I nodded, taking the plate from Mama Bu. I mustered a smile of appreciation; the kitchen did not have a refrigerator in it, and I had no idea where the egg would have been stored. Saying a silent prayer for health, I hoped my body would be okay with cupboard-stored eggs.
“Let us take our breakfast to the sitting area. We usually eat around the table in there, sitting on our couches, as we do not have room for a kitchen table.”
“I noticed your many couches last night. Do you have a lot of people visit?”
“That is the Kenyan way, my child. You will see that family and friends will be always dropping by, just as we always drop by their homes. Kiano and I have many couches so that people will have room to sit.”
“Makes sense. I look forward to meeting your family and friends,” I replied, taking a bite of my toast. It tasted like sweet cardboard.
“Good morning, Nicky,” Kiano greeted me warmly, coming into the sitting area. “Bu, have you made some breakfast for me?”
“Yes, Kiano. I will get it.” Mama Bu left her half-eaten egg and went to the kitchen to retrieve another plate for her husband.
“You slept well, yes?” Kiano asked.
“I did, thank you, although I was just saying to Mama Bu that I’m still very tired.”
“I suspect that will be with you for a day or two yet. By your first or second day in the Kidaai classroom, you should be good as new!”
Mama Bu returned with a plate mirroring ours, and handed it to her husband.
“Thank you for breakfast. It’s delicious,” I said through bites of toast. My rumbling stomach was happy to be eating again. Gaining confidence, I attempted the egg. I took a bite, small at first, then larger. The egg was creamy and tasted like home.
“Petar is sorry to have missed you, but he is already out tending to his chores. You will see him later today, once you and Bu are back from your travels.” Kiano inhaled his breakfast, speaking through his bites.
“Speaking of our plans, we will leave in half an hour,” Mama Bu said as she took Kiano’s empty plate from him and carried it into the kitchen to wash the dishes. She filled the sink with cold, soapy water. I jumped up to help her.
“We will start by showing you around our land. Then we will walk into Ngong town. Does that sound alright with you?” Mama Bu said, scrubbing the dishes, which she handed to me to dry. She pointed to the various spots in the open cupboard where each dish went. “I will show you where Kidaai is, as well as the market. And later I will take you to the slums. It is always sad to see, but I think it is needed for you — many of the children you will be teaching are from the slums. You need to see the reality of where they come from.”
“Is Kidaai in the slums?” I asked, anxious to learn more about where I would be working, and suddenly nervous about having to go into the slums of Ngong every day.
“No, Nicky. Kidaai is very close. It is about ten minutes up the road, near Ngong town. The slums, well, they are about twenty minutes past that by foot,” Mama Bu answered. She scrubbed the thin plastic kitchen counter with vigour, careful to wipe every inch before hanging the cloth over the sink. “The little ones who need help get taken from the slums, or other places, and put into orphanage care. They are the ones you will be teaching.”
“How long have the kids been in the orphanage?”
“It really all depends. Some have been there for only a few months, while others have been there for years. I think the youngest Jebet has right now is three. The oldest is about eleven, or so.” Mama Bu took a pot from the sink and put it away in a cupboard. “The biggest problem Kidaai has right now is that the kids do not stick around past that age. They all seem to run away when they reach the age of eleven or twelve. It is really very sad — they almost always end up back in the slums.”
Puzzled, I wondered why kids would leave the comfort of an orphanage, only to return to the devastation they came from. “Why would they do that?”
“Oh, many different reasons, I guess. Some are acting out and . . . how do you say it . . . rebelling? Others think they can take care of themselves. Many do not like Jebet — she is the orphanage director — so I wonder if they do it to get away from her. Others have family back in the slums, and they leave to go and find them. But mostly the older kids don’t want to stick around because they don’t like caring for the younger kids all the time. It’s too much work for them.”
I nodded, wondering how much work they were actually doing. “And why don’t they like Jebet?”
“She is pretty tough on some of the kids,” Mama Bu said sadly. She wiped her hands on a tea cloth, then smiled, clearly wanting to change the subject. “Now, shall we go? Let’s walk around our land and I will show you some of our trees and gardens. We have got plenty of it, compared to most.”
“Sure. Sounds great!” I grabbed my backpack from my bedroom and stuffed it with things I’d need that day, including a granola bar, hand sanitizer and a bottle of water from the plane. Plus one of the three big bottles of sunscreen I’d stuffed in my suitcase. My fair skin had always burned easily and I was paranoid of turning into a lobster after a few minutes in the African sun. I knew I’d be slathering on the thick sunscreen many times per day and I hoped no one would make fun of me.
The brochure I read at the airport warned visitors to carry their backpack on their front, so I slipped my arms through the straps and carried it like I was a kangaroo and it was my joey.
“Ready?” Mama Bu asked, when she saw me.
“Definitely! Let’s go.” I was ready to take on the world. Or, at the very least, my new part of the world.
Walking out the front door, I shielded my eyes from the sun and took in my first daylight view of Africa. The ground was covered with red dirt, and dustier than I was expecting; every surface had been covered with a russet-coloured dry, powdery film. It tickled my nose. I sneezed.
Taking two more steps out the door, I was greeted by a burning stench that was so strong it made me gag. I covered my mouth. “Mama Bu? What is that? What’s burning?”
“That is garbage smoke, Nicky. We have got nothing to do with our garbage but burn it,” Mama Bu replied. She shut the warped door behind her. The door was decaying and about the same width as a thick pad of paper. “You’ll get used to it. Everyone does.”
I hoped so, but wasn’t sure. With each new breath I took, the thick smoke choked at my throat and threatened to launch a wheezy cough from deep within my chest.
“Now, Nicky, let us check out the fruit trees we have growing.” Mama Bu led me up a patchy grass hill, dried out and thirsty, directly behind their house. When we got to the top, we found a grove of trees littered in fruit.
“We have mostly mango and papaya. Have you had them before?”
“Oh yes! They’re two of my favourites. We don’t have any trees growing in our backyards though. We have to buy fruit at the grocery store.” I touched the smooth surface of one of the mangoes that had fallen from the tree; it was cool from being in the shade. “What a sweet treat to have it right at your doorstep.”
“You are right about that, chicka. We do not have a lot, but God is a good God and He blessed us with these trees on our property . . . and a backyard filled with sweet treats,” Mama Bu answered, laughing at the expression. “Here, now I will show you our garden.” My host mother led me through the patch of trees and over another hill to a hidden vegetable garden, which was filled with rows of brightly coloured vegetables. “This is what we use to make our meals. All of it is grown by us.”
“Wow! Look at it all. You’ve got so much!”
“Thank you, Nicky. This year we have grown some snow peas, bobby beans, sweet potatoes, okra and maize.”
“Maize? I haven’t heard that term since I was in elementary school and we were learning about the pioneers.” I paused, admiring the perfect, weed-free rows of the garden, which had clearly enjoyed a lot
of farming TLC. “Back home, we now call that corn.”
“Yes, one of the past volunteers who stayed with us talked about corn. But here we call it maize.”
“I love to hear about what you call things. And I’d love to pick up a bit of Swahili while I’m here as well, if you’d help me?”
“Of course, rafiki. I will teach you about life in Africa and you can teach me more about North America.” Mama Bu gave my hand another firm squeeze. Her affectionate touch made me feel so grounded and safe, almost as though I was a child again. I welcomed the feeling and relished how it made me feel warm and protected.
“We have also got some rice wheat and sugar cane, though I would like to grow more.” Mama Bu began walking again, to another section of the garden. “We started having a good year, but the dry season is coming, so our crops might turn soon. They are already not doing as well as in previous weeks.”
“Oh, I hope that doesn’t happen. What you’ve got now is very impressive.”
“Thank you, Nicky. I agree, but only God knows what is in store for us.” Mama Bu paused, shielding her eyes from the blazing sun and looking past the garden. “You can see in the distance where the chickens are. We will not go there right now, because Kiano and Petar are tending to the eggs. We do not want to disrupt them.” Mama Bu tugged gently at my arm, and started walking in the other direction, past where the night guard had been standing.
“The guard doesn’t stay in the day?” I asked.
“No, he leaves at six o’clock. You have got no worries in Ngong town during the day, dolly. You can wear that backsack on your stomach if it makes you feel better, but it is safe in daylight. It is the night that you have to worry about.” Mama Bu stopped in her tracks and turned to look straight at me. “No matter what, Nicky, you absolutely cannot be out after dark. You have to plan your travel around the sun schedule, do you hear me? Because if the snatch-and-run thieves do not get you, it will be Kiano who has your hide when you get back to the house. We worry about our home stays, and it is our job to keep you safe!”
I listened to Mama Bu’s words, taking them seriously. Fear of being targeted by violence obviously didn’t sit well with me and I vowed to never be out after dark — no matter what.
“Are you okay with a quick stop? My neighbour, Barika, has been going on about wanting to meet you for days now. I can’t wait for you to meet her.” Mama Bu beckoned me to follow.
“Of course.”
“Wonderful. You will like her . . . just be prepared for her to talk. A lot.” Mama Bu tugged at my hand once again and guided me down the path to the red dirt road where I comfortably fell into step alongside her.
10
“Karibu, Miss Nicole!” Mama Bu’s plump neighbour squealed when she saw me. Barika greeted me with a big smile and a handshake so firm she crushed my hand. She pulled me in and squeezed me until I struggled for breath. “We sure have been waiting for you! Welcome to Ngong.”
“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I replied, trying to remove myself from her overbearing embrace as tactfully as I could. Barika dropped the hug, but quickly grasped my hand and pumped it firmly in her own.
“I am Barika, Bu’s neighbour — and her very good friend. We’ve been like family for many years and anyone staying with Kiano and Bu is family of mine.” Barika opened the door and waved us inside. “Please, won’t you come in for some chai so we can talk and get to know one another?”
“We have only got a bit of time, Barika,” Mama Bu warned. Then, turning to me, she said, “Barika is one of my closest friends but, like I said, the woman is a talker. If she had her way, we would stay here until nightfall, drinking chai and talking about everything under the sun.” I chuckled softly as Barika waved her hands in protest and my host mother deepened her grin. It was clear to me that the two women were more like sisters than just friends.
“Sit, sit, Miss Nicole.” Barika pointed to the couches before bouncing from the living room to get us our tea. She called out from the kitchen, “So, tell me, Nicole, do you like Africa?”
“Well, from what I’ve seen so far, I like it very much. But I’ve only been here for about twelve hours, although I did read a lot about Ngong before I came. It sounds like a great place.”
“You will see it all today, Nicky,” Mama Bu said. “We will walk through town and I will show you where everything is. We will hit the market and I will show you where you can find the internet spot.”
“You have internet here? I didn’t realize I’d be able to access it so easily,” I said, relieved. I thought there would be internet in Nairobi, but not Ngong.
“Yes, chicka, we have got the internet right in Ngong. Are you surprised? All of us can connect to the rest of the world from our very own town. And you can too.”
“Is it expensive here?”
“About one shilling per minute, dolly,” Mama Bu replied. I did the quick math in my head and realized it would cost about sixty Canadian cents per hour. I suddenly felt closer to home.
“And what about the orphanage? Will you go there today?” Barika called out from the kitchen.
“No, not today, Barika. I told Jebet we would be by on Monday. She did not want us stopping in on the weekend,” Mama Bu answered.
Barika’s reply came at lightning speed, only this time in complete Swahili, “Bu, umeambia Nicole kuhusu Jebet? Yeye ni mkali na Nicole anahitaji kujua.” There was an edge to Barika’s voice as she spoke.
Surprised by Barika’s sudden clipped tone, I wondered what she was saying about Jebet. And why she had mentioned my name — twice. I considered asking Bu about it, but didn’t want to seem rude.
“She is asking about Jebet, the mkuu, or orphanage director,” Mama Bu explained, patting my knee. It was as though she could read my mind. “Jebet is . . . hmm . . . not the nicest person in the world. Barika thinks you deserve to know that before you meet her.”
“Is Jebet really that bad?” I asked, a pit growing in my stomach.
“Others think so, such as Barika. I am more understanding. I believe that, somewhere deep inside of her, Jebet still has a nice heart. But she has gone through . . . uchungu . . . and it has changed her. She has always been a fairly strict mkuu but, lately, well, it almost seems like she has become a different person.” I could tell Mama Bu didn’t want me to judge Jebet prior to meeting her, but that she was concerned enough to say a few words of warning.
“In English, uchungu means grief . . . or pain,” Barika explained, carrying in a thermos of chai and three mugs that were as large as the ones we had used the night before. “But I don’t think that matters. We’ve all gone through hardship here in Kenya. Who is Jebet to stick the children at the orphanage just because she has gone through some sorrow? If she wants to see pain, she should visit the slums.”
“She is from the slums, Barika. You know that. And she has been back many, many times. The children in her orphanage are from the slums. And she is the only one taking them in.” Mama Bu shook her head, clearly frustrated with Barika. I sensed that it was not the first time the two friends had discussed Jebet.
Mama Bu continued, “I am not saying Jebet is an angel. She is far from it. And I agree that she should not be so hard on the children. But you know she is not the same woman who started at the orphanage so many years ago. She has been through much. It is not her fault.”
“Not her fault, Bu? Hmmph.” Barika crossed her chubby arms and turned up her nose.
“Let us just say that we need to give her a break,” Mama Bu answered, responding to Barika. It was obvious that Mama Bu wanted to say more about Jebet but felt it wasn’t her place. She knew more, that much was clear, but I was unsure if she was keeping quiet because I was there or because she didn’t want Barika to know. Perhaps it was both.
“But she hurts the children?” I asked, my eyes going from Mama Bu to Barika, in search of an answer. “She uses a
stick on them?” I was sickened by the thought.
“Not really, dolly. At least, she does not really hurt them,” Mama Bu said gently. “Here in Kenya, sticking is an accepted way of discipline. I know in your country people frown on it, but here it is okay. Jebet has her stick, and uses it when one of the children misbehaves.”
“The girl’s shocked already. Hmmph. Didn’t those orientation books you read tell you about all of this?” Barika asked, taking a long slurpy sip of her tea. When not talking, Barika gulped at her tea and then licked her lips like a lion finishing up his prey.
“No, I haven’t heard or read anything about it,” I replied honestly.
“Sticking doesn’t just happen at orphanages. It happens everywhere ’round here. And to lots of people. Rather than go to the police, citizens take matters into their own hands, and give beatings when someone crosses them.”
“But why does it happen so much? Can’t the police stop it?” I asked, suddenly nervous about what I might see while in Africa.
“It’s called mob justice, chicka. And, no, the police can’t stop it. Or they don’t, anyway. They are corrupt. Our government too. All people care about ’round here is getting money. So the police don’t do what’s right — they do what pays. Even when people are guilty of doing something wrong, the police won’t do anything if they are bribed.” Barika almost looked pleased with the fact that she was clearly shocking me with her speech.
“Surely they can’t all be like that,” I searched Mama Bu and Barika’s eyes. “Can they?”
“The police and government don’t help like they do where you’re from. It’s not the same here, Nicole. You asked about the police? They’ve got hungry children to feed. They will do whatever they need to for more shillings.” Barika shook her head, still slurping. “The problem is, sometimes the beatings are deserved . . . and sometimes they are not. You just never know. And it’s sad, because we’ve seen it a lot. And we’ve got lots of friends who have been beaten. Some to a pulp, and others to death.”
Chai Tea Sunday Page 8