Her body is like a Pablo Picasso painting; a semblance of a normal human structure, but elbows and knees jut out. They look disproportional to her bone-thin legs and arms. I’ve never seen a human so frail before. As I walk closer to her home, a structure of mud and sticks, I take a deep breath and try to prepare my heart. Our contact, Sanderson, helps to lift her up from her prostrate position. She lays catawampus, legs akimbo, on a strip of old fabric. She looks as though she might break as he brings her to a seated position.
We greet her in the traditional “Rosi” way. I clap, hands cupped, as I squat. I then hold my right elbow with my left hand as I shake her hand and say, “Moohdi buti?” — How are you?
Alice is her name, and she’s likely in her nineties, though she can’t remember what year she was born. She smiles and welcomes us to sit with her on the mat. We have come today with food, with soap, and with expectation that God wants to care for his daughter, Alice.
Alice is left in her home each day, and recently, no one has been around to care for her. Her daughter Edna, who normally tends to cleaning and cooking duties, is taking Alice’s grandson, Peter, to the “doctor”. This “doctor” is actually a traditional healer. The modalities of healing typically include a combination of charms, blood covenants, and calling on spirits. And it’s not that this method doesn’t work—actually, it does. I’ve now talked to over ten different Zambians who have seen the power of the spirit world at work. I’ve also spoken to over ten different Zambians who testify to the demonic oppression present in their bodies, minds, relationships and finances after using this form of spiritual power.
My teammate Stacey and I bathe the woman. We use a handkerchief to wipe her tender body with cool water from a basin. Her skin looks ashy white because of its dryness, but is soft like a baby’s. Her joints are like elephant hide: thick and wrinkly. We wipe carefully, praying as we clean her aged body. I do the washings, and Stacey follows with a pleasantly excessive amount of body lotion that is quickly sucked up by Alice’s worn skin. She smiles as we bathe her, and when we tell her at the end of her bath that she is beautiful, she laughs and grins a shy, girlish grin. We scoop her up again, after drying her off with my tchenjay (wrap skirt), and place her back on her mat. We serenade her. She can’t understand what we’re singing, but we sing from our hearts to our God. She smiles and sways with the simple melodies.
Other teammates cook a traditional meal – nsima (like grits; cornmeal + water + heat) , capata (sardines + onion + tomatoes + oil), and greens. We serve Alice and Edna, chatting with them as they eat. We pray for Alice, Edna, and Peter. Two teammates play with the village kids. Tossing and catching rocks, children.
We say our goodbyes and express our sincere gratitude.
I walk away and exhale the name “Jesus”. No other words will do here.
