfortable night in the Methodist-Presbyterian Hostel, my knee was feeling better and I could walk without limping. But I wasn't planning to go far that day. The hostel, known universally as MPH, is Grand Central Station for Protestant travelers in Kinshasa. Anybody can find you there. I was planning to hang out and let my Kinshasa connections come to me.

Thus, before the morning was over I had handed over much of the extra baggage I’d been carrying, passed on to Mimi Kanku the airfare to get to her ordination in Mbuji Mayi (my little fundraising campaign had been more than successful, garnering some extra funds for Tatiana Ndjoko’s peace camps and other causes), and met the extraordinary Pakisa Tshimika, who was holding court in a corner of the MPH commons. My stream of visitors was sparse compared to Pakisa’s.

I’d also sat in on a workshop for aspiring Mennonite journalists conducted by Lynda Hollinger-Janzen, who seemed, unlike me, totally alert after our 24 hours of travel. And during the workshop I’d entertained the germ of an idea of how I might continue to be involved with Congo. I was feeling pretty good and very efficient.

I was also feeling good about seeing Marie-Jeanne and Gaston. I was planning to spend the evening with them and accompany them to the little Bondeko congregation the next day, where we’d worshiped before and made many friends. The Nkoles had been our hosts last May. I had it all worked out to stay with them for a night at the front end of my trip and with the Tshidimus, our other hosts, at the tail end. I had even calculated the time-saving strategy of staying with the Nkoles the night before church so they wouldn't have to make the arduous trek into the center city to pick me up Sunday morning before making the even more arduous trek out to the little church off the perpetually-under-construction airport road. I was so clever and thoughtful.

Except they didn’t show up. And I didn’t have their phone number to find out why. That was in the computer I’d left behind in favor of my new superlight iPad.

Supper time rolled around and past, and I accepted a few slices of the pizza others had ordered though I’d been counting on a real meal of fufu, pondu, chicken, fish, rice, and fried plantains. I consoled myself by noodling around on Facebook. I happened to notice that Nina, my fellow traveler from the May trip, was online back in Michigan. I sent her a message. Did she have the Nkole phone number? Within minutes she emailed me the contact sheet for our May trip. I borrowed a cell and phoned Gaston. There had been an apparent mixup on the days and he was counting on picking me up Sunday morning. Okay fine. I knew we would get to church late but that never really mattered.

The next morning Gaston indeed came, and rather late, but it didn’t matter. In fact, the moment he walked in was the very moment the Derksen family had come out to the foyer and was ready to leave. The Nkoles had lived near the Derksens years ago when both were in Kasai. This meeting launched a round of hugs and kisses and catch-up conversations that delayed our departure even further but one doesn't rush that kind of thing.

I learned that the Nkoles were also scheduled to take one of my fellow travelers, Dwight Short, to church with us. So my staying with them Saturday night wouldn’t have saved anybody any time and would have just meant an extra trip. Okay fine. It was at this point, as we were on the way to church, on the airport road, which was remarkably open, that I told myself, “Nancy, you know nothing, so just forget about trying to figure everything out.” And I sat back and began to enjoy the ride. We stopped to pick up Marie-Jeanne, who wasn’t quite ready. And then their daughter’s mother-in-law, who wasn’t home. Actually, she was at church when we got there.

the daughter's mother-in-law

Church started after we arrived. Late, but it didn’t matter.

But at the end of my trip, on the day I left the country, Marie-Jeanne was, or pretended to be, upset that I never went to their house. No matter whose fault it was, I think that did matter.

Marie-Jeanne, middle, and Gaston, with Felly, our other host