When we reach the first water station after thousands of runners have passed through, it looks typically tapped. A zebra stands awkwardly to the side of the glucose station.
“Rhoda—drink!” I bark.
“You drink!” Rhoda barks back.
As our rhythm establishes itself, so does our boredom. Those who have never run a very long race often buy into the common misconception that running a marathon is simply perpetually exhausting. For most runners, it’s not. Instead, it’s just boring. As I limped home on the Madrid subway with Lara after my first marathon a year and a half before, I explained this.
“You aren’t tired so much as bored,” I said, unsuccessfully wooing her. “And then, of course, at about the four-hour mark, you want to cut off your legs. But for the most part you never really enter a state where you feel like you need to stop for cardiovascular reasons. Your endurance can keep you going—but your legs want to kill you.”
Especially for a woman who runs slowly, the massive amount of time that passes between the start line and the finish line means that you have no other choice but to somehow overcome your mind’s demons through mental endurance.
At mile six, the hill begins, and the reality of the altitude gain makes it clear why they call this one of the ten hardest marathons in the world. We have a leg up, though, as we have trained on roads like this at such altitudes. During our thirteenth mile (at the end of the first loop), as we come around a curve on a small section of trail, the elite male runners who are about to win the entire 26.2-mile marathon actually pass me and Lara. Considering their marathon times are half what ours will be, it is something we should have expected, yet we can’t help but laugh pityingly at our ineptitude.
Within a few months, when we hire some of these same champion Kenyan runners to coach our Hope Runs kids, one would ask Lara to give him the shoes she wore during the marathon that day. “But what size are you?” the amateur Lara asks the elite.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. They were better than what he was wearing.
When we reach the same flat horizon line where we had started thirteen miles earlier, I tell Lara I am pulling ahead.
“Ever so incrementally,” I add. I do this because of speed—I am infinitesimally faster than the girl running with the fever, and I also know that the only way I can make the pain in my legs go away is to finish sooner—but also because we both understand that perhaps it is important to do this part on our own.
That day everyone finishes. The downside of running the race myself is that I can’t welcome the other runners across the finish line, but the video footage that Sammy takes allows me a peek into what happens before Lara and I cross the finish line.
James, the team captain, who more than once had ventured out into a dark African evening to find Lara or me struggling to bring home a lone runner who had fallen behind during our afternoon runs, does everyone proud by finishing his first marathon in excellent time. He had wanted to do better, though.
“There was a pain in my leg,” he says afterward. “I missed one minute for running!”
Mwaniki and his short shorts finish with much fanfare, mostly thanks to Sammy, who documents his friend’s final steps in several hundred similar photographs and video clips: Mwaniki posing with his medal against the fence. Mwaniki posing with his medal in front of a sign. Mwaniki posing with the medal lying on the grass. Mwaniki posing with a crown of flowers to congratulate himself. More than anything, though, Mwaniki loves the expo, where, true to his word, he tries to meet famous runners and women in general.
Big Rhoda is the first girl of the nine teenage girls to finish. Although her training times had not suggested she would finish first, in retrospect it makes perfect sense. In the distraction-filled world of marathons, she is the one who sticks to her dogged running plan. The zebras and glucose stations didn’t turn her head—she had a race to finish, after all.
In life, I love thinking that I have been carrying the hints of my future with me all along. By the time I run the marathon at Mount Kenya that day, I have been reading about Kenya for years, becoming obsessed in a way that can only happen when one has a completely fictionalized version of reality in one’s head. To have made a life materialize out of this is thrilling. As are the parts I could never have foreseen—like the running. Just two years ago I had sworn I would never run a marathon, and today here I am coaching one in a way, or at least threatening a bunch of people with homemade glucose to do one with me.
This life can throw you.
For the last twelve miles of the marathon that day, I am completely alone, passing up to twenty minutes at a time without seeing another runner. And if I don’t take this fact to mean only that I am incredibly slow (I am), I can see the mighty beauty and spirituality in it all.
It is easy to make a moment out of those last twelve miles. Thinking about anything while alone in such beautiful landscape can seem powerful, and so when my mind dips into topics like the way my life has turned around and all that I have learned, it takes no effort to soon feel that the entire experience seems extraordinarily meaningful.
Inevitably, my thoughts turn to Lara and how I never could have predicted the roads we would take together. She can be maddening, of course, but she is also extraordinary and funny as heck, and it is unfathomable that I have found someone as interested in pulling off this strange life as I am. The sheer diversity of situations I have seen her in over the years has also been enough to make my head spin—a college student in a shiny tank top walking home from a frat party, a travel writer haggling over rugs in Morocco, a running coach and accidental humanitarian. Naturally, it is in Africa that I have learned to respect her most. Although our travels have highlighted our differences, the time in Africa has forced us to grow together toward one united purpose in a way that the past has never requested. It also seems to hint at good things to come.
But life doesn’t end with Lara and me traveling in our twenties, and the beginnings of this reality are coming into focus. My time with Lara is preparing me for another phase in my journey. In the same way that all the travel has made me increasingly self-sufficient, the orphanage and the kids have turned me into more than myself. Bestowing responsibility on me in a way that I don’t deserve and can hardly handle, the kids have made me something new. Now, just as I have found our rhythm at the orphanage, I have learned the thing about rhythms: right when you get the hang of one, it’s time to set off again.
When you are running a marathon, it is impossible to think of life as anything more than those twenty-six miles. At mile twelve, and at mile thirteen, and at mile fourteen, you become convinced that it will never actually end, and you cannot see a bridge to the next chapter. That day in Kenya, I am singularly convinced beyond all logical rationale that the marathon will last forever. Magically, though, when it doesn’t last forever—and you are glowing and in pain but glowing still—you know that the high is unparalleled. And the high is why you keep coming back. This is how humanity fools us into doing things that may be hard but are really good for us—working with children, running, and doing our part.
It is the best of the world’s tricks.
The next week during teatime back at the orphanage, James speaks to me about the marathon. Although he has always had one of those enviable faces whose natural resting state is one of happiness, his smile that day is broader as he gives me his simple thesis. “That day—that was such a nice day,” he says. “That was the best day.”
It is nothing new, these children hinting at their dismal pasts in brief asides, but I am overwhelmed. He is right, of course. There have been many best days in the past few years, but that one—that one topped them all. I want to tell him that a million more such days will come, but I am careful with what I say, because in the land of these children, promises are the most treacherous of things. I tell James that I agree. That was our best day.
Sammy
Chapter 9
After attending the marathon, we are given
a week to rest, and we do not have the regular Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday running practices. This gives me more time to spend in school with friends and the chance to think more about what will come next for me in school.
During this period, my little cousin Xavier, the little “brother” I lived with at my aunt’s house before moving to Imani, joins primary school. This means I can finally see him and my other cousin Joyce more often, and it gives us the chance to reconnect. I am still not allowed to see my sister, who has gone to live with an aunt in Nairobi, because I am told she needs to never see my brother and me to help her adjust. Because of that, I particularly like seeing my cousins.
At the time, I am not at the bottom at school, but I am also not at the top. I am still having trouble with math and am not doing well in science either. I like science, however, and have always been interested in learning facts about our world and how we came to be. In high school, we have three science classes: chemistry, biology, and physics. The chemistry teacher is wonderful, and the biology teacher is as new as we are to the high school and very enthusiastic. With a math teacher who is strict but very good, I start getting a better hold on math and all my grades start going up.
Another subject I like is Christian religious education. Since the high school is sponsored by the PCEA, this subject is mandatory. I like learning about religion, and I like connecting our work in science classes with our religious studies.
Outside of school, I take a bit of a break from running. Even though I had a great time spectating at the Lewa Marathon, I still feel annoyed I couldn’t run, and so Hezron and I decide together that we aren’t going to go to running practices for a while. Instead, I get more involved in Brigades.
Due to my dedication to Brigades, I am chosen to become a noncommissioned officer. This is a great thing, and it allows me to go to many camps and be on a high ranking in Brigades. We are invited to perform in many different parts of the parish, and we even perform a drill for the secretary general of the Presbyterian Church of East Africa. I love every minute of it.
I am also still heavily involved in Sunday school and the Sunday school drama competitions and singing competitions. Many secondary students stop going to Sunday school because they don’t like to be seen with little kids. But I love kids and look forward to spending time with them and making them happy. The Sunday school teachers decide that I should become an actual teacher and sign me up to teach. It ends up being one of the best things that happens to me that year.
Being a Sunday school teacher comes with many responsibilities. I am supposed to make sure that the Sunday school room is clean and that all the books and Bibles and games are returned safely. I am also in charge of the keys to the room and ensuring all the students are ready for class. I love working one-on-one with the kids, and I even like the lectures I give. I also realize that being younger than most of the teachers is helping me serve as a bridge between the kids and the teachers. If a kid has a problem and is too shy to talk to a teacher, they can come to me.
The kids begin to confide in me more, and I am often approached by kids who want to talk about the hardships in their lives. Some kids talk about parents who are fighting; some talk about not having food to eat or being bullied at school. Whatever the problem, I talk and pray with them.
In this role, I begin to see more clearly the division that exists in the community between the kids with parents who live with their families and the kids like me who are orphans and live at Imani. Even though sometimes the outside kids have less than the Imani kids—no food to eat, no school uniforms to wear—they still look down on the Imani kids for not having parents and for living in the orphanage.
One day I find two young girls fighting with each other. One is from Imani and the other is an “outsider” from the village. I ask what is going on, and the Imani girl tells me she’s tired of being made fun of for being from Imani. The other girls were giggling at her and whispering about her to each other. I ask the outsider why this is happening, and she tells me she is tired of being looked down on because she doesn’t live at Imani. She explains that the Imani kids have a lot and also have each other—they can be like one big family sometimes.
This is something I haven’t thought about before, and I start giving them a little lecture about how we are all equal. We may be a little well-off, we may be in a bad situation, we may be short, we may be tall—but whatever we are, we are really all the same. We are all equal. We have the same bones, and the fundamental things that make us human are in each and every one of us. I tell the girls that it doesn’t matter if you’re an Imani kid; it doesn’t matter if you’re a town kid or a countryside kid. We are all the same, just in different circumstances.
After I say a prayer, they hug each other. The next day I cannot believe my eyes when I see them sitting together, smiling. That Sunday they are sitting together again, this time laughing and cracking jokes.
A few months after I become a Sunday school teacher, I spend a Sunday learning how to cut hair. Haircutting is one of the main Sunday activities—all the kids at Imani have to keep their hair shaved to prevent bugs. I am interested in learning how to cut hair well like a barber, and I get an older boy to teach me. The first person I work on is my little friend Ephantus—the one who once got in trouble with the matrons for showering and washing his clothes at the same time. As I cut his hair, I accidentally cut his head and he starts bleeding a lot. I vow to get better!
The following Sunday is a beautiful day, and after Sunday school, church, and lunch, I immediately head out to the kinyozi—the shack outdoors where we cut hair. I am enjoying my newfound hobby of being a barber.
When I see some people giving hugs to Claire and Lara, I am confused. I don’t usually see so many different people hugging them all at once, and I want to know what is going on. That’s when Ephantus, who has forgiven me for cutting his head so badly the week before, breaks some really terrible news. I had known it was coming, as we had been discussing it for months ever since the marathon ended, but I am still shocked to learn that Claire and Lara are leaving the next day.
I think it is a joke until Lara approaches the haircutting shack with tears in her eyes. I still cannot believe that this news is true, so I ask, and she confirms it—they are leaving early the next morning. I stop giving Demina his haircut, and he leaves with a half patch of hair. I see Claire coming over, and I go toward her to give her a hug. For a moment I can’t see clearly, and I think, What is happening to my eyes? I see blurry stuff, and then I realize, of course, that my eyes are tearing up.
I give Claire a hug and hear her say she will be back. When she stops hugging me, I feel like a part of me is torn and taken away. I go to Lara, and for the first time I see Lara blowing her nose. I had seen Claire do that when she had a cold, but I realize Lara is doing it because of her tears, and I think her tears must be really bad to do that. As I give Lara a hug, I feel like the rest of the part that had remained of my heart is taken and I am left with nothing.
I had stopped spending so much of my time with Claire and Lara in the past few months after I got annoyed that I couldn’t run the marathon, but to see them leave now makes me recognize how important they are and how I can’t imagine being without them. It is a heartbreaking time at Imani, and I have never seen so many people crying because someone is leaving.
For me, living with Lara and Claire has been eye-opening. I have seen them sad, happy, sick, and angry. I have watched them play with the kids and help everyone with schoolwork. I have watched them run with all of us and even finish a marathon at a far-off place. And I am not the only one. Every single other person has watched as well.
When they first arrived, we weren’t too welcoming. We said to each other, “We have new mzungus. Even worse, they are young!” But Claire and Lara proved to be different. They came and they were who they are, and we saw it. We saw they were being their real selves, and their real lives were here with us. Little by little, I got to know them and people go
t used to them. They were just like us, except they had different backgrounds and different skin.
Claire and Lara had become legends in the orphanage.
What I realize is that unlike many other white visitors who had come before, Claire and Lara had done Imani well. Instead of being visitors—different people—they became one of us; they became like sisters. It took some time, but eventually we failed to see their skin color; all we could see were the people behind the skin.
Walking on the stairs that night, I see many kids crying, comforting each other with the idea that Lara and Claire will be back. It is a grueling night for everyone. We cannot believe that the year has passed so fast. As I go to bed, I started replaying all the experiences that I had with Claire and Lara, and all our memories. I remember Claire coming in with the blonde bangs above her eyes. I remember Claire “insulting” me, and me getting mad, and I laugh at that part. I remember us talking about life and cracking jokes. I remember Lara giving me her camera, her “baby.” I remember them teaching me all about computers, and I remember them confiding in me about their lives. I remember them helping me with chemistry homework. I cannot believe that just the other day they arrived, and now they are leaving.
As I am replaying all these moments in my head, someone tells me that Lara is waiting for me outside. As I walk out, I think, I’m going to fall down, I am so sad. I am upset, and I have no idea what to say to her.
Hope Runs Page 10