Ecumenism in a Nairobi squatter settlementMatthew Haumann
It is a rainy Sunday morning. There is no sun for the sky is full of clouds. People living in the slums immediately change their clocks, the clocks which you won't find on their walls or mantelpieces. Now everything will start later, but since I have a wrist watch, I arrive at the appointed time in the igloo village near the Nairobi River. We are here to celebrate Mass. A few people put their heads through the small openings of their p.v.c. huts and wave their greetings; children begin to stretch, their eyes still heavy with sleep. A couple of transistor radios blare out the news, but to one owner it doesn't seem worth listening to and he changes over to some Congolese music. I find that there is enough noise to wake them up. Since we have no church bell I have brought my megaphone with me. I give this to one of the village leaders who walks around the village calling the people to prayer. I wait more patiently than I feel. I look around; there are more than two hundred huts here, strewn about without any plan whatsoever. They are constructed of all kinds of materials, mostly the waste products of the city factories. Dwellings made of cardboard and p.v.c. fixed over wooden frames of bamboo. Some are ingeniously pinned together with thorns. People are actually camping here, not knowing where they will eventually settle. They have been here for years, but the erection of buildings pushes them even further on and closer to the stinking Nairobi River. There are no latrines here and the people defecate beside the river. There is a water tap but the supply has been cut off because the bill was not paid. Only when there is an outbreak of cholera in the area do they receive their water free. Now the people have to buy their water at a high price from the water-vendors or they use the water from the "sewer", as the Nairobi River is called, and risk picking up diseases worse than cholera. The children start arriving first. Jim, a student of theology, who has come with me this morning, has brought his guitar. He gets the children to sing as we prepare the "church." The church is, according to good Catholic custom, the biggest building in the village. Architecturally, it fits well into the environment: a few poles in the ground, walls of cardboard, and a roof made of old tins and pieces of p.v.c. Today it is the church, tomorrow it may again be the community hall, classroom or meeting room for the youth club. It has been swept thoroughly and even the goat-droppings have disappeared. Helen Njoki enters, carrying a baby under one arm, and a small table under the other. The small table will serve as an altar. Marie Louise, who looks tired and worried lately, brings an embroidered cloth, our altar covering. Then she runs home; she hasn't finished doing her hair yet. Maina, who is coughing badly, comes over to me and asks for a cigarette. I don't think it will do him much good but I give him one all the same. They don't do me any good either. People begin to trickle in, each person carrying a small stool or an old tin to sit on. I am given a real chair. The people have arrived and the church has been furnished; we can begin. As an entrance hymn we sing, "Simama, simama imara", expressing something similar to, "stand firm, don't give up." We are told, "Be on your guard, take courage and dare to trust in God." We have only a few hymn books as most people here can't read. Those who can't read usually know the chorus and they hum along with the rest of the hymn. Njoroge, one of the village leaders, walks in. He remains standing at the entrance, a little uncertain as to what to do. He isn't a Catholic, he belongs to one of the independent churches. He is not sure whether this is a Catholic affair exclusively, so I give him the megaphone and ask him to say "a word of welcome." His face beams all over and he takes off his cap, something which normally he probably keeps on even in bed. He gives a kind of sermon, and talks about God, much easier than I do, as if he knows him personally. He concludes by saying, "There are many religions but 'Mungu ni Moja' " God is one. God is one and we too have to be one; we have to be united. We then ask forgiveness, not only from God, but also from each other. This is because we often mess things up for one another; frequently we are not united, not one. Njoroge nods; he knows that it is true in this village. Then we have another hymn, with a guitar and drum. The people love to sing. "To sing is to pray twice", they say. Today's Gospel reading: "You must not call anyone on earth 'Father' since you have only one Father and he is in heaven" (Matthew 23: 8-10) sounds a bit ironic around here, where only a few children know their fathers. They would love to have a father right here, not only in heaven. We share our feelings and thoughts about the readings instead of a monologue sermon coming from me. Together we talk about life here in the slums. My questions do not remain just rhetorical questions for the people answer spontaneously. When I ask which song they would like to sing next they reply, "Simama." Jim smiles and starts to play it on his guitar. We have to use the megaphone when the noise of fighting drunks outside becomes too much. Margaret, a young girl, takes it from me as if to say, "you can't sing anyway." She leads everyone in the hymn and, as it catches on, people begin to clap their hands. The old Kibogo, with tearful eyes, sways to and fro, half in ecstasy (or has she had a drink already instead of breakfast?). People leave her alone; she is one of us. We have a collection. Today it is for buying charcoal which is needed to boil milk for the children's programme. This is a programme we started a few months ago. Everyone gives what he or she can spare. Mothers give their children five cents each which they bring forward to put in the plate. A woman comes forward with a shilling coin and at first she wants to change it, but then she says, " leave it; after all it is for our children". The collection is placed on the altar, thirty-four shillings; quite a gift from these poor people! When we start the prayers several people stand to say a prayer, each praying in his or her own language. This is how it should be; one ought to pray in his own language; this is the language that God understands, and these people know it. It strikes me that non-Catholics find it easier to pray spontaneously.
I haven't the slightest idea as to how many of these people are Catholic. But I do know that historical and theological differences between Catholic and Protestant churches have little to do with these people in the slums. We have brought a divided Christianity to Kenya, but these people who share their lives every day are a lot more ecumenical than the respectable members of our official churches in Kenya and Europe. An old woman, whom I have only ever met when she is drunk, starts to disturb our celebration. At first people only tell her to keep quiet until she falls to the ground near the little table that is our altar. Only the children find this funny, and while the singing of "Holy, Holy, ..." drowns her shouting, two men get hold of her and take her home. It's a pity that she couldn't stay, like the old Kibogo. Before communion, we wish each other peace, even if we know that this afternoon we will quarrel again. This does not mean that we do not want peace. We shake hands with each other, some very heartily using both hands. The children especially want to shake my hand; it is also a bit of a game to them. If I was not careful, they would have pushed over the shaky little table we have as altar. There are not so many communicants: non-Catholics feel that they can't receive it. There are all these church laws governing the sacraments which were made before they knew about the lives of people in the slums. At the end of the celebration I bless these people as wholeheartedly as I can. "What will be the last hymn," I ask. Again they want "Simama". Three times the same song, but it is good like this. They sing, clap their hands and a young girl beats the drum vigorously. An old man starts dancing; he thinks the Mass is over. I consider it still part of the Mass and encourage him. A few women join him. The rest stand around them swaying along and clapping their hands. When the hymn is finished they start it again. At last, they end up cheering and laughing. "Simama, simama, imara" - Keep fighting for a better life, keep hoping. A Sunday morning service. I am glad that it can still be a celebration.
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