by Ted Neill
In time, Rich, an older man in recovery for alcoholism, offered to be my sponsor and help me through the Twelve Steps. I reminded him that although I suffered from emotional and mental disorders, alcoholism was not one of them. He laughed and asked, “You really think the steps are about alcohol?”
Stumped, I answered, “Yes.”
He explained to me only the first step was about alcohol and more precisely it was about control and surrendering our notions of it.
“What can I control?” I asked.
“You,” he said. “Picture dropping a hula hoop over your head and letting it fall to the ground. Everything outside it is not in your control. Just worry about what is on the inside.”
“That’s me.”
“Then let’s do some work on you.”
The Twelve Steps, or variations of them, are at root a spiritual exercise, an unpeeling of your layers, assumptions, and the behavioral patterns they led to. You reflect on who you have hurt, and how your own insecurities and human failings—character defects in the lexicon of A.A.—contributed. It makes you aware of your legacy issues, the secondary gains of your most unhealthy choices. I saw my assumptions, my elitism, my entitlement, my neediness, insecurity, even my hurt, laid bare—all in a safe, loving environment.
As solipsistic as it sounds, the program is also deeply committed to community and relationships. The twelfth and final step is about turning to others and providing service to them, not because any of us need to play hero, but because it’s only in service to others that we can save ourselves. Or as my alcoholic friends would say, “If you want to keep it [sobriety or sanity] you have to keep giving it away.”
Rich and other recovering alcoholics and depressives did not hesitate to give to me. They told me I worried too much. That I wanted to play director when I’m just an actor on God’s stage. I had to let go of any notion of control, it was an illusion anyway. If all this had come from anyone else, I wouldn’t have believed it, but these folks, with their experience, their lows, their own depression and self-destructive behaviors of the past, somehow had credibility with me. Another phrase I heard in meetings that resonated with my experience and put lie to the pat, easy answers offered to me in my Sunday school version of faith was: “Religion is for those afraid of going to hell. A.A. is for those who have been there.” Tom, the cardiologist whom I had met in Cottage Green on my first day and who was making progress alongside me, found many of the expressions trite and some of the optimism forced. He claimed to be an atheist, but—a little embarrassed—admitted that, “I believe in A.A.”
Previously, I had rejected the advice and comfort of others because I felt they had not looked into the face of privation—evil—as I had. My friends in A.A. had a name for this too, “terminally special.” It was the notion that an individual’s problems were beyond compare or comprehension of anyone else, but really it was just another form of grandiose thinking.
Grandiose, that sounded familiar.
Most of the people in those rooms had experienced loss, trauma, and more than one night in Cottage Green—or the “it’s not easy being green cottage,” as they called it. And that was just it, these people had suffered, they had seen privation, even evil things, in their lives. Those things had left a mark, but those who recovered, did not take themselves so seriously that they couldn’t find a moment to reflect and laugh—at themselves, at life. It was this self-effacing humor that I found particularly charming not to mention compelling.
I found myself sitting down and praying with these men, women, and others who did not choose a gender (for all were welcome), for the first time since I had left the orphanage. Honestly, a part of me wanted to rebel. A part of me thought I was too smart for it all. But there were others who showed me otherwise. Sam, a legally blind old-timer without an ounce of self-pity in him, but with thirty-six years of sobriety, worked with patients in the early stages of recovery. He’d been through drug addition, alcoholism, and depression. After sitting alongside me in a meeting, he turned and said, “Ted, your biggest problem is your big fat brain. It’s a liar anyway; remember how it wanted to kill you?” As he spoke, I knew a part of me just wanted to turn off my thoughts and anxieties, to surrender, accept the mystery of it all, accept the paradoxes, the injustices, and leave it for God to sort out. I would focus on my side of the hula hoop (or as my A.A. friends would say, “just worry about keeping my side of the street in order”). God, he—or she—could make sense of the rest, not me. It was not my role to try to fix or save the world, just myself.
I did not listen without skepticism. As if he could read my mind, Sam laughed, put his arm around me and said, “If we can get you to stop taking yourself so seriously, Ted, who knows, maybe us drunks will end up saving your life.”
Chapter 20
Drowning
Usually on Sundays women came over to Susan’s house. They would eat, drink tea, and visit late into the afternoon.
But nobody came that Sunday. The house was much more silent than usual. Ivy asked Ruth if she should pack her things and Maurice’s things together in case someone came for them that afternoon. Ruth told her yes.
But no one came except Father David.
A week passed. Another Sunday came around. This Sunday, Ivy, Susan, and the other children sat in their usual spot at church next to the window. They did not have to get up again, even though Father David mentioned them again.
Still no one wanted them.
Ivy tried to imagine what the trouble could be. She had been on her best behavior and although she had had to threaten a few children, she had not been in any fights since moving in with Susan. She wondered if it had something to do with ukimwi, the word she had heard the nurses and doctors saying in the low, hushed tones that adults used when they were being serious and did not necessarily want children to listen. She remembered when she had heard of ukimwi before. It was when a house down their street had been burned down. She had heard her mother talking to her friends about the cause. She thought ukimwi was something that started fires.
She was afraid to ask Susan about it. Instead she asked Ruth if the reason nobody wanted them was because of ukimwi.
Ruth would not answer.
One afternoon a man in a suit appeared at the gate. Susan greeted him respectfully. He was bald and had a narrow face and he was very nice to Ivy. Susan introduced him as Harvey. There was another woman named Christabell with Harvey. She was very pretty and was wearing an orange and blue skirt. They were dressed like important people. Harvey said that he and Christabell were there to take her on a picnic. She asked if Maurice could come. They said he could come on the next picnic.
Susan told her that she could go, so she followed them to their van, a red one, and climbed in.
Christabell was very nice. She asked a lot of questions about Ivy, where she went to school, how often she went. She seemed very interested in how often Ivy was sick. She also asked if she missed her parents. Ivy said yes.
They rode for a long time. They drove past many tall buildings and many matatus. They made a few stops at hospitals. Harvey would go inside with fat brown envelopes and come back with thin white ones. Ivy was hungry and was wondering when they would be stopping for the picnic but she did not want to be rude, even though the long car ride on an empty stomach was making her ill.
Finally, when they were driving on a road with lots of trees and grass along it, they came to a black gate. There were Maasai opening it. They smiled and waved at her and Christabell. Christabell told her she could wave back. Ivy asked if they were real Maasai. She said they were.
They drove down a driveway with lots of flowers and trees then stopped outside a two-story building. Ivy was led into an office with a big desk. Harvey sat down behind it.
Finally Ivy asked when they were going on a picnic.
Harvey said there was no picnic today. This was her new home, called Rainbow, where she would be living from now on.
Ivy asked where her brother would
be. Harvey said that he would be at another home not far away called Malaika run by a woman named Mama Seraphina and her family. Harvey promised she and her brother would be happy in their new homes.
She cried that he was a liar. She said she and her brother had to stay together. She went to the door and Harvey got up to stop her, but she turned on him and started to punch him. She could tell by the way his eyes bulged and he crumpled that he was surprised at how hard she could hit. He had no idea how much practice she had. When he tried to restrain her again, she bit his hand and kicked him.
Then she started to cough. She had her hand on the door. She opened it and went out, but the exertion of fighting Harvey had made her so tired she could only take a few steps before she collapsed on a couch outside the office. She kept coughing, suddenly ashamed that she had grown so weak and lost her fighting edge. She looked to the door that led outside. There were three children staring at her. She wanted to tell them to go away, but she was coughing now too hard.
She lay down on the couch and cried. She heard Harvey pick up a phone and call for a nurse.
Harmony followed her mother from the truck into the police station. She had been in a station before when her mother had reported a robbery, but she had never been in the jail before. She was scared. Other women looked at her. Harmony’s mother kept her hands on Harmony’s shoulders. When a policeman asked how old Harmony was, her mother said she was fourteen—which was four years older than Harmony thought she was. But her mother whispered to her that if the police thought she was younger they would try to take her away.
The cell was very crowded with women. Many of them were hawkers that Harmony recognized from Moi Avenue. They had even arrested the old cucu who sold sweets, cigarettes, and mobile phone cases. Harmony liked her because she had given Harmony a sweet once, even when Harmony’s own mother would not let her eat their sweets. In return, when Harmony had been given a piece of bread by a mzungu, she had split it three ways between herself, her mother, and the cucu.
The cell only became more crowded as more women were added. It smelled of sweaty bodies and unwashed armpits. Everyone had to keep shifting to make room for the new women, but when the women in the back started complaining that they were being pushed too close to the toilet, no one moved any more and the new ladies had to simply sit next to the toilet and no one wanted to do that. It was disgusting. It was overflowing with excrement and the smell filled the whole cell.
Hours passed. Harmony was tired and hungry. The police supplied the women with some bread and butter but it was not enough for everyone to get more than half a piece. But Harmony was with her mother, so she did not complain.
One woman was brought in with a baby. She was allowed to remain outside the cell. Another woman was brought in who was falling down from being so drunk. This made the policemen and the ladies in the cell laugh. She came in and did not seem to mind sitting next to the toilet because she fell asleep right away.
Some women had to urinate but when they went, it just fell onto the full toilet and spread onto the floor. It made Harmony have to go but she did not want to go in the cell. She tried to hold it but it became unbearable. She said so to her mother, who spoke up to one of the guards.
The guards were women, a very fat one and a very skinny one. They allowed Harmony out of the cell and let her use the toilet for the police. It was clean and nice. They shared their tea and bread with her. Harmony asked if her mother could have some they but told her no. They were still nice ladies though because they told Harmony she did not have to go back to the cell. They allowed her to sit with them and watch television. Harmony watched the news and then a movie. Periodically she checked on her mother—she had fallen asleep like many of the women in the cell. Harmony tried watching the TV longer because she did not usually have the opportunity, but she eventually felt tired herself and fell asleep on a couch. The skinny woman guard woke her when it was close to morning and told her she would have to get back in the cell. Harmony obeyed.
The second day was even more boring than the first. It smelled worse too because more women had used the toilet. The puddle had spread. The drunk woman’s clothes were now wet with it. She was angry and mumbling at everyone.
They were given bread at lunch and some at dinner as well. This time there were two loaves to go around so they each had a bit more. After dinner the night guards came on duty. These were not the nice ladies again, but two men. They watched the TV with the volume very loud. The men had the TV angled so that the women could watch it as well, which many of them did to pass the time, but then after a few shows the men came to the cell. They told the women that if they wanted to keep watching they would have to give the men little presents. But none of the women offered anything. They all looked away.
The men went back to their table to watch the TV. There was a football match on. The men drank while they watched and became very loud so they could hear each other over the TV. When one man’s team began losing, he came back to the cell and asked the women for kiti-kidogo. They ignored him again and he became angry, which Harmony knew meant bad things would happen. She tried to make herself very small.
But then she felt something poke her back. She tried moving farther away but the poking persisted. It was the guard. He had a club and he was poking at Harmony, calling after her, saying,
“Little girl, little girl.”
Harmony was tempted to turn around and steal his club, but she knew that would only make things worse for everyone. She moved closer to her mother. She was scared now. Somehow the man extended his reach further and tapped Harmony hard on her head. She started to cry. That was when her mother turned to look at the guard and told him to stop.
He spoke very quickly to Harmony’s mother then, calling her bad names and telling her she made the place smell like a toilet. She curled her body around Harmony. Both men were at the bars now yelling at her and calling her a whore. They began to bang the bars with their clubs, saying they would do so all night so that the women would not be able to sleep at all.
Suddenly Harmony felt her mother fall backwards and let go of her. Harmony turned and saw that one of the men had reached in, grabbed the end of her mother’s dress, and dragged her to the bars. She was screaming. Harmony grabbed her foot and tried to pull her back but her mother kicked her away. Harmony reached out for her again. At the same time one of the men raised his club up over his head. Then he swung it down between the bars.
The club hit Harmony’s mother on the head with a clunk. Harmony screamed. So did all the women who suddenly leapt up to protect Harmony’s mother, but the men beat at them as well. Harmony watched the club that was over her mother’s head. When it came down and made a clanging noise, she was happy because the guard had missed and struck the bars. When there was no clanging noise, it was bad because there was a clunk from him hitting her mother.
Harmony and another woman tried pulling at her mother’s feet, but they only succeeded in pulling off her shoes. One of the men had tied her to the bars with her scarf. Harmony’s mother was moaning and had her hands up around her head, but she was no longer thrashing in resistance, but wailing quietly. Harmony got up and grabbed the arm of one of the men. He was amazingly strong because he could lift her up with just that one arm. He tried shaking her. She tried biting him, but he knocked her against the bars. At the same time one of the women grabbed Harmony and pulled her away.
Then it was all quiet. The women were saying nothing and the only sound was that of the men’s breathing and Harmony’s mother moaning and crying. She was crying like a baby and Harmony hated it.
Then Harmony realized why the men had stopped. The cucu was standing beside Harmony’s mother. Her clothes were on the floor and she was naked. Her skin was sagging like it was going to come off her. Her breasts were flat and nearly touched her belly. The hair in her crotch was completely grey.
The men told her to put her clothes on. They told her she was disgusting. One of them laughed but the other
looked away and started to leave. The other yelled at him and told him not to be “backwards,” but it was too late. He was already gone, so the second guard followed him as well.
Harmony knew why they left: if a young man saw an old woman naked, it would curse him.
They went to her mother, untied her scarf, and put it on her head where she was bleeding. There was blood all over her clothes. Harmony kept telling her that she was sorry and held her hand and sang softly to her. Eventually her mother fell asleep.
In the morning, the two nice ladies had returned as guards. At first they thought that the other women had beaten Harmony’s mother. But when Harmony told them it was the two men, they believed her. It took a long time to wake up Harmony’s mother and for a while Harmony was afraid she had died. But she finally awoke. Once she did, the two lady guards were very nice to Harmony and her mother and let them both out. They helped Harmony’s mother by finding bandages and cleaning her head. They even offered Harmony and her mother breakfast. Harmony took as much bread as she could and gave it to the women in the cell that had helped her mother.
That night they had to sleep in the cell once more. The next morning when Harmony’s mother got up she said she was dizzy. She had trouble walking and when she spoke she did not make much sense. They were released from the cell and the women lined up to be processed out. Everyone let Harmony and her mother go first. The man that did their paperwork was very nasty and slow and didn’t seem to care that Harmony’s mother was hurt. Harmony hated him. But finally they were finished. A bag with their sweets was given back to them. The cigarettes were gone though.
Harmony did not know how to get back home so she waited for some of the women that had helped her mother to complete their processing. Once a few of them were finished, they came over and helped Harmony’s mother onto a matatu. They asked where Harmony and her mother lived. Harmony told them between the green grocer and the mechanic’s shop. The women found someone who was going in that direction. The cucu was going there as well as one of the ladies that held the scarf to Harmony’s mother’s head.