Dream of Kinshasa

Last night, in the midst of my dreams, I found myself wandering through the streets of Kinshasa, carrying Atticus and looking for shelter. We arrived by boat via the Congo River and as I carried him onto the banks, I heard the rattling of gunfire. I kept asking for "Mennonites?" Finally, someone led me to a door. I knocked and knocked, saying "It's me, Marathana! Let us in, please; I know you're here! I have a baby, and it's not safe out here."

The door opened to a tunnel back to a paneled, mid-century modern North American vortex hidden behind a wooden door with three deadbolts. The place was complete with the obligatory Mennonite missionary mementos. You know the stuff -- trinkets and symbols of all the places you've served. Peppered in were brown and cream colored dishes and the kind of thing responsible grandmas hang in their dining rooms and kitchens.

We crossed the Atlantic because Mennonite Church USA was to be doing something related to the church in Congo of which I disapproved. I don't know what it was, but I was riled enough to pack up my infant son without packing a thing (no Powerbars, no Malarone, no baby wipes).

Somehow, the house (which in retrospect felt like that weird house whats-her-face finds herself in under the trash in the Labyrinth) had a backdoor that let us out in downtown Kinshasa. All of a sudden Brett was there, too. We made our way to the camp-like building where our delegation stayed back in 2007. Though we kept getting lost and somehow, in the distance I saw the stadium where George Foreman and Muhammad Ali fought the Rumble in the Jungle (which, is NO WHERE near a jungle, rather it's situated in a city of nearly 8 million people).

"Ali, boom-ba-yay!" I said. "Drive that way, Brett. It's near there." (We were in a gray Toyota mini van circa 1987. ) I was holding Atticus (forgot to pack a carseat, too!), and all the while I kept thinking "I need to warn Brett about the milk and how it's not like the milk at home."

We found our way to the meeting and tons of other people had come, too. Laurent was there. So were Jeaque and Pastor Jackson.

I don't know what it all means, and I wish I knew what made me dream of Congo last night. I do know that it's been too long since I thought about that trip back in 2007 and too long since I did anything to connect with the friends I made while there.


Here are some of my pics from the Congo.

And more writing from the Congo:

Women work toward Equality
Congo churches engage Mennonite Church USA visitors