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Large numbers and statistics harden us. Daily the media bombards us with facts and figures about suffering in the world. Maybe because all of this information is so abstract we too easily forget that it represents real people who have the same feelings that we do. The staggering numbers of Africans being cut down in their prime by tuberculosis, malaria, HIV/AIDS, and other diseases barely register a blip on our radar screen, a single column on page 5, pushed to the side by that big half-page car advertisement, because we just can’t grasp what these people are living through. Lack of identification brings numbness, indifference. Yawn. Let’s turn over to the Sports section instead and see how the big game went last night.
For those of us who live in Africa the suffering takes on real faces with real histories. It’s impossible to be indifferent if it’s your friend or loved one who’s wasting away from some incurable illness whose terminal end is inevitable. You can’t dismiss it from your mind by a flip of the remote. It’s all around you, touching every person you interact with in one way or another. Sometimes it destroys those closest to you like my best childhood friend Timothy.
Timothy and I grew up together since our dads worked with one another on the same church mission. Two years younger than I, Timothy made the perfect friend. He experienced with me the games that African kids play like rolling old car tires down the narrow village paths and making toy bulls from local clay mounds. He taught me how to make the local food called sima in the Tumbuka language, a thick mush made from corn flour. My first experience cooking was with him as we boiled the sima and fried potatoes over an open fire in our yard. The good times spent with this loyal friend formed the kind of memories that bring joy to look back upon 30 years later and at the same time inspired hope in us as we looked to the future then. Timothy wanted to be a bus driver when he grew up, manoeuvring one of the big buses that we used to admire over the rutted muddy roads of our valley. He would simulate the bass roar of their diesel engines and demonstrate how the driver switched gears.
Later when I moved away from Malawi Timothy and I kept in touch by letters. Two decades passed before I would once again return to live. Seeing Timothy again after all these years was a priority. What would he be like as an adult? Pictures of him indicated he was tall like his father, well over 6 feet, a height rare in Malawi. Upon our arrival in Malawi it wasn’t possible go to Timothy’s area immediately. He lived 400 miles away. And before my family could make this trip the disturbing news came to me that Timothy was off work suffering from tuberculosis and had been for some time. Friends assured me that he was getting the necessary treatment and was "improving to better." Discharged from the hospital, he could now receive guests at home. One day he surprised me by borrowing a friend’s cell phone and calling me. His deep voice, no longer recognizable as that of the little boy I had known, further encouraged me by its exuberance. As we made plans for the trip to his area we included a stop at Timothy’s house for the anticipated reunion with my friend. But this was not to be. Five minutes from his house the road was barricaded. Some type of road work was going on up ahead. We would have to wait three more months until our next trip to see him. Three more months! Well, I’d waited more than 20 years. Timothy was getting better now, so we could wait and possibly find him back to normal when we met again.
Within a month Timothy was dead. The TB had had not responded to the drugs. There had been ups and downs as his body fought the disease, but later I learned that he had been in this struggle for over two years until the TB caught the upper hand and claimed another victim.
Another number. Another statistic. Another fact for publication. But for me and all those who shared all or part of their life with this son, brother, friend his death represents the annihilation of any illusions that we might have had about this world, an affront to dreams, hopes, and love everywhere.
I wonder what it would have been like to meet my friend as an adult. What would he have done with his life had it not been cut short by this dreadful disease? In his maturity had his passion to drive a bus been replaced by other goals and dreams? Did he plan to marry and have a family? Cut down in his prime, he never achieved his dreams, whatever they might have become in the years since we had last met. Instead he left behind grieving loved ones who will always wonder what might have been. His mother said she felt comforted whenever she sees me because it reminds her of the old days of his childhood when her boy was young and healthy, hopeful and happy. Memories are all that she has to hold onto now.
Timothy’s story is just one among millions across a continent ravaged by TB, malaria, HIV, and a host of other diseases. None of the other stories can be reduced to a cold statistic any more than his can. There is no way to convert such pain and devastation to figures. Only God can understand.
By Mark Thiesen
Thwonde, Malawi