What Tears Us Apart

by Deborah Cloyed

  Past the landfill came more mud houses. “We have to stop,” Ita said suddenly, waiting for Leda to come up beside him.

  “Hodi!” Ita called out before a door.

  There was a pause, and then a woman’s voice called back, “Karibu.”

  When the woman came to the door, she had a weary smile for Ita, but then she saw Leda next to him.

  Ita spoke soothingly in Swahili, gesturing to Leda, his smile on overdrive. Finally the woman looked at Leda and smiled obligingly as she welcomed them inside, but Leda could tell that she was weighed down with troubles.

  Inside, at the corners of the small room, Leda could see the stick frame for the mud structure, but most of the walls were covered with newspaper pages, photos and a poster for Raila Odinga. On one side was a low wooden bed frame, with rags balled up for cushioning. There was a mat on the dirt floor with a small stove atop it and a few cooking utensils. The woman removed her sandals and stepped onto the mat to pick up an ancient teakettle.

  Leda looked down and saw her filthy tennis shoes standing on what was effectively the woman’s kitchen table.

  “Pole,” Leda apologized quickly and jumped off the mat. She started to sweat as she stood nervously, unsure what to do with herself taking up all that space in the tiny room. The woman poured tea for Leda, and Leda was touched by her kindness. Even though the tea was hot, the scent of cardamom and cinnamon helped combat the smell of raw sewage in the air.

  Ita and the woman continued to speak, seemingly oblivious to both the stifling heat and Leda’s awkward hovering. Leda tried not to stare, but she saw the pain on Ita’s face as the woman spoke in low rushed words. She didn’t have to understand the woman to feel her anguish.

  Ita listened far more than he spoke, and by the end he took the woman’s hands in his. They stayed like this for a quiet moment that made Leda’s heart ache, and then it was over.

  The woman retracted her hands and stood. She smiled weakly at Leda. “Karibu,” she said.

  Leda nodded, wishing she could do something for this woman, but not knowing what.

  As the woman took the teacups from them, Ita removed some money from his pocket. He pressed it into her hands even as she shook her head.

  Should she offer the same? Leda wondered. Would this woman rather accept money from someone she thought could afford it? Leda fumbled with her money belt, tucked inside her waistband, but Ita was already leaving through the door and the woman looked at Leda’s hands strangely. Leda felt her cheeks burn. She wanted to explain, but knew it would come out garbled and wrong.

  Instead she hung her head, thanked the woman for the tea, and followed Ita outside where he waited in the path.

  “Is she okay?” she asked, when obviously the woman wasn’t okay. “Can I help her?”

  Ita looked into Leda’s face, his expression reminding her of a character in a silent movie. She thought she saw approval and judgment, sadness and hope, travel across his face in overlapping succession. Finally he sighed.

  “She will be okay. She is a good, strong woman.”

  He turned but when he saw that Leda wasn’t going to follow, he added, “Her husband has gone.”

  “What do you mean gone?”

  “She doesn’t know. Drinking, maybe. Another woman. Maybe dead. We shall see.”

  Ita turned and continued down the wide road, people filling in the space behind him.

  Leda watched for a moment, considering each person streaming past her. All different heights, all slender. And all of them concentrating, their faces set in lines, lost in their thoughts. She saw the same tiredness she’d seen in the woman’s eyes. Not anger, Leda thought, not bitterness. Just exhaustion.

  She remembered how Ita had grasped the woman’s hands as she spoke. Why weren’t they angry? Why weren’t they bitter? How could they have been through so much, every day, and still smile? Looking around, she saw tired people, yes, but also much happiness amidst the flurry of activity.

  Both sides of the path ahead were lined with people selling their wares—cinnamon-sugar mandazi frying in a dented bowl over a wood fire, a tray lined with wilted greens and dusty fruit. A Mariah Carey song belted from an unseen boom box, presumably nearby the skinny old man sitting next to a tray of CDs. All around her, people greeted and joked loudly with one another. As she caught up with Ita, two young kids bounded up to him with their mother and right away everyone was laughing heartily, Ita the loudest. He introduced her and the mother gave her a wide smile.

  Leda thought of her brief night and morning in Nairobi at the hotel. There, the staff had smiled too grandly, too big, at the tourists. In Kibera, it was different. Here they didn’t have to pretend.

  Leda appreciated that. She smiled back, bent down to greet the children before they were off again on their way.

  The more she tried to keep track of where they were going, the more the winding structures blurred before her. Leda stopped short before a concrete wall plastered with political posters. She leaned in to study them.

  In the one on the right, Kibaki, the current president, stood in a suit and tie against a vibrant blue background. Kibaki Tena, the slogan read. Leda took out her pocket translator book. Kibaki again.

  The one next to it was a man against a white background, pointing off to the right and above. Pamoja tusonge. Together. Mbele. Leda flipped to M, as Ita came up beside her. Mbele. Forward.

  “Raila Odinga,” Ita said, “The savior of Kibera.”

  Leda looked at Ita’s face, for the voice was a tone she hadn’t heard from him yet. Half sarcasm, half hope.

  “The same age-old battle between old and new?” Leda said, thinking of the upcoming elections in the U.S., Barack Obama the new cool kid on the block.

  “The new man promises, while the old man sweeps broken promises under the rug.” Ita’s smile was nowhere to be seen.

  “Which one will you vote for?”

  He looked around. “I am Kikuyu,” he said softly, and tugged at her elbow as if they should go.

  Leda struggled to remember what Samuel and the guidebooks had said about Kikuyus, the leading tribe. They’d been persecuted and now ruled.

  “Kibaki is Kikuyu.”

  “Let’s go, Leda,” he said and moved on without her.

  But that’s not all, Leda thought. Mungiki, the gangsters, they were Kikuyu, their secret rituals based on Kikuyu rites.

  Leda envisioned Chege outside the orphanage door with his crew, his long dreadlocks falling down his back, his skin and teeth marred from drug use, and the men who followed his command, their dreads spikier and shorter, but with shifty yellowed eyes to match. What had Chege said? What if us Kikuyu brothers don’t need your help?

  The elections would happen while she was there, just before Christmas. Up until this point, Leda had thought of that as a bonus. Exciting—to be a part of history. She’d been waiting to ask Ita about politics.

  But his reaction made her remember something else—something a favorite professor had once said. Nothing is more dangerous than promises. And elections are full of big promises.

  * * *

  Ita didn’t turn back to speak to her again until they reached the clinic. But as soon as they got close, Leda saw him slip into a new skin. His shoulders lifted, his step stiffened. They walked past a sluggish line waiting out front, four people wide and maybe twenty deep. As they passed, many of them called out to Ita. He smiled, but far more seriously than usual. His professional smile, Leda decided. The front of the line was a check-in table where a young Kenyan man and woman sat, performing quick checkups with stethoscopes and tongue depressors. The woman smiled widely when she spotted Ita, and the young man nodded respectfully.

  While they exchanged pleasantries, an older couple appeared. These two were European, Dutch maybe, Leda guessed, looking over the man with frizzy blond hair and sunburned skin—the type just simply not engineered for hot weather. His eyes were piercing blue but emanated warmth. When he greeted Ita, the radiating warmth increased te
nfold. He waved at Leda, then suddenly became frazzled, looking down frantically for his stethoscope and finding it around his neck. Leda couldn’t help but laugh. She liked him immediately. The woman greeted her stiffly and scolded Ita for not coming around often enough. But Leda could tell from the glint in her eye she was very fond of Ita, too.

  “Mariska,” Ita cooed and gave the woman a hug.

  “Where you been, old friend?” the man asked Ita with a grin. He looked at Leda. “Is this the volunteer?”

  Ita smiled proudly. “This is Leda.” He turned to Leda and said, “This is Martin. He helped place the advertisement. His idea.”

  “Though I must say you improved on it. Did you screen photos, you dog?” The man punched Ita’s shoulder playfully and grinned at Leda. “What a beauty you are, my dear. American, is that right?”

  “From California,” she said.

  “Welcome.” Martin took Ita eagerly by the shoulder. “Come. We’ve made some upgrades this season I think you’ll appreciate.” To Leda he added, “Brain works of this brilliant young man here.” He patted Ita’s shoulder and the affection bathed Leda, too, as she followed them into the clinic.

  “The feeding room,” Ita said with a grin.

  Martin laughed. “Turns out you were right.”

  Leda looked at the room to which they gestured and saw a table where young volunteers were handing out juice and small meals.

  Martin continued, “Ita spotted a problem with our system. Raising all those boys, he knew a meal solves as many aches as antibiotics. We used to have fights here, after people walked all day only to wait in a long line. Now people know if they wait quietly, they will get their turn. Plus some chapati and lemonade.”

  “Of course,” Mariska said, pointing at the swollen line, “word is getting out.”

  They continued and Leda’s tour showed an ingenious use of the small space. There was an IV station, a mini operating room for sutures and a curtained space for female issues.

  “And is this an NGO?” Leda asked Martin. “Is it—”

  “Free? Yes, all free. Donations from a variety of sources, but Mariska and I, we pretty much run our own ship here. I’m a doctor in Amsterdam, but twice a year we set up out here and try to help how we can.” Martin turned to Ita. “And when we’re lucky, we have Ita to help us. Brilliant doctor this man will be one day.”

  Ita looked away. Leda tried to discern if it was shyness or something more like frustration.

  As they continued, Ita asked detailed questions about patients’ diagnoses, new medications. Other things, procedures, he asked about, Leda couldn’t follow but was impressed by the lingo.

  When they reached a small room in the back, Martin waved Ita inside. “I brought them for you, hoping you’d stop by.”

  There wasn’t room enough for more than the two men, but from the doorway, Leda saw Martin produce a stack of magazines. She craned her neck, trying to see what they were.

  “Medical journals,” Mariska said at her side. “Ita has a mind like a computer. I dare say he could pass his exams today, if such a thing was possible.”

  Leda relished the excitement she saw on Ita’s face. And she loved the mentor role Martin took with him.

  “Ita found us, but Martin recognized the skill in him immediately. I protested, but it wasn’t long before Ita was helping with sutures, minor surgeries, diagnoses. Martin is right. It is what he was born to do.” Leda got chills at the statement, watching the man in question pour hungrily over the journals. “Makes you think about the world, doesn’t it?” Mariska said softly.

  Leda was forced to look at her, with the underlined question mark hanging between them. “What do you mean?” Leda said, gazing into the woman’s wide face, pink in the heat.

  “Makes you think what a person like Ita could have done with money and privilege.”

  Leda flinched.

  Ita looked up and saw the two women in the doorway. He flipped shut the journal and hugged the heavy stack to his chest. He smiled at Leda, making her stomach flutter. “Ready to go home?”

  * * *

  On the walk back to the orphanage, Leda’s mind went into hyperdrive. She watched Ita, the journals clutched under both arms, a swagger in his brisk step.

  What a person like Ita could have done with money and privilege.

  Probably Mariska had no idea just how privileged Leda was, but the comment stuck in her heart like a fishing lure. What had Leda done with the money she was so lucky to have? She’d squandered it, really, desperately seeking a calling. But here was Ita, born to save people, to save lives, thousands maybe, over a lifetime. Leda started to roll an idea around in her mind. When she asked Ita how much university in Nairobi cost, the answer was shocking. All four years cost less than one year in the U.S.

  A scholarship fund. Who was to say making a sound investment wasn’t as good as finding a calling?

  Chapter 7

  December 11, 2007, Kibera—Leda

  THAT NIGHT, AFTER the boys finished their homework, Ita presided over bedtime. Leda used the opportunity to slip off to her room alone. She shut the door behind her, forgetting the lack of electricity, and had to fumble in the dark for the oil lamp.

  When she finally got it lit, she sat down heavily on her makeshift bed and found herself breathing a deep sigh of relief. In her earnest effort to fit into this new world, she hadn’t realized how exhausted she was at the constant companionship.

  Now Leda realized the enormity of her coming here. It wasn’t just Kibera’s relentless poverty or danger that troubled her. It was the closeness, the suffocating proximity to so many human beings and the emotional vulnerability she felt as a result. Leda knew how to do one thing perfectly—be alone. If there was an award for solitude, she could win it.

  Now nine pairs of eyes watched her like a reality television marathon.

  And Ita’s eyes—

  Ita’s eyes were devoted. They were certain. They were patient.

  All the things Leda doubted in herself.

  Just as she wondered whether she should put on her pajamas and pretend she’d gone to bed for the night, there was a soft knock at the door.

  She straightened up. She smoothed down her blouse and took a deep breath.

  The knock came again.

  “Coming,” she said, and the word boomeranged around the metal room.

  When she slid open the door, she was surprised to find herself face-to-face with not Ita, but Mary.

  As usual, Mary spoke a river of words Leda couldn’t fish out a meaning from, but her lilting voice soothed Leda immediately. What would it have been like to have a mother like Mary? she found herself wondering for the second time that day.

  When Mary spoke again, this time she waved Leda forward and nodded her head toward the courtyard. That’s when Leda saw that someone else stood out there. A woman in a flowered dress, talking quietly with Ita.

  Leda followed Mary into the warm, buzzing night. Apart from the wafting smell of waste, Leda welcomed the air that breezed across her cheeks. When they passed the wash area, she heard giggles and saw the dancing shadows of stragglers still cleaning up for bed.

  “Leda,” Ita said, and she noted the easy pleasure with which he said her name.

  The woman turned. She was about the same height as Leda, but much curvier.

  “This is Grace, Mary’s daughter,” Ita said.

  The woman nodded her head. “Good evening, Leda. I’m happy to meet you.” Grace had the same bright voice as her mother.

  “So nice to meet you, too,” Leda said, which was true—she was relieved to meet another person who spoke English.

  But Mary interjected before she could say anything further. She nudged Grace’s elbow, chattering excitedly and eyeing Leda.

  Grace answered with a laugh rich as roux, then turned to Leda. “I’ve come to do my mother’s henna for a wedding. She wants to know if you’d like me to do your skin, too. For fun.”

  Leda paused, and Grace noticed. “It
’s a Muslim wedding, a tradition,” she explained. “We are Christian. But there are many Muslim friends in Kibera and I have made a little business for myself by learning to do the henna painting.”

  “Grace is being very humble,” Ita said. “She is a well-known artist, and Kibera women line up to be her canvas.” Then he added something, probably a translation, to Mary, who beamed.

  Why not? Leda thought. “In that case, I would be honored, Grace. Paint me!”

  December 11, 2007, Kibera—Ita

  Ita watched Leda reclined under Grace’s flurried strokes. If I were an artist, he thought, this is the image that would haunt my dreams.

  It was late. Mary had been painted first and had since gone off to bed. Ita held a medical journal in his lap, of which he hadn’t read a single word.

  His gaze was like the light of the oil lamp, flickering and lingering over Leda’s face, from her smooth forehead down the narrow slope of her nose, catching at her flower-bud lips, over her delicate chin...

  Ita was surprised that when he blinked he’d already memorized her face, the hue of her marble skin, the curve of her cheek. Even her scar he knew, the smudge like a painting left out in the rain. He let his eyes travel to the outstretched arms Grace was adorning. He’d seen Leda pick at her fingernails, but now he saw that she’d scraped off swaths of skin near her thumbnails. The rough, mutilated skin was in such contrast to her sleek beauty, it stung Ita to see it, but made the tenderness he felt for her all the more searing.

  Leda’s eyes stayed closed, not peacefully, but squeezed shut. She had shared few details about her mother and childhood, but from them and her other behaviors Ita could glean she was not a person used to people. It was as if she lived in a world all her own and was shocked when someone got close enough that she had to see them, not as decoration, but an entity as real as she.

  With a start, Ita realized how Kibera must feel for her, like drowning. She needed space and quiet, this woman, rare commodities, but Ita made himself a promise that he would find ways to give her these things. The boys had taught him much about navigating broken people. Leda reminded him very much of the orphans when they first arrived, little minefields to map out, one careful step at a time.