Accident

We jumped in the “clinging to life” Izuzu and sped down the main route to locate the accident and take our student to the hospital. We did not see the common crowd that gathers at such a scene, nor any students. We rushed to the hospital, silent. A student had been hit by a truck while walking home from the University.

Upon our arrival, we were immediately directed to the emergency waiting room. The female student laid on a bench as another student, held her, and acted as a back rest. Her mother upset outside. Others tried to calm and distract her from the brutal injury and agonizing pain. Her arm was wrapped in a white shirt, now crimson red. She cried in Swahili and tears. As I pushed my way through the soothing onlookers, I could sense the pain in the atmosphere. I slowly grabbed her other hand, knuckles clenched white as they prepared for the powerful grip that signifies relentless pain. I felt useless, but in quiet prayer. Moments of relief would come in brevity.

The doctors were preparing the surgery room down the street. I gave her hand to another and walked out of the suffocating, heavy atmosphere to get the details of the accident. Emotion penetrated my mind and heart for a brief moment; enough to feel my eyes swell, but not enough to be seen; then quickly ducked elsewhere in my being. A teacher’s reaction? A friend’s responsibility? Brotherly love? Fatherly concern? Maybe all. I don’t know sometimes.

A doctor friend informed us they were ready and she was transported a few “blocks” to the surgery room. Her family accompanied her and a few students and myself would follow suit moments later. We sat quietly on the porch outside the room. At one point, a doctor opened the door and handed her older brother his sister’s necklace. Unfortunately, when her mother saw this, it symbolized something more dreadful, and she fainted. As soon as she awoke from her brief break from a mother’s heartache, the rest of us found some humor in the incident, and smiled.

She would spend 3-4 hours in surgery, her muscle detached from the forearm. It was bad. I returned later that night after taking care of the crew installing an internet system at the University. I turned the corner of the concrete structure and found 6 students outside of her room. They gathered in support of their classmate. I entered her room as she was mumbling a variety of words. The drugs still dominated her frame of mind, but aware enough to recognize concerned figures surrounding her. She sweetly greeted me and introduced her mother, then quietly reminded me her father had passed (he died of a heart attack shortly after he found all his businesses had been looted during the war).

At the end of this all, we know she will be ok. By grace, the truck struck her arm and not her body or head, and within this environment worse things could happen. However, this accident has pushed me across the line of approach and functions of this blog. Originally, I wanted to refrain from using it as a "fundraising tool", but realize it can no longer remain a mere storyboard and personal form of expression. The stories present the realities and experiences here in DR Congo, and specifically at UCBC, directly or indirectly. Owned by no one, but the characters themselves. And, ultimately reveal the needs of this initiative.

So, I candidly ask for your assistance and support with a specific need. Most students walk on average of 4 hours a day (2 hours there and back). This is a long trek on the dusty, main road. In addition, the main route has been the object of Chinese construction. The road is dirt smooth, for the most part, and new to the eager drivers. Consequently, the road is not the safest. Moreover, you can imagine the difficulties this presents; outside of physical fatigue, it leaves little time for other family responsibilities and studies.

As many of you know, we are raising funds for a UCBC bus. Please visit www.congoinitiative.org if you are interested in making a contribution. Click on donate and in the comments section please write "funds for bus".

Please pray for her: comfort amidst excruciating pain and healing.