Chai Tea Sunday

by Heather A. Clark

  “I am only teasing you, rafiki. You are the third person who has lived with us while staying in Ngong — and everyone who comes here is surprised to see our television. We also have a kitchen with a microwave, which often seems to be a surprise as well. We have an oven too, but that stopped working about a year ago, and we cannot get it fixed right now.” Kiano pointed to a small room beside the living room. “Here, let me show you the kitchen.”

  I followed Kiano into the kitchen. It was obvious the room had received a vigorous scrub shortly before I arrived, but I couldn’t help but notice two cockroaches run into the plywood wall when Kiano turned on the kitchen light. I somehow managed to stifle a scream, and shifted my glance in an effort to pretend I hadn’t noticed.

  Beside the broken oven was an open window, which mosquitoes were using as their own private entrance into the house. “No screens?” I asked, pointing to the window. Instead of any sort of netting that might prevent malaria from entering, there were steel bars. Once again, I wasn’t sure if I felt safer to see the bars or more afraid given the reasons the family might need them.

  “You notice the steel bars, I see?” Kiano said, nodding his head towards the window. “They are here to protect us.”

  I smiled at Kiano, offering him a hint of thanks, but inwardly said a quick prayer for safety. The house, which Kiano and Abuya had proudly boasted about building themselves, was made of thin plywood, and I didn’t have the heart to point out that if someone wanted in, they could easily get in — bars or no bars.

  “Would you like to see the rest of the house? I will have Abuya show you to your room, which I know she is preparing now.”

  I nodded my head. I was exhausted and desperately wanted to sleep.

  “Bu, come please,” Kiano called to his wife, barely raising his voice. When she instantly appeared, I realized just how easily sound travelled throughout the home. The entire house was small, about the size of two rooms back home, but, more than that, the noise could be heard everywhere because all of the internal walls were about two feet too short. Not one of them touched the ceiling, and the open structure reminded me of the cubicles Eric had worked in when he first started at his law firm.

  “Follow me, Nicky. I will show you to your room.” Abuya once again took my hand, and guided me to a tiny room directly off the living room.

  In one corner was a small bed. At the top of it was a lumpy, white pillow with no case, and covering the bed was a fraying orange and grey quilt that had obviously been handmade. Despite its wear and tear, the thinning blanket was still beautiful and I had to stop myself from getting cozy underneath it right then and there.

  “Petar has brought your things in here. I hope you will find your stay in this room enjoyable,” Abuya said, pointing to the pile of bags in the corner. My suitcases, duffle bag and backpack created a luggage teepee in the only spare space in the room.

  Just as I was about to tell Abuya that I wanted to call it a night, she offered me some chai. “We have been looking forward to your arrival for so long and we are excited to get to know you, Nicky. We made some chai in preparation for your arrival. Would you like some?”

  I looked into the enthusiasm of her warm eyes and didn’t have the heart to say no. I nodded, and hoped the Kenyan version of my longtime Starbucks favourite had as much caffeine as a double espresso.

  Once in the living room, I sank into a worn and tattered couch. Abuya poured the tea, and explained its tradition over the kitchen’s six-foot wall. “Chai is a daily tradition in our country and an ongoing excuse to sit and discuss the day. We all drink it every day, and all day. Each family has a slightly different recipe, but we all serve it with milk and sugar. My own recipe is one that was passed down from my Grandma Hamisi and it is a favourite among many people in Ngong. I have managed to keep the recipe a secret for many years but, if you like it, I will tell it to you before you return home.”

  “I’m intrigued,” I said, taking the gigantic mug of steaming tea Abuya offered to me. By Starbucks standards, the mug would have been bigger than a venti.

  “I do hope you like it, Nicky. I make the tea each morning, and then again each evening. It is kept in our kitchen thermos. Please feel free to help yourself whenever you would like some.”

  “It’s delicious,” I replied honestly after I had taken my first sip. “I can see why so many people here love it so much.”

  As I sipped at my tea, Abuya hovered beside the couch I was sitting on, and Petar rose to give his mother his seat; his gesture didn’t go unnoticed by Kiano, who gave his son a nod of approval as Abuya took her spot directly beside me.

  Sitting, my host mother patted my knee, “So, my dear Nicky, please do tell us about you. We are so curious to get to know you.”

  “Okay, Abuya . . .”

  My host mother quickly cut me off. “Please, Nicky, call me Mama Bu. That is what all of our house stays call me. The kids at the Kidaai orphanage too.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s see, where should I start? I’m thirty-three years old, and I’ve always lived in the suburbs, the area outside of Toronto. I was born and raised there, and then went off to university and teachers’ college.” My host family nodded their heads, listening to every word I spoke. “Hmmm, I guess you already know that I’m a teacher. I really love it, and am looking forward to working with the children at Kidaai as well.”

  “The organization sent a description on you a few weeks ago. They said many good things about what a wonderful teacher you are,” Mama Bu commented, her eyes meeting mine over the brim of her mug.

  “Thank you.” I blushed lightly at the compliment and looked down at the cement floor.

  “And what about your family?”

  “My parents are both well, and I also have a sister, Maggie. She’s a permanent global traveller, it seems, and is always in some faraway place. Her most recent adventure has taken her to Australia. The last I heard she was in a place called Byron Bay, but leaving shortly to make her way down to Sydney.”

  “It seems that your mother has two world travellers. Look where you are!” Kiano pointed out, still smiling through his pearly, crooked whites.

  “Hmm, I guess I have caught a bit of the travel bug myself. This is my first time to Africa though.”

  “And what about your other family, Nicky? The organization said that you are married?” Mama Bu pressed on, although gently. “Was it hard to leave your husband?”

  I paused, unsure of how to answer Mama Bu’s question, or how much of it I wanted to tell them. The mention of Eric drove a sharp pain through my heart and my entire body felt rigid. “Yes, I was married,” I said softly, taking a deep breath. “But it is a very long and sad story. The short version is that my husband, Eric, and I were dealt some really crummy hands. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to make our marriage work.”

  “What do you mean ‘dealt some really crummy hands’? I do not understand the translation?” Mama Bu looked confused, and I forced a smile, grateful for a break in the conversation.

  “Oh, it’s an expression referring to what life brings you. I guess it compares the uncontrollable things that happen in a game of cards, and most often the expression is used when someone is unlucky in life. I’m pretty sure it’s based on the game of poker,” I explained, wanting to change the subject from the questions Mama Bu and Kiano were asking. “Do you play poker here, or any game of cards?”

  Just as Kiano was about to answer, the room went dark. Pitch black. I was instantly scared.

  “It is okay, Nicky,” Mama Bu said soothingly, her voice carrying through the dark room. “This happens often, unfortunately. The electricity has gone out. Petar? Kiano? Please. Get the lanterns.”

  I heard scrambling. Fumbling through the dark. Within a minute, Petar and Kiano had lit the kerosene lanterns. They brought them into the sitting area where Mama Bu and I were still sitting on the couches.

&nb
sp; “There! That is better.” Mama Bu smiled over the lamplight.

  “Why did the electricity go out?” I asked, puzzled. There was no storm to affect the power; the calm night was still and quiet.

  “It is the government. They control the electricity and have the authority to decide when it goes on — and when it goes off. We have no command of this and do not know when it will happen. We just light candles and hope that the electricity comes back on soon.”

  I tried to wrap my mind around what Mama Bu had just said. The Kenyan government just turned off electricity whenever they wanted to? I couldn’t imagine living in a country where external authorities had such direct control over the everyday light in my living room.

  “How long is it out for?” I asked, still bewildered.

  “Sometimes it is for a few hours, and sometimes it lasts for days. Last month the power was out for six days. It was not fun, as you can imagine. We missed the nightly Kenyan news for almost a week!” I could see Mama Bu shaking her head in the shadows of the lamplight.

  “We can give you the big lantern for your bedroom if the power does not come back on,” Petar piped up. “We are used to the dark so you can have it.”

  I smiled at his generosity. “Thank you, Petar, but I brought a small flashlight with me. I can use that until the power goes back on. Are there any plans for tomorrow?” I asked, changing the subject. I was enjoying getting to know my host family, but serious jet lag had taken over and I was about to fall asleep on Mama Bu’s lap.

  “Well, since tomorrow is Saturday, I told the orphanage director that we would not be arriving until early Monday morning. That is the first day of school for the week. Kiano and Petar have chores to do around the house, but I was thinking I could show you around Ngong. How does that sound to you, Nicky?”

  “I would love that,” I replied, forcing a smile through my exhaustion. I wanted to learn everything I could about Kenya. Sadly, other than the research I had done in the weeks leading up to my trip, the only thing I really knew about Africa was what I learned while watching The Lion King with Eric’s nieces and nephews.

  “How wonderful. I will be honoured to teach you,” Mama Bu responded, finishing her last sip of tea. Then, looking straight into my eyes, she hospitably continued, “I can see that you are very tired and need a good night’s rest, my dear Nicky. Let us retire for the night, shall we? We will see you in the morning, and we will have breakfast together before leaving for your first real journey into Kenya.”

  “Thank you, Mama Bu.” I stood up and realized I didn’t know where the bathroom was. “I would love to wash my face and brush my teeth before going to bed. And I really need to go to the bathroom after all of your delicious chai.”

  “Yes, I will show you where it is.” Mama Bu rose from her chair and pointed to a closed door. “We are thankful to have a toilet, as many of our friends only have squats, but unfortunately there is no sink to wash your face or brush your teeth. I will bring you some warm water, which I still have from dinner. You can take it into the bathroom to use it there.”

  “Here, Nicky, take the big lantern so you can see. It will be very dark in there. The smaller lanterns will be enough light for Bu,” Kiano said, insisting that I take the biggest lantern with me.

  I thanked them for the light, and got my toothbrush and toothpaste from my backpack. Stepping into the closet-sized washroom, I was shocked by what the lantern light didn’t reveal. After Mama Bu’s explanation, I hadn’t expected to find a sink, but there was also no bathtub and no shower. Not even a mirror.

  I squatted over the seatless toilet, and made a mental note to dig out some of the sanitizer I had brought with me in my suitcase. Relieved to see a handle, I flushed the toilet.

  Mama Bu lightly tapped on the door and handed me a tin cup filled with water, and a tattered face cloth. Using my index finger, I tested the temperature; the water wasn’t cold, although it certainly wasn’t warm by Canadian standards.

  I thanked Mama Bu for the water and said good night to my host mother.

  “Good night, Nicky. We will see you in the morning.” I could see Mama Bu smiling in the dim light. She squeezed my arm and then turned towards her bedroom.

  I shut the bathroom door and used the lukewarm water to wash my face. I scrubbed my teeth — vigorously — and tried to free myself from the dirty feeling that airplanes always brought me. Without a sink to use, I spit into the toilet.

  Once finished in the bathroom, I made my way to the tiny bed; I shivered in the cold, my bare feet curling against the icy cement floor as I walked.

  Finally, after twenty-four hours of travel, it was time to sleep.

  The bed was as hard as it looked, and the pillow was frayed and damp. Darkness like I had never experienced flooded the room and I grew scared of the unknown around me. I clutched my small flashlight, which I had brought into bed with me and tried to resist the temptation to turn it on to look around. I had no idea where to get new batteries if they died, and I didn’t want my host family to see the beam of light over their six-foot walls.

  Mosquitoes buzzed in my ear and I swatted them away in the dark. I had forgotten to retrieve the netting that I had brought in one of my suitcases and knew it would be impossible to find it blind in the tower of bags. Instead, I pulled the quilt high over my ears and prayed for malaria to stay away. That, plus the two cockroaches I had seen earlier in the kitchen.

  In the near distance, I could hear a dog barking and the occasional truck driving by the house. Farther away, I could make out the sound of bongo drums, which Kiano had earlier explained was the Mijikenda (literally, the nine tribes) performing percussion-based music that was as beautiful as it was complex. Accompanying the bongos was singing and the occasional howl of laughter.

  Closer to home, Petar sneezed in the room directly beside me. Mama Bu sighed in the room she shared with her husband and, later, I heard Kiano fart in his sleep. I could hear everything.

  The deep sleep that I had been promised while falling asleep in the sitting room escaped me and, suddenly, my body felt electric. The black room combined with my inability to sleep (and probably some caffeine kicking in) created a mind-racing hotspot, and I was afraid of where my brain would take me. Remembering Ella hurt too much, and thinking of Eric was just as painful.

  I didn’t want to go there.

  Yet, after about an hour of lying in the darkest of black, long after the Mijikenda had quieted down, I was no longer able to distract my mind, and my thoughts crept to our beautiful Ella.

  I could still feel the light weight of her peaceful body that I held in my arms for so many minutes after she left us. Her long eyelashes, a mirror of her father’s, were etched in my mind. The feeling of desperation as I begged God to reopen her eyes came flooding back to me.

  I clung to my pillow, biting into it as I tried to mask my cries. I buried my sobs, hopeful that no one in the house would hear me.

  An image of Eric appeared in my mind, bright-eyed and smiling. I missed him in a way that I didn’t know was possible. I thought of the way he would tickle my ear when we were lying on the couch, watching a movie. I remembered how he would always brush the snow off my car after a storm had hit — just so that I wouldn’t have to do it.

  I needed Eric. My lungs constricted from the sobs, and my heart screamed, “Why are we half a world away from each other . . . without our beautiful baby and without each other?”

  When the tears seemed to finally dry up, my thoughts turned to what Eric would be doing at that very minute. Was he also sobbing? No, that wasn’t him. But what was he thinking? Was his mind on me, so many miles away? Did he even know that I was in Africa?

  In an attempt to feel a little less pain — even a smidgen — I turned on my imagination. I shut my eyes and pretended it was a long-ago Saturday morning, and I was still there with Eric. I imagined it was as it had been on so many other weeke
nd mornings, and we were just waking up to the bright sunshine streaming through the shutters. We would make love, and then Eric would bring his freshly made cappuccinos and the morning newspaper to our bed. After catching up on the daily headlines, it would be a double shower . . . I smiled, remembering Eric’s never-ending joke about us needing to conserve water.

  Finally, somewhere in the deep night, I fell asleep.

  9

  Within a few hours, I was shaken back to reality by a rooster crowing right outside my window bars. I was confused at first, given the last thought before I fell asleep was of a happy hubby and the perfect marriage, but the shrill cackle of the morning alarm clock quickly proved that I was, in fact, not in Canada anymore.

  I could hear Mama Bu clinking pans in the kitchen, and realized that catching up on my sleep would need to wait. I changed into a clean pair of yoga pants and a red T-shirt, then realized it was still quite cold in the house. I grabbed a hooded grey sweatshirt and threw it over my T-shirt.

  “Good morning, Mama Bu,” I said, joining my host mother in the kitchen. I eyed the counter for the duo of beady-eyed cockroaches I had seen the night before, holding my breath and hoping they had left the building. My disgust of the repulsive critters formed a temporary sense of guilt for not being more appreciative of the family who had taken me in, but I disregarded the feeling knowing that Mama Bu, or any woman in her right mind, would agree there was nothing overly rafiki-like about vermin.

  “Good morning to you as well, Nicky,” Mama Bu replied hospitably, giving me a friendly hug. I thought again how much I liked the warmth of her voice — it was comforting, mellow, and made me feel safe. “Would you like some chai? I just finished brewing it.”

  “Yes, thank you. That would be great. I’m definitely in need of some more caffeine. I’m afraid I’ll still be terribly jet lagged today.”

  “There is an endless pot of chai for you, dear, which will help with your tiredness. Help yourself to as much as you wish. I also have some eggs and toast — it is a good thing the power went back on through the night so I could make our breakfast. Would you like some?” Mama Bu offered me the plate she was holding, which contained one egg. A square piece of toast sat alongside the single egg, coated in bright red jam.