by Ted Neill
When they reached the apartment Babu would help Oliver with his homework. They always finished quickly so they could play a game of chess together afterwards. On other days when his grandfather had Quaker meetings, one of Oliver’s mother’s friends would come down to meet him. Sometimes it was even Pricilla, who would not walk but drove—her very own car—to pick up Oliver. After a while Oliver began to like the new apartment.
Nairobi was a good place. Oliver always believed this because it was the place that his mother went to make her living and many people were impressed with this. Babu was proud of her, as were the cucus that lived near him. It was after his mother got her job in Nairobi that Oliver was able to go to St. James Primary School, where he became number one in his class.
But when his mother took him for his first trip to Nairobi, the city scared him. Some of the buildings were so high that he was afraid that they might topple over on him. When his mother said that they would not and that they were perfectly stable, Oliver looked up at them more carefully. They were as tall as mountains and the sky seemed just above their roofs. He remembered that Jesus had gone up into the sky to live in heaven with his father, God. He wondered if God lived on the roof of one of these buildings and that was why so many people came together in the city. He remembered that one was not supposed to look into the face of God so he looked away from the tops of the buildings so he would not see God by accident.
In Nairobi people walked very quickly while cars moved very slowly. Oliver’s mother said there were too many cars. There were certainly more than Oliver had ever seen in his entire life. Their fumes made the air stink and Oliver felt ill as he followed his mother, holding on to her hand.
Eventually they left the street and entered a Nando’s. This Nando’s was special because unlike the one near their apartment, this one had two floors. Oliver’s mother bought him French fries and ice cream. After that they walked down the street to the cinema where they watched a movie, which was like watching TV but on a screen that was as big as a house. The theater was cold inside, so Oliver’s mother bought him a red-knit cap to wear inside. He liked the cap, it was soft and indeed kept him warm in the dark and cold theater.
On another trip to Nairobi they waited at a matatu stage for what his mother said was a special matatu. As the line grew longer Oliver realized these matatus had to be special: there were many men in suits with briefcases waiting and then even a mzungu joined them.
Oliver had never seen a mzungu in person before. He had seen them on TV and in the cinema. There were even some on his mother’s CDs. This one was a man. He was very tall and had long stringy hair and was wearing a backpack. He was terribly ugly. Oliver remembered that it was rude to stare so he tried not to.
When the matatu came, it was indeed special. It was large and blue. His mother called it a Kenya Shuttle. The inside had large seats and curtains on the windows. Oliver took his seat and pressed himself up against the window to make room for his mother and whoever else might sit down. His mother laughed and told him that on the Kenya Shuttle everyone had their own seat and they would not have to share like in a matatu. Sure enough, once everyone was seated the tout closed the door and would not allow anyone else on the bus. No one was even allowed to stand in the aisle even though there were still many people waiting in line.
Oliver looked around and saw that the mzungu was sitting a few rows ahead of them.
The shuttle moved out of the city where it was able to move more quickly. Matatus still passed them, but the shuttle was taller and Oliver could look down on their roofs. The tallest buildings disappeared but they still passed very large buildings. They went by the Ngong Uchumi which was ten times the size of the Uchumi by their apartment. Oliver’s mother said she had once bought groceries there with Pricilla.
The mzungu got off, and as Oliver watched him walk away on the shoulder of the road, he noticed other wazungu, two girls with long light-colored hair. One had her hair braided like a mfrika woman but her scalp was bright white and looked funny between the braids. Both girls wore flip flops and Oliver could not understand why they would go outside wearing house shoes.
Soon the large buildings were replaced by market stalls that lined the side of the road. Then these were replaced by trees, forests, and walls that surrounded houses that looked so large that Oliver imagined many families must have lived inside.
They eventually alighted by a gas station. There was a busy market across the street with many cars and people, including wazungu and wahindi. Oliver’s mother led him in the opposite direction. They crossed a road, passed a matatu stage then turned down a side road.
It smelled of sage and dry grass, the smell of sunlight to Oliver. Along this road they came to a yard that had no grass but dirt instead and was surrounded by a fence. Inside the fence were horses, which were huge and strange looking, but not as strange looking as the wazungu that were riding them. These were girls, older then Oliver, in small black helmets and long black boots. Once again Oliver tried hard not to stare.
An older mzungu lady named Shirley greeted them in Kizungu. Oliver’s mother seemed to know her from her job. They spoke completely in Kizungu, which Oliver had some difficulty understanding, but he remembered to be polite and say “Fine, thank you,” when Shirley asked him how he was doing.
Shirley helped Oliver and his mother onto a horse. Even though she was ugly and smelled badly, Shirley was very nice. She told Oliver not to be afraid, then she led them around the yard on the horse. When Oliver’s mother said it was all right, Shirley let her take the reins of the horse herself. Shirley mounted her own horse and they went on a long ride through the forest.
Rarely had Oliver ever had so much fun in his life. When they returned to the stable Shirley made them tea—which Oliver did not like because it did not have any milk in it. Shirley realized this and brought him some, but it was cold—they only drank hot milk at their house. Oliver added the cold milk to his tea out of politeness but did not drink it.
He had been very excited about the horses and he asked Shirley questions about what they ate, how old they were, how big they grew, how smart they could be. Shirley gave him good responses and when Oliver had most of his questions answered, he started to think more about the things Shirley had said, just so he would not forget. Shirley laughed and said to Oliver’s mother,
“A right intellectual he is.”
Oliver made a point to remember what she said so he would not forget it either. When they were walking back to the Kenya Shuttle bus stop he asked his mother what Shirley had meant.
“She meant you are very smart for your age,” she said.
This made Oliver happy since he knew mother wanted him to be smart.
As they waited for the Kenya Shuttle to return Oliver asked his mother if this was still Nairobi.
“No, this is Karen,” she said.
Karen, he thought, was a very nice place. He hoped they could come back.
Chapter 3
Pre-School
There is no one to teach preschool. The orphanage, located in Karen, a leafy suburb outside of Nairobi, has an on-site school where about forty children under the age of nine attend. It’s a one-story building with a red tile roof and a welcoming patio with two cut-out giraffe heads flanking the fading letters: RAINBOW CHILDREN’S HOME. The other fifty or so children that don’t use the schoolhouse go to a private school down the road. They attend a private school because public schools would not accept them due to their HIV status. This private school that did accept them has watched half its student body leave for fear of our children and the virus they carry.
There are a number of three- to four-years-olds that are too young for kindergarten but too old to sit in the cottages with the house moms doing nothing. So they send these children to “pre-school,” and give me the class. My classroom is about five feet by eleven feet with a chalkboard on one wall and shelves of donated books on the others. It reeks of draining ear fluid—half the children have such ad
vanced ear infections that their ears regularly ooze a greenish yellow fluid. The smell is unlike anything I have encountered before. Composting grass mixed with burnt popcorn is the best way I can describe it. Their noses run copiously too, as much as their ears, so I keep rolls of toilet paper on the windowsill to clean them up when necessary.
I have thirteen pupils. I do not speak Kiswahili and they do not speak English—but they do speak loudly enough that each day by lunchtime my ears are ringing painfully. The Kenyan staff members are entertained on a daily basis as my voice echoes across the schoolyard in my efforts to be heard over the din of the children. Chaos mostly reigns supreme.
I have a wide assortment of personalities and backgrounds in my class. There is Edison, who looks pugnacious like a boxer, but is quiet and sweet. His distended belly makes me think of him as a frat boy with a beer gut, even though it’s actually from a hernia caused by malnutrition. He has scarring all over his abdomen; whether it is from a skin infection or a burn from when he was an infant, I don’t know. Edison is the smartest boy in the class. Alice is the smartest girl. She is dark-skinned, curious, and has bad eyesight, so she can often be found around the orphanage leaning down closely to examine a flower, a snail, or even dog poop. I can barely keep her occupied and if she is not occupied she gets into mischief. Jennifer is her partner in crime who likes to put anything in her mouth—I have pried many a slimy rock, coin, or crayon out from between her molars. Diana has a bald head—shaved to treat the ringworm on her scalp—and big beautiful eyes that sparkle like dark jewels. Her eyelashes are so long and lustrous that she looks as if she is wearing mascara. She is by turns outgoing and then terrified of adults. Matthew has chubby cheeks and often wears a scowl—to me he bears a passing resemblance to Michael Jordan. He does not speak, only whispers. He was abandoned at another orphanage by his family and he will wet himself if you turn your back and begin walking away from him.
Then there are the children that cannot walk. There is Jacob who is four but unable to pull himself up to stand. He can’t speak, although he seems to understand Kiswahili. The doctor who visits the orphanage suspects that Jacob has brain lesions that are inhibiting his development. There is Erick—whom the Kenyan staffers call “Little President” for his resemblance to the president of Kenya. He is knock-kneed and unsteady when standing. Finally there is Naila, a Sudanese girl who was locked in a room and tied to a bed for the first three years of her life—this was to protect her from the villagers that wanted to kill her because they suspected she had HIV. Her parents had died of the disease and her grandmother who inherited Naila had to keep her hidden and leave her alone for long periods of time. Naila has yet to learn how to walk and she speaks a pidgin of Kiswahili and Arabic. I can’t understand a word she says, although she is often eager to talk to—at—me. I try to make encouraging, excited sounds back to her.
When one child suddenly says he or she has to go to the bathroom, the other children immediately realize they need to go as well. Most can make it on their own but when one—or worse—two or all three of the children who cannot walk need to go, I have to scoop them up in my arms and run to the far end of the building where the toilets are, hoping that I make it before they relieve themselves on me. I usually don’t and they usually do.
I am a horrible teacher. I know little about early childhood development. I know little about teaching. But to console myself I remind myself that if I were not trying to teach them how to count or say their ABCs no one would be, the stigma around HIV being what it is. Sadly, HIV-positive orphans have to settle for what they get and I’m what they got.
Each day by noon I am at my wits’ end. Some days it only takes until midmorning. One day the teacher that handles the first through third grade classes in the larger room of the schoolhouse hears me screaming at the children to be quiet. My voice is ragged and cracking. My eardrums are fluttering painfully with even the smallest of giggles from the children. A tension headache is pulling a rope tighter and tighter around my temples. The teacher sends me help in the form of a thirteen-year-old girl.
She is old to be in third grade. I don’t know why she is not off with the other students at the private school. Dressed in a donated, gray school uniform, she stands quietly in the doorway as if awaiting my instructions. She is very thin but has knowing eyes. I ask her if she is there to help. She nods, and I say, “Can you tell them to listen to me?”
She suddenly becomes a small fury. The voice that comes out of her is hoarse and strained, making her sound much older than she really is—as if she is channeling the spirit of an old shrew. She scolds the children in furious Kiswahili, wags her finger, picks Alice up off the floor and plops her into her seat. Jennifer, she wraps on the knuckles. When Jennifer begins to cry, a single look from the older girl silences her. Examining the children, she realizes Diana’s nose is running. She takes a piece of toilet tissue from the roll on the windowsill and wipes Diana’s face clean, tossing the tissues in a wastepaper basket and pulling Matthew down from a bookcase he was climbing in one fluid motion. She straightens Erick up in his seat and knocks crumbs off his sweatshirt. She returns to the doorway for a while, watching the now silent children, waiting for one of them to break order. No one does. She turns to me.
“They will be good now.”
My helper’s name is Miriam Mumbi. When the teacher can spare her she becomes my assistant—the children listen to her like an aunt. She assumes an air of confident authority around them, yet when I ask her a direct question she often will become shy and giggle nervously. But if I divert my attention from her, she will instantly answer—she, after all, is an orphan and craves attention.
The first time I actually remember noticing her was when I was painting one of the front buildings with two female volunteers, one from the UK, the other from the Netherlands. Miriam entered the room we were working on—she assumed she was allowed to even though there was a crowd of children standing at an obedient distance outside the door. The other volunteers did not raise a complaint, nor did the children, as if it was understood that Miriam was different and occupied a place between adult and child.
She sat down and began to read out loud from a faded and torn Winnie the Pooh book. The way she stumbled over phrases and mispronounced words irritated me. At her age she should have been able to read better, I thought with exasperation. I had a room to paint so I ignored her, letting the other volunteers help with words like cat, acre, and forest, their voices background noise to my headphones.
I never ignore Miriam now. She helps me keep my sanity.
Miriam teaches me key Kiswahili phrases to help me with the preschoolers: kaa chini, sit down; yamazeni, be quiet; ushini shike, don’t touch; and her favorite: ukinisambua nitakupiga, if you disturb me, I will beat you.
Slowly the children begin to listen to me. I learn their rhythms. I know when they will be bored with an activity, when they need to be exercised, and when they need to go to the bathroom. I learn to use the entire orphanage as a classroom. The schoolhouse borders the quad that makes the heart of the orphanage. A hedge of trees bisects the space into a small playing field on one side and a playground with a sandpit, swings, and slides on the other. The cottages that the children live in with their house “Mums” or “Uncles” face the quad. Farther on the periphery are administrative medical buildings, a volunteer house where I live, a garden, a convent for the nuns who run the place, and sadly in the back corner a cemetery full of small graves.
It all takes up just a few acres but I learn to use every inch as a place for the children to explore. Getting them out of the small classroom spares my ears as well. The highlight of their school day is the walk we take before lunch to the gate of the home to watch the cars go by. Along the way, the kids pick flowers and clover, look at bugs, and throw fallen avocadoes at one another. For the children that can’t walk, I grab a wagon or a wheelbarrow and wheel them along, which presents an opportunity to learn another Kiswahili word which they shout at me:
haraka, faster.
It never fails—when we reach the gate, a good distance from the main buildings of the home, one of the children has to go to the bathroom. One day, tired of having to escort a child back or send Miriam to do so, I tell the child in question, in this case Edison, to go pee in the bushes.
Miriam scoffs.
“What?” I ask her.
“Me, I said nothing,” she replies.
“You are lying,” then I add, “Jesus says not to lie.”
She turns on me, waving her finger. It turns out she is perfectly eager to correct me, given the chance.
“You should not tell the children to go susu in the bushes.”
“Why not?” I enjoy baiting her. Sensing this, she crosses her arms and turns her head away.
The next day while at the gate, I turn to see Alice squatting and defecating in the bushes. I run over to tell her to stop but it is too late. My sudden approach startles her. As she stands up she steps in her own feces.
I stand stupefied, not knowing where to start. I don’t need to. Miriam is immediately beside me, scolding Alice and sending her back to her cottage. Alice starts back, chastened. Miriam follows her.
“Miriam,” I say. “Thank you. I’m sorry I did not listen to you.”
She turns away in a show of haughtiness but I glimpse her face; she is smiling. She begins to skip down the drive as she follows Alice.