Living With Arthritis in Rural Kenya
She never complained. Not one word.
Mercy has had rheumatoid arthritis for over half her life, and somehow her sweet and nearly skin-and-bones frame has absolutely no bitterness. None. She’s had this graceful attitude each time I see her.
We took a left off the main road and drove down about five minutes, past locals who were selling mangos, bananas, and quite possibly mandazi, a specialty much like warm triangular donuts without a central hole. Groups of men stood around one intersection with their boda bodas—motorcycle taxis—all competing for a few minutes of business. We pass very few “Africa trees”, and by this, I mean the Acacia tree, somehow made popular by modern culture or the Lion King. Instead, our red dirt road was surrounded by bright green foliage basking in the aura of Kenyan summertime in January. When we arrived at Mercy’s shop, we could see for what seemed to be miles, the mist filling between each field’s tree line.
Completed shirts, trousers, and dresses hung from the outside of her shop, with bright blues, oranges, and even a gold-patterned fabric, telling every passerby that Mercy could mend or make any new outfit they might want.
And for Mercy, it’s purpose. She graduated from Neema last year and now has a direction for each day and a skill to provide her family with income. Mercy wore a thick soft pink sweater the day we visited, and each of us took our turn to give her a Kenyan greeting—a handshake and then a hug to the right side and then the left, all without using your second hand.
We walked from her little shop, situated up on the embankment to the side of the road, down a few long driveways to her parents’ home. The soil in the fields was broken up as if the ground itself was anticipating the seed that it would swallow, the shoot it would offer, and the harvest it would give.
Mercy is the firstborn of five children, and when I asked her father, “What has been your dream for your children?” he said, “To progress; that they do better and have a better life than they do now.” But regardless of their financial instability and a home that’s a quarter of the size of your average living room in a two-story that came smack dab out of the ’90s, Mercy’s parents don’t make a fuss about their circumstances. They’re shockingly and beautifully content. And although she’s quick to share how grateful she is for Neema, her friends, and the therapy she’s had, Mercy also says, “What I am most grateful for is that despite my situation, my family has been there for me and shown me love.”
When we talked about Neema being a Christian school, Mercy’s mother vehemently shared that she feels this is a good thing, saying, “Mercy changed for the better when she went to Neema.” Mercy is thankful for morning devotions at Neema and the daily morning and evening prayer and worship times. She’s proud to have learned a skill and be able to use it to make money. She’s made friendships with other students who she still communicates with. But most of all, Mercy’s relationships are whole. She is loved by a family who adores her and would never want her to live in shame because of her disease.
So when she can’t afford to go to physical therapy every week and her arthritis hurts, or when she considers the lives she used to dream about but may never have—as a police officer or teacher—she remembers that love is greater than success. Ease of life could never be as valuable as the power of knowing and being known. And Mercy understands this.
We pile in the minivan and head back to Neema, our driver avoiding potholes like a dog who, in the last second, realizes he’s about to step into a gutter on the street. The car swings left and right and we bump our way along looking out the windows. For Mercy, life here is complicated, no doubt.
The Mayo Clinic says that rheumatoid arthritis is an autoimmune disorder happening “when your immune system mistakenly attacks your own body's tissues. It affects the lining of your joints, causing a painful swelling that can eventually result in bone erosion and joint deformity.” Monsters don’t always come in the shape of dark creatures in the closet with horns on their heads. They’re the cancer diagnosis of your sister, the heroin overdose of your friend, or the stiffness, swelling, pain, fatigue, and weight loss in your 13-year-old daughter.
But Mercy has the resilience of a child who just plain refuses to learn submission to anger, who refuses defeat by resentment. She has resilience of heart, having faith when the skies close up or when they pour down rain.
