Congo Kinshasa: more children from outlying villages

The hungry months are very much with us again. We’ve welcomed several children over the last few days. We’ve also said goodbye to the last group of children recovering from malnutrition after having had measles.

Francis Hannaway at
his centre for malnutrition

A few days ago I welcomed a little girl of 4 years who only weighed 8 kg. I won’t go into her medical condition, but suffice to say that she was very frail. Her parents had brought her from near Bokakata, the village I visited with Judith a few weeks ago. To give them their due, they had taken her to the local medical centre there, but had seen no progress. The question remained: what sort of state was she in when they decided to take her for help, and how did she decline so much without them taking action? The answer is usually that they were extremely poor – they didn’t have the means. Perhaps they tried some traditional medicine first. Traditional medicine can have no effect if really all the child needs to do is eat more. She was admitted to our Catholic hospital, next door.

The next day, another little girl arrived, again in a very similar condition, and also from out of town. Mum, dad, grandma, and several other children arrived with her. None of them had a place to stay in Basankusu. She was also admitted to the hospital.

Yesterday, another mother arrived. She brought her little boy, 4 and a half years old and 9 kg in weight. The child had had sickness and diarrhoea but it had passed. Blood iron was fine. We sent her back to my malnutrition centre. Even though she’s also from out of town, like the other two, she’s got a place to stay near the centre with family.

For all three families it’s the first time they’ve been to Basankusu – even though it’s not very far away.

Last night we had heavy rain, with continuous rumbling thunder. We’re coming into the Rainy Season, which drives the small fish from the streams into the main river. Hunger follows. I lay in bed thinking about the two little girls lying in their metal framed beds, each with a worn sponge mattress and their family members huddled around, perhaps sleeping on the bare concrete floor in the pitch dark and with the heavy rain pounding down on the metal roof. They’d both started their treatment; we’d finally been able to find and buy all the medication that had been prescribed. They’d both started on a diet of milk with a little sugar and oil, every four hours, to take down the swelling and to give some energy. Let’s see what the morning brings.

This morning, we got the news that the two children in the hospital had both died in the night. The two families’ villages are in opposite directions. Nevertheless, they’d set out in their grief towards home, collecting up all the things we’d provided for their comfort in the hospital.

Judith and I were both quite down about it at breakfast.

“But they’ve taken everything,” she said.

“I know,” I replied, thinking how hard it would be to have their lives. They’d set off in the dead of night, through the rain and mud, each family to walk 30 or 40 miles home each with their dead child.

“They’ve taken the torches we gave them yesterday, and the cups, spoons and plates we gave them to eat with. They even took the cooking pot that we bought in Kinshasa, which cost $20!”

“What can we do?” I shrugged. “They’ll sell them to get a little money for the burial.”

Congo Kinshasa: trapped in times of Coronavirus!

I got a new visa for the Congo in January. In early February I arrived back in Kinshasa. There was some little commotion at the airport because of the new virus that was going around. After passing through immigration control, we had to fill in forms to say that we were in good health. Everybody was impatient, after having joined the flight in Brussels 2 hours later than scheduled and now being mixed with people from a different flight who’d already been given the form to fill in.

Francis Hannaway
with Judith Bondjembo

I quickly filled in my name and passport number correctly and then added a random number as my phone number – then, as we’d all done for the same form in the time of Ebola, ticked “No” for all the questions without stopping to read them. At this time there was no Coronavirus in the DRC.

I arrived in Basankusu, two weeks later, and sometime after that we got news of the first case of Covid-19 in Kinshasa. The news changed each time we heard it. First it was a Belgian, later they changed this and said he was Congolese but lived in France. The second person was from Cameroon, later it appeared that he was Congolese but had visited Cameroon. They were taken to a hospital; no, it was a prison. They had all the help they needed; no, they were left in a hotel room without food or water. The story changed each time. Eventually, more people were diagnosed. Today the number of people who’ve tested positive is 2140, with 67 deaths nationally. All the deaths have been in Kinshasa, as have 90% of the cases.

When other deaths are taken into account – and when it’s compared to other countries – it seems a very small number indeed. Malaria kills literally thousands every day in the Congo. The low quality of life, illnesses such as typhoid, measles, untreated operable conditions and poverty in general, mean that it’s very rare to find anyone over the age of 80 here. Almost half of all children die before their 5th birthday.
Nevertheless, Kinshasa has been sealed off. Nobody can enter or leave. All international and internal passenger flights have been cancelled. Although the British Embassy has advised me to leave immediately, that’s easier said than done. I can’t go to Kinshasa – and that’s the only place I’d be able to leave from, should flights resume.

In Basankusu, life continues as normal. Schools and churches are closed nationally. Beer gardens are, curiously, still open, but never very busy. Goods on the market-stalls are becoming scarce and prices have gone up dramatically. On top of that, the dollar rate has changed in Kinshasa – which means prices will rise further everywhere.

At the malnutrition centre we only have a few post-measles patients. The aid organisation, Doctors Without Borders (MSF) are running a vaccination campaign and mopping up malnutrition as a complication of measles. But, in two weeks time, MSF will be gone and we’ll get all the children back.

June, July and August are our busiest times at the centre. Malnutrition destroys families and sadly, as every year, I’ll be going to several children’s funerals. “The hungry months” begin to ease only when the edible caterpillars arrive on certain trees, in late August. The caterpillars provide body-building protein for the children. In the meantime, I do my best to collect money to feed the children with our special porridge, as well as beans, rice and fish.

Congo Kinshasa: a curious tale about a sheep

We came by a couple of sheep. Well, when I say “we”, it’s more “Judith”. Judith came by a couple of sheep – even though I tried to get her to agree that everything we have is part of the project for malnutrition and wheelchairs. 

Francis Hannaway with
Judith Bondjembo

It seems such a long time since she got them; I can’t even remember how it came about. I think someone gave us a gift of one, who later gave birth to a second. At first they were kept at our pineapple garden. We have a couple who live there in a little house, as caretakers. Eventually, they were moved, to make room for a pig, to Mama Marthe’s house, where she has her own sheep, as well as pigs and hybrid chickens. Mama Marthe and her husband run a school for orphans and for children who are diasabled.

(She’s just come and told me that the first one was a gift from her dad. It gave birth several times until she had five. Unfortunately people kept stealing them.)

Sheep in the Congo don't have wool! 

I never really heard much more about the sheep. Judith often talks to our cook, or family members, in Lomongo and forgets to include me. Lomongo is the language of the Mongo tribe, whereas Lingala, which I do speak (and very well, I might add) is spoken across a large part of the Congo, so people from different tribes can understand each other.

We visited Judith’s cousin, who recently became a protestant pastor, and who lives just around the corner. She saw that he had a bicycle. “We need a bike to carry the sheep,” she muttered, on seeing it. “What are you talking about? A bike? … for a sheep?”

“Mama Marthe wants us to move our sheep,” she continued. “There are a lot of thieves about where she lives and she’s worried they’ll take our sheep. So they could carry them on a bike to our house.” 

I tried to imagine someone riding a bike, with a sheep, somehow tied up, on the luggage rack. I’d seen a pig laid on top of a shelf of bamboo on the back of a bike. The bamboo sticks out on either side to make the rack wider. It all depends on how big the animal is … More often, we see pigs being transports in a handcart. Handcarts are the same all over the Congo, from what I’ve seen. They make a shallow rectangular cart from the iron bars used for reinforcing concrete, the framework includes a raised up bar, both front and rear, to pull and push with. Metal roofing sheets are hammered out to make the panels. They are used for carrying brick, sand cement … and of course, pigs.

“I would think a handcart would be more suitable,” I replied. But Judith was adamant that a bicycle would be fine.

We sat and chatted to Papa Pasteur and his wife and then returned home. Just as we arrived, Papy, a young man who helps in our big garden, and Moses, Mama Poso’s son, arrived on a bike, together with two sheep! Papy had pedalled the bike, while Moses sat astride the luggage rack with the two sheep, tied up with twine, on his lap. 

I’ve seen a lot of cruel practice in the Congo. Nobody seems to have any hint of compassion for an animal’s suffering. The sheep were obviously distressed. I washed my hands of the situation. I light rain started to fall and I left them to it outside. The mother sheep was heavily pregnant. Once taken off the bike, it fell on the ground. It was still breathing – but not for long. It was very soon a “late” sheep – defunct, deceased, brown bread, it had shuffled off this mortal coil, etc. The sheep was dead. The other one, a young lamb, was all right.

“Come and see the sheep!” called Judith. “It’s dead!” I stayed inside the house, ignoring her. 

“How could someone be so ignorant to think they could tie up an animal like that and not injure it?” I thought.

Eventually, Judith came in. I told her straight. “I’m really not happy with how they brought those sheep here. I think you have another life, a life that you don’t include me in. … and on top of that you talk to them in Lomongo, so I don’t have a chance to understand what you’re saying!”

“What do you mean?” she asked, looking a bit worried.

“The whole thing about your sheep and your pigs and your pineapple garden, lots of things; you’re not informing me. You think you are – but you’re telling other people in front of me, without including me. You should be discussing things with me before discussing them with our cook, or Papa Pasteur’s wife!”

“But I called you over to see the sheep that had died,” she implored. “What else could I do?”

“No,” I continued, “the whole thing about the sheep and pigs seems to exclude me. I thought we were only starting to discuss how the sheep would be transported, and suddenly they arrive, and one is now dead. I’m really not happy about it! Who told them to carry the sheep like that?”

“Francis,” she said, looking gently into my eyes, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t tell them to carry the sheep like that. Marthe sent them. She wanted the sheep gone. I really didn’t know they were coming today and am as sorry as you that the sheep died.”

“What will you do with the body?” I asked.

“I’ll just throw it away,” she said.

I brightened up a bit. I suppose it wasn’t her fault, but I was still upset by the general indifference to such cruelty. “It didn’t die from an illness,” I said. “I’m sure the meat will be fine. It would be good for you to eat it today or tomorrow while it’s still fresh.”

The meat didn’t interest me, of course. I’ve limited myself to fish since I was 25. Within a few minutes, they’d called someone to butcher it. The next day, we sat together to eat. Mama Julie brought in a plate of grey looking tripe. A couple of wrinkled grey triangles rested beside it – perhaps the pancreas or other organs. It looked most unappetising. 

“What about the rest of it?” I asked. 

“I’ve given it to my nieces,” she replied. “But, really, there was practically nothing on it. She was all shin and bones.”

She slowly chewed the intestines from her plate, her eyes half closed. "It makes a welcome change from fish," she smiled. 

Congo Kinshasa: Triumphal entry into Basankusu!

My entry into Basankusu was less than triumphal in appearance. I’d got a ride with the small Caritas plane which was carrying teachers’ wages for the whole diocese. Because of the cash nobody was allowed onto the airstrip to welcome me. The immigration police followed me home to demand kickbacks, as usual, but this time my new visa allowed me to get off lightly. For me, my return was a triumph!

Francis with Judith after his return

The next day, Judith and I went by taxi-bike through the scorching tropical heat – the movement of the bikes creating a balmy breeze as we passed along Basankusu’s palm-tree lined dirt roads. At the malnutrition centre, Mama Anne-Marie welcomed me back. “We’re presently enjoying a brief period of fish-a-plenty! It’s our carnival period – plenty to eat, and the only children at the centre are those recovering from measles.”

“It won’t last,” Judith chipped in. “The abundance of fish will soon disappear and by Palm Sunday the centre will be full again! Every year it’s the same pattern. We’ll work hard so that Easter Sunday is a day to celebrate.”

“We always cook Easter omelettes to make it special,” added Anne-Marie. “Most of our malnourished children have never eaten eggs. They don’t understand the value of them in their diet. Instead they sell them and buy starchy cassava – which has no protein in it at all!”

Bread and omelette as
an extra Easter treat! 

Part of our programme is to educate the families who come to us regarding nutrition. We advise them on which foods to grow and buy. Fish from the small streams is always good, planting beans and corn will also help. Keeping chickens is great because they can eat scraps from the table as well as scratch around outside for bugs – and Bingo! they give you free eggs!

“The bad news is that our funds are really going down,” I reminded them both, as sweat trickled into the collar of my t-shirt in the stifling heat. “Easter Sunday we could be feeding over 50 children and in May it could be over 70! It’s sad to say but people are starting to lose interest in the Basankusu malnutrition centre. They are worried about global warming, forest fires in Australia and the Corona virus. People are even giving up Facebook for Lent!”

Judith said, “Francis, could you ask your friends in Middlesbrough Diocese to think of our malnourished children. Perhaps while they’re buying chocolate eggs for their children, they could each send £5 for 2 dozen hen’s eggs. We’ll get these children back on the road to health with our enriched porridge, plates of beans, rice and fish – and our special Easter Omelettes!”

“This is our 6th year,” I smiled. “I’m sure they won’t let us down.”

Congo Kinshasa: Beyoncé in Basankusu

I first met Beyoncé at our centre. She was a tiny very frail little girl - her parents had brought her from upriver in Djombo. She had lost a lot of weight and was refusing to eat, so Judith said she should be admitted to the hospital and I was going that way so could I walk mum and grandma over ... only 4 km. I set off with Alain - but mum and grandma were so slow that we eventually cadged some money from a market trader that Alain knew and sent them off on a taxi-bike each ... with us running behind because we didn't have any more money.

At the hospital for assessment

The hospital was really great and gave them plenty of advice and medicine. Beyoncé - 1 year and 9 months - had been OK but had become ill with diarrhoea. She got medicine for worms, for rehydration, for getting her appetite back, vitamins and stuff for her blood. I went back after lunch and found them still sitting there. The nurse said there wasn't anyone to admit them so they may as well go home and come back the next day for a proper examination.

The next day I was at home and they turned up at my house. They'd been and had a good examination and so I advised them to go back to our nutrition centre and follow the feeding programme there. They agreed ... and then didn’t show up.

Beyoncé had become much thinner

Beyoncé with Judith Bondjembo

I went there in the afternoon and there was no sign of them. Well ... I went back to the hospital to get their address, but it wasn’t precise enough. Alain and Judith spent the next two days knocking on doors, trying to find out where they got to. Eventually, somebody recognised the description. 

Beyoncé had become even thinner – but is now doing really well at the centre ... where they’re all sleeping (I didn’t know I was opening a hotel ! ) anyway, they’re nice and settled, and Beyoncé has got her appetite back.

Beyoncé getting back on the road
to good health at Francis Hannaway's centre

The initial diet is one of milk (from full-cream milk powder) with a little sugar and vegetable oil added, taken eight times a day. After a few days you see a remarkable change – and true to the instructions on the tin, when solid food was gradually re-introduced, Beyoncé started shouting out – ‘give it to me!’ and wolfing down everything. Way to go, Beyoncé!

She hasn’t started singing yet.

Congo Kinshasa: The Wrong Trousers!

I bought the suit in Asda 6 years ago; it wasn’t expensive, but it ‘would do’ if I needed to wear a suit. I never did really. In the sweltering, steamy jungle a t-shirt was as much as I could usually bear.  Eventually, I put it in my bag and took it from Kinshasa to Basankusu. Then I found a reason to wear it. The Bishop of Basankusu was going to celebrate his Silver Jubilee as a bishop!

Judith arrived and told me to give her the suit. 

“My cousin will iron it,” she smiled. I knew that to offer to do it myself wasn’t an option.

A charcoal iron
like the one used

As I got ready for what I knew would be a very long mass at Basankusu Cathedral, perhaps 4 hours, I heard a scraping noise outside. I went to find out what it was.

Judith had bought a brand new charcoal iron – the type we see in museums, normally from Victorian times. You fill it with hot, glowing charcoal to make it hot.

Her cousin was scraping it on the concrete stand around our well. 

“It’s too smooth,” he beamed. “I need to make it a bit rough to iron properly.” I started to lose confidence in the whole process. 

“I’m sure they made it smooth for a reason,” I explained, as he continued to remove the shiny surface – but to no avail.

About 20 minutes later, Judith popped her head in and asked if the suit only had one pair of trousers. I knew something must have gone wrong. She’d seen that I had another pair, yes, it was true that they weren’t part of the suit, but in her opinion, were much nicer. 

“No,” I said. “A suit should have the same trousers that came with it.”

“Well there’s been a little accident,” she offered sheepishly. 

She showed me the trousers. There was a hole, the size of an iron, completely through one leg of them!

We all had a great day, including the reception at the bishop’s house. And, do you know what, nobody even noticed that I was wearing the wrong trousers!

Francis wearing the wrong trousers
after the bishop's celebration! 

I’m back in Basankusu, once again. We’ve had 2 months support from Doctors Without Borders, an international group a bit like the Red Cross, but now they’ve gone.

Our numbers will build up again in the next couple of months. Please pray for my work with malnourished children. I rely on donations – so please don’t forget to include them as well.

My visa problem isn’t completely resolved yet, I’m still struggling with that – but at least I remembered to pack my suit again, this time.

Congo Kinshasa: Francis Hannaway travels back to the Congo

I’d been home to renew my visa – that’s another story in itself!

The journey back to Congo went like this.
I finally closed my suitcase on Thursday morning, only to open and close it again 5 times to take things out and put other things in. I travelled into Middlesbrough with my niece, Verity, at 1:15 pm,  and we had a nice chat on the way. I’d arranged to meet Jean Pierre Elonga, a senior lecturer at Teesside University, and who, a long time ago, had been a Mill Hill seminarian. We drank a couple of beers and very soon it was time to go for my train.

Francis Hannaway and
Jean Pierre Elonga

Jean Pierre walked to the station with me; my train left at 6:20 pm and arrived at Manchester Airport a little after 9 o’clock.

I made my way to Terminal 2. I had a quick look on the “Sleeping in Airports” website – and they advised sleeping on the chairs in the arrivals hall, and so I staked my claim to 3 chairs and settled down for the night. I started to feel the crisp winter chill that was in the air. Even inside the airport it was cold. I think they open warehouse doors for night-time deliveries, because every now and then another wave of icy air would waft through the arrival hall. A sandwich from the little Spa supermarket, some light, dream-filled sleep for a couple of hours and it was suddenly Friday; I was ready to drop off my suitcase and go to the departure lounge. The flight left at 6:10.

I’d been told at check-in that there was a vegetarian meal for me for both legs of the journey. I soon realised that they meant the main flight, going and returning. On this, the connecting flight, there was some attempt at breakfast – but you had to pay for it. Not only that, but you had to pay in cash because their card-reader was broken. … and only English money! Very few people bought breakfast. Gone are the days when you’d at least get a cup of coffee and a snack to start your journey!

I really do feel that they should have kept the system in which long-haul passengers (such as me) were given a bit of TLC on the connecting flights, considering how tiring a long journey is … and how expensive a long-haul ticket is! When Brussels Airlines replaced Sabena, we were seated just behind business class and the crew  knew that we were long-distance travellers – not just popping over the channel for a few days.

In Brussels, people like me with connecting flights were directed straight to the transfer area – no need to go through the security check again! I made my way to the T gates shuttle service, only to be told that the plane wouldn’t be leaving at 10:50 (9:50 UK time) but at 1 o’clock in the afternoon! “Go back upstairs to the Brussels Airlines service-desk and they’ll give you a voucher,” the airport clerk said. “What voucher?” I asked. “They’ll give you a voucher for a drink because of the delay.”

And so they did. I really wanted breakfast, but the voucher clearly said ‘drink’. I was in Belgium, so I thought I should have a Belgian beer. “You’ll only be able to get a small one,” the woman serving at the bar said, “and even then, you’ll need to top it up by 20 cents.” She pointed out the value of the voucher, which was €5. I didn't want to start rooting about in my bag for some Euros, especially when I was supposed to be getting compensated for free.

I went back to the service desk to complain. They very politely explained that the amount of compensation was an internationally agreed level determined by the length of the delay. I realised it was just to distract us while we waited.

Starbucks said I could spend my €5 on cake as well as coffee – but I wouldn’t really have enough and would need to top it up – the same as my first attempt with the beer. I settled for the biggest cup of coffee, found a comfy seat and took advantage of the airport’s free Wi-Fi. It was a good distraction, though; I did feel a bit more relaxed. Perhaps I should do it more often instead of always rushing about.

The flight took off at 1 o’clock, as announced, and the flight was uneventful (which is good of course). Brussels Airlines meals are pleasant enough, but over the years have become smaller – food is served less frequently throughout the flight. I enjoyed a couple of glasses of red wine – but think back to the days of the little bottles that they served – and that you could ask for two of.

The flight took 8 hours from Belgium. We arrived at 9 pm exactly. I peeled off the wind-cheater, jumper and 2 t-shirts, scarf and woolly hat I’d been wearing over my shirt and prepared to meet the humid 32 degrees of a Kinshasa evening. It took me an hour to negotiate passport control, present my Yellow Fever card and hastily fill in a form saying that I didn’t have any of the symptoms of the Chinese Corona virus. The thousands of sheets of paper generated each week from this exercise will no doubt be carefully put into a big box, never copied into a data-base for analysis and, in all probability … never looked at again!

The road from the airport to Kinshasa was at almost complete gridlock. It was now after 10 pm and there was traffic backed up as far as you could see! The so-called “sheep jumps” are a big part of the problem. A city-wide project to help reduce congestion with flyovers at busy crossroads has progressed slowly. Many of the cordoned-off sites have never been touched since the start. People are sick of them. We made most of the 20 km journey, edging along in either first or second gear - arriving at the Procure Saint Anne at about 11:30 pm. Two friends were waiting for me. They refused my offer of a drink and I arrived at my house at midnight.

I’d been promised food. There wasn’t any. A glass of beer wouldn’t have gone amiss … I asked my minder to go and buy me a couple. He returned with one. Never mind.

We sat and chatted until about 1:30 – I’d left the house at 1:15 pm on Thursday – it was now Saturday … time for a good night’s sleep.

Congo Kinshasa: Mimi visits the dentist in Basankusu

“The church bell rings at 5 a.m.” Mama Mimi explained. “I’ll be at your house by half past.”

In Basankusu, dentistry is normally do-it-yourself. The conservation group for bonobos, (which are like chimpanzees, only better), had invited a dentist to come along. The conservation village is about half an hour upriver. Although the dentist would be checking-up on the bonobos, she would provide a free service for the local population – mostly by pulling out teeth!

I’ve known Mama Mimi since she was 12. She never went to school – but now makes a living selling snacks from a stall near our hospital, and now toothache was making her miserable. It took a while for me to persuade her to go to see the dentist.

“They’re only here for one week,” I told her. “After that, what will you do?” She reluctantly agreed to follow my advice.

Mimi (striped top)

At 5:30 the next morning I was already waiting for Mimi. I waited and waited. I decided she’d chickened out, and so started walking to her house to fetch her. Just as I set off, I saw a lone figure walking slowly up the earth road towards me.

We arrived at the riverside. No canoe. It was already 6:20 but only a few people were waiting to go. One of our malnutrition centre volunteers came along; she also had toothache. I gave them each about £1.00 to pay for the ride in the canoe. Then I saw one of the nuns, Sr. Patience, waiting in the shelter with a friend. “I want to see the dentist, but I haven’t got any money for the ride there,” she pleaded. I gave her some money. Her friend’s eyes lit up. “I’ll need my fare as well,” she whispered. I gave it and told her not to tell anyone else. A few others discretely asked me for the price of their ticket, which I paid, knowing that my donors would think it was a good use of their money.

Mimi in the boat ready to go

Setting off along the river

The longer we waited for the canoe, the more people arrived. Little by little they started drifting away again to buy some food for the long day ahead. At about 7:30, we heard the outboard engine of the canoe. We all went down the steep hill to the river and everyone climbed aboard.

Francis Hannaway at his malnutrition centre later the same day

Mama Mimi arrived home late in the evening. She went straight to bed. I went with Judith to visit her the next morning. I asked her if they’d sorted out her painful tooth.

“They took out four teeth!” she retorted. She told me she was very pleased. Showing me the antibiotics and painkillers they’d given her, she said, “If they hadn’t taken them out, I would have been in pain all the time.”

From left to right - Judith, Michel, Gode and Mama Mimi after her ordeal

Not many of us like going to the dentist but imagine if you only had a chance once a year! Let’s count our blessings each day, and be ready to reach out to people, like Mama Mimi, who need our help.

Donate now to Francis Hannaway's work

Congo Kinshasa: Happy New Year 2020 from Francis Hannaway!

Five years ago, I started my adventure in the Congolese rainforest. I remember sitting uneasily in a flimsy canoe with outboard engine, on the River Congo. Greeted by familiar faces in Basankusu, I was soon rudely awakened to the realities of forest poverty: untimely death from childbirth, from malaria and from poor diet. I enthusiastically started my work teaching candidates to Mill Hill Missionaries and looking after the accounts.

Early in 2015, a group of Belgian eye-doctors arrived for a 2-week mission, performing cataract operations for next to nothing. Despite insecurity, they visited every year after that to do the same.
I set up a malnutrition centre. It’s the only malnutrition centre in a diocese half the size of England. I started making wheelchairs for people whose only way of getting around was by crawling on the ground. I’ve now given 24 wheelchair bicycles for those disabled by polio.

From the start, I’ve been harassed by corrupt officials, mostly immigration police who see me as a soft target.

Francis Hannaway with the malnutrition centre volunteers

I started teaching at the local minor-seminary, which involved an exciting solo ride on a dirt-track motorbike, through the forest, each week. It was difficult at first, but I eventually got the hang of it.
In April 2016, our house burnt down. The paraffin fridge had caught fire and there was no way the control the flames. After the fire, I took a trip to Kinshasa with Fr. John Kirwan mhm while he got an emergency travel-document to replace his incinerated passport. It was a welcome break for me, too.
In Kinshasa, I welcomed a little boy and his mother for medical treatment. Judith, who helps me run the malnutrition centre, came to help guide them through the process. Tensions were high as people waited for a presidential election. We were robbed by, probably fake, officials in the street, on our way to give the sick boy’s mother some money for food. Soon afterwards, Kinshasa turned into a bloodbath, with demonstrations being brutally put down by the police. The next 2 years would see many such incidents, and many people, including people at mass, inside their church, were mercilessly shot down, before elections finally took place at the end of 2018.

After the election, I left my work at Mill Hill (we’d cut the teaching program after the fire) and concentrated solely on malnutrition. Sadly, the poverty caused by bad governance has made my centre even more necessary.

PayPal a donation to Francis click here

Since I arrived in the Congo, we’ve treated over 3,500 malnourished children. We’ve been menaced by Ebola and are now struggling with a rise in numbers caused by the current measles epidemic. I’m still struggling to renew my visa, but I’m really looking forward to 2020 to see what more, with your help, we can achieve.