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Chapter 283: The Saintess

The Eastern part of Africa is home to the cradle of humanity. The Republic of Kenya, a nation forged in the 20th century had unfortunately not yet managed to remove the trappings of underdevelopment. Rampant corruption and economic mismanagement left the people with very little trust in the government, and this was compounded by the perception of the government as an agent of oppression rather than support.

Because Kenya was not as rich in oil resources as the Middle East and didn’t occupy a major geopolitical position, it did not have as much support as certain other countries.

For Kenya, this was both a curse and a boon. If it was like the Middle East, rebel forces could be easily cultivated with the support of major powers. This could have flung the country into a protracted conflict. On the other hand, however, the lack of a solid resistance meant that the government had no major opposition, and officials were rarely dissuaded from lining their own pockets and abusing their powers. After all, what little resistance there was could not shake their positions. Still, a few pockets of secession had sprung up in recent years and put up as much of a fight as their means could allow.

But after months of confrontation with the government forces, the resistance had finally come to a dead end.

The rebels were hiding in the last village, waiting for their desperate fate to come.

“Sister Mirda, Sister Mirda, please pull yourself together!”

The last vestiges of the resistance took shelter inside dilapidated tents in an abandoned village filled with ruins of brick and stone houses. Many people let out heartbreaking cries.

An eighty-year-old woman with a face full of wrinkles laid down on a soft coverlet. She was dressed in a nun’s garb, and her eyes looked gently upon the crying person next to her. She tried to open her mouth to comfort them, but her body was already at its limit.

Beside the old woman were many other nuns kneeling on the ground from different ethnicities. Some held crosses and prayed, and some wiped tears from their eyes, but whatever they were doing, they all hoped that the old woman could sit up once again and preach for them.

Outside the tent were a few thin people who seemed to have not eaten for a long period of time. These were the last few of the resistance’s fighters. You could see them everywhere in the village sitting on the ground with their guns. With their ragged appearance, they look closer to refugees than soldiers.

The only thing the same at the moment was their bloodshot eyes as they cried and prayed, hoping for a miracle.

For a moment the town was silent and full of mourning.

Mirda, a Swedish Nobel Prize laureate, joined a Catholic children’s charity at the age of twelve. From then on, she took the profession of helping the poor and the needy.

She never married and undertook missionary training at fifteen. At nineteen, she joined a religious order and began studying medicine. She then became a teacher in the order and a nun for life when she was twenty-seven.

From the time of her baptism until today, she had done countless charitable works in various countries, whether they were at war or in peace, whether they were poor or rich. Whenever she saw someone suffering, she would give them love and help. She spent a good time of her life doing good deeds in the name of Christ and saving others.

Mirda received donations from believers all over the world and spent every cent of these donations on those who needed them. In doing so, she spread the goodness of the lord and traveled the world personally. She joined the first line of charitable workers for decades and has never let up. She was practically a living saint.

In the decades of charity, many people had been touched by her kindness and joined her. Today, Mirda had a congregation of 4,000 sisters and more than 100,000 volunteers working with her in all corners of the world, carrying out charity work.

When she learned of the suffering of certain ethnicities in Kenya, she came here despite her poor health and continued her charity work. But because the people she helped were branded as rebels by the Kenyan government, she was also marked as a target for arrest. Even the volunteers who came with her here were also arrested.

Sister Mirda did not want to implicate the volunteers, so she repatriated most of them. Only a few members of the sisters continued to stay and struggle in this dangerous environment.

But Mirda eventually grew too old for her body to support her. After a high fever and pneumonia, the ‘holy woman’ finally collapsed in a remote village where she couldn’t get access to quality healthcare.

The light slowly returned to her eyes. Finding the last dregs of strength within, she opened her mouth, “Child, do not weep for me. I am old and the Lord is calling me. After I have gone to meet him, you must continue the work until the end. You must love each other as sisters.”

The sisters around her suppressed their sobs and nodded in assent.

With the extraordinary events that had occurred in recent times, their faith in God had only grown stronger.

As the old woman closed her eyes with a peaceful expression, the whole camp fell into more mourning.

Not far outside the tent, several workers from foreign countries were hired by the Kenyan government to carry out infrastructure work. They were also tasked with establishing a signal tower. Compared to the Kenyans, these people were relatively calm, because they knew that even if the government troops came here, they would not hurt them and even treat them as guests.

“That nun passed away. Although I don’t believe in Christ, no one can help but admire her.”

One of the men sighed with a hint of sorrow.

“Yeah. Many people called her a saintess, and anyone who knew about her life would think that it was true.

These people sighed at length and also gave their prayers to the nun.

……

Two days later, a simple funeral was held in this small Kenyan village where Sister Mirda would be cremated. Her ashes would then be taken to Loreta Cathedral where she chose to become a nun and a missionary. Her canonization process had already begun.

In contrast to Sister Mirda’s holy name, her funeral was so simple that apart from a few nuns she raised and brought up, there were only some foreigners and Kenyan soldiers.

These people prayed with their eyes closed and their hands clasped on a cross.

Flames flared as the wood burned. The nun lay in the flames as the crowd surrounded it and prayed. They were the only witnesses to the sister’s final journey on Earth.

Suddenly–

“Who are you?”

A soldier who had been on guard raised his gun nervously and pointed at the visitor.

A young man dressed in a tunic and a cloak was slowly approaching with his barefoot.