Two Years of Wonder

by Ted Neill

  There is not enough room for Andrew and Agnes so they sit up front with Hannah, Mama Seraphina, and me.

  The shoe and the string have won me Agnes’ devotion and she begs to sit next to me. As Mama drives us homeward, Agnes’ energy finally ebbs. She curls up against me and falls into a slumber that is undisturbed by the bouncing of the truck.

  At one point her arm flops over onto my lap. I notice that her wrist is layered with scar tissue. I roll the sleeve up further and see that the scarring circles her entire wrist in an irregular band that is two inches wide at its narrowest. I examine her other wrist and find the same scaring.

  Hannah is already looking at me. She answers my question before I can ask it. “Her stepfather did not want her. He tied her wrists together, hung her from a tree, then beat her with a stick. He left her for dead. Three days later someone called the police to come collect a dead body. The officer, she is a friend of Mama’s, found Agnes. She was still hanging by her wrists. There was a huge pool of blood beneath her, but she was still alive.”

  Mama Seraphina added, yelling across the cab of the truck, “And look at her now. She is so beautiful. Sometimes she still has dreams in the night that her stepfather is coming back to take her. She comes to me crying and I let her sleep with me. When she first arrived she had to sleep with me every night. A few months ago her cousin showed up and asked for her back. He said he wanted to take care of her, but I could tell from the way she ran from him that he had been cruel to her in the past. Later I found out that he had promised to sell her to an older man for marriage.”

  I am a little stunned. I can’t reconcile the outgoing child drooling on my sleeve with a child hung from a tree like a piñata and left for dead. The abuse seems incompatible with a child that could play games with a man who was a stranger to her then fall asleep on his shoulder afterwards. But I need only look at the scars, thick like putty with pointed spurs reaching up to her forearm and hands, if I want proof.

  I have to admit, Mama Seraphina must be doing something right.

  Chapter 4

  On Being a Fraud

  While living at Rainbow Children’s Home and even the years afterwards while in graduate school studying global health, despite my efforts, I couldn’t write the book about the children or my experiences with them in Kenya. It was not a question of writer’s block. I wrote plenty. But I had no handle on the material. It was overwhelming. In the States I had worked with children who had access to antiretroviral treatment (ARVs); their prognoses were generally hopeful. I had worked with risk groups that were relatively small. I was not ready for the horrors of sub-Saharan Africa’s generalized epidemic, where millions of adults were dying, leaving a generation of children with the physical, emotional, and mental scars of abandonment. There was so much need among the children we cared for at Rainbow and our outreach program Eleza Familia (Lift a Family) that I did not have time to be a journalist and chase down every story of interest that I came across. Nor did I have an editor or mentor to coach me through the issues, political, professional, and otherwise. After living with the children for two years, I was hardly objective either. And frankly I was in the way. The character of me in my stories, my own needs for recognition, for praise, my own narcissism and self-righteousness skewed everything. I was not objective about the children and I was hardly objective about myself and the hero I thought I was.

  How did Sebastian Junger do it?

  Then in 2006 I came across Binyavanga Wainaina’s article How to Write about Africa, in a 2005 edition of Granta magazine. Wainaina is one of Kenya’s best known journalists and authors, a winner of the Caine Prize for African Literature and a brave advocate for gay rights in Kenya and beyond. His essay skewered the hackneyed tropes, clichés, and self-serving narratives white authors had been writing about Africa—for centuries. It was a long and ignoble tradition stretching to include Karen Blixen to Kuki Gallmann and Aiden Hartley (whose book Zanzibar Chest was one of my favorites). Wainaina shone a glaring spotlight on how these works, even written decades apart, fell back on the same sweeping characterizations of Africans, inevitably portraying them as stereotypes and caricatures, at once as insulting as they were infantilizing. Africa was either a sweltering war torn tragic-scape of starving figures and mass graves or a misty Garden of Eden populated by noble savages, imperiled children, and majestic beasts. But in either case, these settings were to serve as backdrops to the heroic white protagonists who parachuted in and, after an initial period of culture shock, would shed their naiveté and triumph over adversity, recognizing the siren call of fate that called to them . . . to save Africa.

  Wainaina’s essay was eloquent, witty and—most importantly—completely right.

  What a mirror he had held up to me. I looked at my pieces, drafts of book chapters, long form pieces, even short articles that I had written over the years. Each smacked of the very clichés and peddled the same tropes Wainaina’s presented. My ego was knocked down a peg. Africa would be just fine without me, fine without another book on vulnerable children and a privileged, white, liberal expat come to save them. I set the writing aside to contribute in less self-aggrandizing ways.

  After two years at the orphanage, I went to Emory’s School of Public Health and earned my Masters in Global Health, with a focus on child psychosocial development. I landed a job at the development agency, CARE, based in Atlanta. I worked on children’s issues throughout the world, traveling all over Africa and Asia. I was another cog in the international social work machine. It was thankfully, and finally, less about me and more about children. I thought I had finally escaped the egotistical, fame monster that I had almost become.

  In 2011 when Greg Mortenson was accused of feeding the public lies about his adventures, for the sake of his cause, I saw myself—in his good works and bad. I saw in myself the same neediness, the yearning to be relevant, to make a difference that would earn the admiration of others stateside—a home where a sensitive idealistic man can often feel undervalued, invisible.

  By then there were other players in the field, and train wrecks as well. Invisible Children, a foundation catalyzed by the short film by the same name made by three young film school graduates, Jason Russell, Bobby Bailey, and Laren Poole, became a national sensation, with supporters camping out in public parks all over the (developed) world to raise money and awareness of the children in Northern Uganda—the Night Commuters—who had to sleep en-mass in cities and towns in an effort to flee kidnappers who would make them child soldiers.

  But when Jason Russell, one of the most outspoken founders of Invisible Children, had his very public breakdown in 2012, again I followed the story with the sense that I could be in his place. A journalist describing the original video that Jason and his friends made that began the Invisible Children movement said you could sense the film makers naiveté and the moment where they come up against the hard truth that the world is not fair.

  "And this has been going on for how long?" says one of them. "If this happened for even one night in America, it would be on the cover of Newsweek magazine!" You can feel their self-absorbed, righteous teenage outrage at suddenly realizing that the world is fundamentally unjust and unfair, and it's this sense of outrage that somehow they have managed to keep hold of and harness.

  That was me. I had long ago learned that the world was unfair and unjust, but I did not think that was any reason not to try to make it less so. Had I been a charismatic film major I might have done the same thing as Jason and his friends. Instead I had tried to use the form of writing, and since that medium was slower or my talent less than that of Jason, Bobby, and Laren, I had been spared success and becoming a public figure before I was ready.

  And the casualties, so to speak, did not stop there. November 12, 2012, David Oliver Relin, the professional journalist who had helped to write Three Cups of Tea in partnership with Greg Mortenson, committed suicide by stepping in front of a train near Portland, Oregon. He had been diagnosed with depression. As the cr
iticisms and controversies grew around Mortenson and his alleged deceptions regarding his work in Afghanistan, it was too much for David to bear.

  Over the years I had experienced an intense rush when speaking on behalf of the orphanage. I saw the mixture of awe, respect, and romanticism in the faces of those who listened to me—the guy who lived with orphans. People thought of me as a modern-day saint—I think on some level, people look for celebrities, aid workers, etc., to vault into these positions—it gives them hope. Back in Kenya I was treated with respect and deference that can only come to a white man who is perceived as rich because of his skin color. In the Peace Corps they call this the “zero to hero” effect. It’s intoxicating. Why not keep it going with a propaganda that paints you as a hero? Why not make yourself the center of the story, the film, as Jason did? Your story is certainly exciting. Why not stretch the truth, as Greg did—it’s for a good cause.

  Why not start believing your own press? Why not start believing you are a saint? It’s a nice place to be, for a time.

  I was becoming aware of the degree to which ego, insecurity, and self-seeking enmeshed itself into my ambitions to “help.” Something I had seen all too often with “Great White Knight” charity workers who journey to impoverished nations and attach themselves to a cause. Greg and Jason were accused of this as were countless other charismatic activists. Africans themselves can often be the harshest critics. One could argue that it was, sadly, Relin who paid the price for Mortenson’s alleged inaccuracies.

  Beside my own ego and insecurities, I had reservations about a book based on the children for a second reason. They had shared with me, allowing me to take notes, even tape record them, without any respectable form of consent. I was not aware of the constraints and restrictions on researching children until I was at Emory and learned that my use of their stories, which they had shared with me as a friend whom they trusted, could just be another form of exploitation and violation. Reluctant to be another purveyor of hunger porn—photos or articles about undernourished, malformed, abused children used to elicit donations without the consent of the subjects—I withdrew from my writings even further.

  I remained at CARE for a number of years, contributing with other well-meaning individuals who found their identities in being part of a team, a movement. I had escaped being a Great White Knight, or so I thought. I was not the face of the cause, CARE was. But the politics and realities of non-profit life defeated me. I worked long hours, traveled to dozens of countries, losing time with loved ones back home—but the next promotion, the next raise was always out of reach. After five years and the financial crises of 2008, I, along with a third of CARE’s staff, was laid off.

  For me, it was devastating. As much as I thought I had become enlightened and tamed my ego to become the “aware” development worker, deep down, I still harbored a sense of entitlement. After all, I had gone to school, college, even graduate school. I had worked tirelessly for good causes. Where was the recognition, the reward, not to mention the salary, that I had earned for being so full of self-discipline, selflessness, and self–awareness?

  But the world doesn’t really work that way and I was waking up to that.

  Chapter 5

  Belts

  Miriam saw her first mzungu at the market where her mother worked.

  Miriam loved the market. She loved helping her mother, who sold avocadoes, mangoes, papayas, potatoes, passion fruits, tomatoes, onions, peppers, bananas, and of course sukuma-weki. Miriam’s mother always said that she was a very helpful child. She helped with everything, carrying the food, arranging it, stacking up the tomatoes, cutting the sukuma. The only thing she did not help with was fighting and bartering with the mhindi man that came to the market each morning and sold Miriam’s mother and the other market women their goods. He was always trying to charge too much for his fruits and vegetables, and it took strong women to get the right price out of him. This was to be expected because all people from India were thieves and liars.

  Miriam liked the other market women. Having them around her mother’s stall was like having many aunties. Miriam fancied that her mother was their leader and lately she got special attention because she was pregnant. Miriam was known by all the women because she was trusted to run and get change for the ladies whenever they needed it. They also liked her for this job because she had long legs that she could run fast on like a Kalenjin.

  There were other children around the market and sometimes Miriam would play with them, digging up bottle tops, or finding water bottles and throwing them at geckos in the grass or dogs that sniffed around the trash piles.

  The first time Miriam saw a mzungu, she had noticed that some of the women were talking quickly and softly, which always meant that something interesting was happening or about to happen. They also were looking in one direction, but trying hard to appear like they were looking in the other. Miriam looked in the direction that their attention was actually focused.

  She saw the ugliest woman ever. Miriam felt sick at the sight of her. Her skin was the color of the plastic wrap they laid on the roof of their house to keep the rain away. There were a number of children laughing and giggling, calling out “Zungu nipa sweet.” Miriam said nothing to her. She did not want a sweet. She did not want anything from her.

  Miriam wondered if she should hide, but seeing that her mother did not move, she remained fixed in place. To her horror the mzungu stopped at their booth.

  Her hair was wrapped in bundles that reminded Miriam of the hairballs that cats coughed up in the alley behind their house. Her skin was even more disgusting up close: there were splotches of pink and red on her face and back. Miriam felt terribly embarrassed for her: her clothes were like underwear—they covered her hips and her breasts but left her legs and belly bare. Her belly button was strange too—it was just a slit, as opposed to the nubs Miriam and everyone else she knew had. It looked like she had a metal ring stuck inside it as well. Miriam wondered if she should point it out to the woman, but decided not to. It probably hurt her.

  Over her eyes she had dark spectacles with orange lenses that were so shiny that Miriam could see herself and all the market reflected in them. Miriam could not see the woman’s eyes, but she realized she was looking at her when she said,

  “Jambo.”

  Miriam was afraid to answer and afraid to look at the woman, for fear that her skin would change to the same color. Her mother smiled and answered in her sing-song voice.

  “Sijambo.”

  They were speaking Kiswahili, not Kikuyu. The mzungu asked for two oranges and two avocadoes, but she did not know her numbers very well. Miriam was surprised to hear her mother speak suddenly in Kizungu, which seemed to make the mzungu happy because she smiled after that.

  Her mother smiled a great deal as they spoke and the girl gave her mother a one hundred shilling note for four pieces of fruit. Miriam was surprised when her mother pocketed it and did not ask her to run to find change. The mzungu did not seem to care. This was when she realized wazungu were all rich. The ugly woman smiled, said “Asanti sana,” and walked away. Miriam wanted to laugh when she saw how the woman’s thighs jiggled as she walked, but she knew it was not nice to laugh at people who were misshapen.

  Once the mzungu was gone the other women came over and began to talk excitedly about how she was dressed and how outlandish she looked, clicking their tongues disapprovingly. When the conversation came to a lull, Miriam asked her mother why the mzungu had covered her eyes the way she did.

  The other women clicked their tongues again. Miriam’s mother shrugged and answered that many wazungu wore glasses like that because they had weak eyes that were not used to the sun like wafrika.

  Miriam nodded, then she folded her hands, closed her eyes and thanked God she was not as ugly or as blind as a mzungu. She never wanted eyes that she had to cover or skin that turned red and spotted. The women laughed uproariously. Miriam’s mother smiled too, but then stroked her head and told her she did not
have to worry.

  It did not occur to Oliver that his mother had been sick for a long time until Christmas Day. They were sitting down for dinner at Babu’s—Babu had needed to remind Oliver to remove his red knit cap, he had taken to wearing it often—and his mother had a coughing fit. She had to go lay down until it passed. It was then that Oliver remembered the same thing happened the previous Christmas.

  He noticed other things after that, like how her face was now thinner than it was in many of the photographs Babu had around his house. Most of his mother’s friends still came to visit, but now their visits were to cook food for Oliver and his mother, or to quietly drink tea, which his mother never finished. His mother and her friends no longer stayed up late laughing and giggling. Oliver took careful note of which ones still came. Adrianna, who often came over with everybody, or sometimes alone just to paint her nails with Oliver’s mother, never came any more. They had not seen Lucille for a long time either. When Oliver asked Pricilla about them, she said that Adrianna was simply too busy, but then she clicked her tongue, which Oliver knew meant that Pricilla did not approve of whatever “busy” meant. Lucille did not come to visit because she was sick. Oliver asked why. Pricilla simply said, “Everybody gets sick.”

  So when Oliver got sick it did not seem, to him, to be unusual. He began coughing like his mother. He often felt weak and feverish. He found it difficult to pay attention at school because he wanted only to put his head on his desk and rest. For the first time he got answers wrong on a test. This upset him greatly because he knew how proud his mother was that he had been first in his class for two years in a row and that he was even a grade ahead of the other children his age.

  He knew he would have to pray to God to get better. Since she had become sick his mother prayed more. She knelt down beside the bed every night and asked God to give her strength, wisdom, and guidance. God answered her prayers, for most days she still was able to get dressed up and go to work. She was still too tired, however, in the evenings to help Oliver with his homework. Most nights she would change out of her work clothes, sit down in front of the television, and fall asleep. Many nights she would forget to eat dinner. Babu had asked Oliver to remind his mother to eat. Oliver knew she did not always like to because she had diarrhea often.