A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [97]
We talk for hours. I tell her all about my Catholic clan in Arkansas, my Protestant clan from Oklahoma, my immediate family, and my tribe of friends.
I ask about her family.
“I was singer in the church choir, and a greeter at church. My husband was prayer-group treasurer. We would come to the parish here to give reports on the groups. It was a two-and-a-half-hour walk, so it was a chance to be together. We fell in love.”
I ask about the time her husband was taken to cook for the Interahamwe.
“Some people told me he died, but I was not convinced. I felt he was still alive. I waited and waited until he came back. I had served the evening meal to my mother- and father-in-law when I heard a voice like my husband’s, greeting his parents. His father was astonished. He said, ‘Your voice is like Pascal’s voice. Who are you, man?’
“He said, ‘I am your son, Pascal.’
“I couldn’t imagine he had come back. I thought he was dead.
“He walked in. I hugged him. The children, who were already sleeping, got up. The youngest asked me, ‘Is he really my father?’
“I said, ‘Yes, he is your father.’
“We expressed our joy in dancing and singing.
“Before my husband went to the bush, he was not kind. He was lazy; he didn’t want to work. I was taking care of my husband and my children. But since he’s come back, he helps me feed the children. His mind has changed. He’s kind. When I go farming for other people, my husband goes as well. In the evening, I bring what I got, he brings what he earned, and we feed our children. I’m more happy now than before.”
“Can you tell me more about your little girl who died?” I ask.
“She was five years old. Children always bring happiness to parents. Each child has their own manner of acting. When I see what the two children are doing, helping me with housework, I always think about my first child. I imagine if she was still alive.
“She was kind; she loved her grandparents so much. She had the habit of bringing plates when I served food. She always served her grandparents first. She liked to serve others, to wash dishes after dinner.”
I interject, “We would call her a ‘little helper.’”
Therese says, “Nsemeru. Her name means ‘I love you.’”
WANDOLYN IS WAITING with her husband in a private room at the Women for Women Walungu center. Once we are settled, she blurts out, “I don’t want to talk about the event anymore.”
I smile and reassure her, “I just wanted to see you.”
After I left, Wandolyn spent nine months in a psychiatric ward, while the nuns cared for Nshobole. When Wandolyn was finally well enough to return home, the nuns had fallen in love with the little girl and wanted to keep her. “Of course I want the child with me, but she receives better care with the nuns. She eats better than my other children! And they will send her to school. We visit her once a month.”
I packed photos of the two of them together, but they were lost with my bag. Instead, I pull out my laptop and scroll through photos of their family, images of Wandolyn with Nshobole strapped to her back, panoramic views of Congo beyond them. Excited, Wandolyn and her husband point and smile, nostalgic for the time their daughter lived with their family.
GENEROSE BURSTS INTO TEARS when she sees me. “Karibu. Welcome.” She wears a beautiful sky-blue African dress. On her crutches, she leads me to her new, little wooden house, with its corrugated metal roof and bright blue trim. She stops at the front door, next to a tall tropical plant sprouting bold red flowers. She picks both