Q like Quality

What language do missionaries “speak”? Theirs is an alphabet of mercy, with letters that breathe life back into words and generate works

Warning: this alphabet follows Italian words, but we urge readers to consider the concept rather than the consonant or vowel with which they begin

“Unaishi namna gani?(how do you live?”, I asked an old man one day, sitting at the foot of a mango tree, watching the goats grazing around him near the beach of Lake Tanganyika in Congo DRC.

He said, “Padiri, najidebrouiller kadiri naweza. Hapa mu Congo wanasema kama inafaa kuishi article 15:
kujidebrouiller” ( father, I make do as I can. Here in Congo they say you have to live article 15: get by”).

And so he told me a little bit about his life, and from there I understood that quality, the way of living is important to give meaning to our days.

When he was little, he used to follow his father in the dugout to go fishing. But on the way back to the beach in the morning, there were always customs officers, soldiers and other shady, hungry individuals demanding their share. They were in charge, and there was no refusal.

Swedi, that was his name, would ask Father for an explanation, but he would spread his arms wide, as if to say “nitafanya nini?” (what will I be able to do?).

We are poor, helpless, no one thinks of us, and he would cry.

But one day a white-bearded man came and started talking to the fishermen. Everyone gathered around him to listen. Some spy from the customs officers had mingled with them.

The Missionary had noticed, but he kept talking. He said that one must fight for one’s rights, to improve the quality of life. Simply put, one had to stop lowering one’s head in the face of injustice, that one had to be united and then something would change.

Everyone was nodding their heads, but Father raised his hand and said,” But if the soldiers come and beat us, how do we do it?”

And he replied that he would be near them.
They arranged to meet in a few days at the mission to put into practice everything that had been said. In one afternoon, about ten of them came and the missionary talked about fishing cooperatives, about getting together to buy nets, divide the fish and sell them, and thus begin to have a little capital so that the group could become strong.

They decided to do that, and for a while everything went smoothly.But jealousy was something that even if you kick it out, it comes back in another way. Someone began to wonder why he had to work for others as well, why he had to work twice as hard and then what he was gaining from it.
True, for a while they had been left alone by the soldiers and customs officers who were afraid of the missionary. But the harmony among the fishermen began to disintegrate.

Until one night someone went to cut a piece of nets and went out on his own. In the morning the others made the bad discovery and the cooperative went bankrupt to the greatest joy of its enemies and fear and injustice returned among the fishermen.

Swedi, while telling me these things, told me that his father was one of those who had believed in this novelty and put all the effort into it, but in the end he had been left alone. The missionary had been threatened and eventually kicked out as a disrupter of public order.

And so, year after year, my friend resumed fishing, alone. Meanwhile, Dad had died, but the family had to be carried on.

From time to time he would remind others of that adventure, but they would tell him, “Ndio, ilikuwa kitu cha kufanya. Lakini tuko wamaskini na hatuwezi kufanya umoja” (yes, it was a good thing. But we are poor and can’t make unity).”

One bad day, they seized his pirogue because he had not given the required fish to the customs officers and soldiers.
So he had to shepherd a few goats that an uncle of his out of pity had given him.

And under the mango tree, every now and then, he dreamed of a better world, where the quality of life and togetherness would be more just.

Source

• Father Oliviero Ferro

Image

• Image digitally created by spazio + spadoni