From Calcutta to Cameroon--Lessons from a Nun

Clouds of dust rose up behind every car on the bumpy, rocky road as we drove along. We were lost in the chaos of Yaounde’s back neighborhoods, which don’t have the luxury of pavement. The dry season creates so much dust in these areas that motorcycle-taxi drivers wear surgeon’s masks and most people pull up their shirt, covering their faces. It’s strange to see this change in a city located in the center of the rainforest. People who normally go about their business under a cloud covering, dashing for cover during rainstorms, now appear as wandering nomads lost in the African desert.
The dust rushed into the car each time we rolled down the window to ask, “Do you know where the Sisters of Calcutta Mission is located?” We knew we were in the correct neighborhood, but in a city without street names and signs, we were at the mercy of pedestrians and their individual knowledge of the area. Most directions consisted of “go up and turn, then go down a ways, and pass a hill, and then turn like this (gesturing to the left).” It took over an hour of following this-way-that-way directions, then our Green Eyes in Africa minibus emerged from a final cloud of dust and there was the sign: SISTERS OF CALCUTTA.
These nuns from India were to decide the fate of a little boy nicknamed Pepito, a quadriplegic child living with other “Calcutta Sisters” in Edea, a town about two hours away. Pepito was a resident in a center organized by SUMEDIN, another non-profit with whom we work, until they had to close their live-in center. He was placed with the Calcutta Sisters and has since been living in an orphanage primarily suited for babies and infants. He’s a bright child, and we feel it’s necessary to take him under the roof of Green Eyes in Africa and send him to special-needs school.
We wanted the nuns to give him this chance, to let him come back to Yaounde where he can develop his acute mind, even if his physical development will always be impaired.
The gate opened, we drove in. As the dust settled, I saw a tall nun walking toward us with a welcoming expression on her face. She was a middle-aged woman, but had deep, brown, eyes that seemed youthful and witty. I greeted her and asked exactly what they did in their center. “It’s a center for elderly persons. We’ll meet them later.”
We walked past a well-maintained garden, albeit brown from a thick dust covering, and she led us into a back room with a small table and a large poster of Mother Theresa on the wall. We explained what we wanted for Pepito, and after showing some photos of our work, without hesitation, she said, “Please, take him. I’ll call the nuns in Edea and tell them you’re coming.”
Happy to know that Pepito would soon be joining the Green Eyes in Africa family, I thanked her, and she suggested we visit her center for the elderly. Having been in nursing homes in the states that were somewhat traumatizing as a child, I was anxious to see how Ornela, 7, and Joel, 10, would react to seeing the faces of those who are close to the end of their lives.
I was expecting to smell urine, I didn’t. The first room we entered was well-organized, with about 15 beds. It was a men’s bedroom, and there were four or five men in the room. A few looked up and smiled, others just stared at the wall. Sister Tobias, our host, approached them and began cracking jokes and speaking to them in a native language. I smiled and greeted the old men, wondering where they had lived their lives and how they ended up abandoned. Each of their weathered, wrinkled faces had a history behind it that nobody would ever know, except maybe Sister Tobias. It was obvious that she was the only friend many of these men had known in their old age.
We then crossed over to a women’s bedroom, and I heard someone screaming, “Whiteman! Whiteman! Whiteman!” A mentally-ill woman was lying on a bench and my presence apparently brought back memories of a gift-giving “whiteman” from her past. I shook her hand and looked her directly in the eyes. Again, I wondered, who was she? What is her story? She had sharp, intelligent eyes. I could tell that she had not lived her life in this mentally disturbed state. How must it feel to know you’ve played your cards, your game is over, and nobody cares what happens to you? Maybe that’s why she lost her mental capacities. Sister Tobias would know how this woman feels.
Other women bounced in glee at the sight of visitors. Others were too deformed to move. Many older women laid in silence, barely lifting the muscles on their weathered foreheads to acknowledge our presence. We walked back into the garden and saw a man pumping the handle on a well, filling water bottles. His arms were abnormally long for his body, and his head was the size of a baby’s. His eyes were bluish-white and his torso was bent and contorted.
“He’s been here a while,” Sister Tobias said.
The sight of this man was overwhelming. His physical appearance was like nothing I’ve ever seen. Ornella, 7, was staring but smiling and looking at me for reassurance. Joel, 10, watched the man closely.
“What do you think of this place?” I asked Joel.
“I want to help,” he said.
I’m often told that what I do with Green Eyes in Africa is a “sacrifice,” and “amazing.” People say, “I could never do that.” These compliments make me uncomfortable, because what I do with Green Eyes in Africa comes second naturedly. It comes down to the simple fact that I know I’m doing what I was meant to do.
But Sister Tobias—this hero of a human being before me—how does she do what she does? How does she maintain such a peaceful, calm, controlled demeanor in face of such atrocious suffering and injustice?
Who could leave their homeland, live in the dust clouds of Yaounde, care for shockingly tragic elderly victims, and still maintain a benevolent, cheerful, and compassionate attitude? Walking back to the mini bus, I watched her closely. The white and blue flowing cloth of her attire seemed to ethereally float around her. She has a secret strength, a rock-solid conviction.
Sister Tobias gives me courage. As we begin our work with little quadriplegic Pepito, in moments of discomfort, I shall think of Sister Tobias and her flowing robe of white, in hopes that whatever spirit is watching over her and keeping her strong will find the time to pass the Green Eyes in Africa house, and teach us how to stand tall like Sister Tobias.