storiesfromhome4

It’s June 30th. My bags are packed. It’s time to leave.

I’m sitting on my flight from Heathrow when it suddenly hits me: you are really doing this.

There’s no turning back now.

The adrenaline of rushing around, packing, and all the chaos that comes with moving has finally settled. In its place is something unexpected,  an unwavering sense of peace, even as I try to make sense of everything that’s happening.

Before I know it, the pilot announces our descent into Ndola, Zambia, I am HOME. However,  home is an interesting concept for me. I’ve lived in the UK for over 20 years. In many ways, it has become home in every sense of the word. And yet, Zambia is home in a way the UK could never be. It’s where I was born. It’s where my story began.

It’s home in the way that everyone looks like me. In the quiet comfort of belonging without question. It’s where I never have to think about the colour of my skin, or explain my name, what it means, or how to pronounce it.

And while I know those questions often come from genuine curiosity and a desire to understand my story, it can be tiring and not having to carry that, even for a moment, feels deeply refreshing.

There’s a rhythm here that feels alive, one thing that is always noticeable. Here in Kitwe, there is a famous market called Chisokone Market. It is well known for its fresh greens and, quite honestly, just about anything you could possibly need, from sewing materials to the latest iPhone.  There is a vibrant atmosphere that is difficult to put into words. Colourful displays of fresh produce, food and spices line the market, and your senses are immediately awakened the moment you walk through its entrance.

Everyone is out selling something. Music is playing and Voices fill the air as people call out to customers, as you move through the narrow pathways. The small walkways are constantly busy, and there is an undeniable sense of energy and life everywhere you turn. In short, it is pure chaos, but so colorful and wonderfully alive. There is joy and high energy. However, that joy exists alongside something else. As I walk around, whether its at the market or just driving through my local town.  There is evidence of poverty and real suffering.

It’s in the eyes of the elderly woman who has walked for hours to reach the market at dawn, hoping to sell a few tomatoes.

It’s in the young man balancing four heavy sacks of charcoal on his bicycle, doing whatever it takes to provide for his children, and in the faces of street children, navigating life without the safety of a home.

I’ve found this difficult to reconcile.

The divide between wealth and poverty is vast. And although progress has been made, poverty remains so visible, so present, that it cannot be ignored.

It’s tempting to shut my eyes to it because that would be easier, and I’m embarrassed to admit that. I am still trying to understand what my part may be. Of course, committing things to prayer is always a good place to start. Perhaps it is more about my own perspective and asking the Lord to give me wisdom in how to respond to the daily suffering within the environment I have been placed in.

To be honest, I don’t know, and I am still learning.

All I know is that I want God’s heart for people, because when I rely on my own heart, it feels like an impossible task.

The four suitcases may be unpacked for now, but my pockets are still full of faith, hope, and anticipation for what lies ahead.