“Like Simon, the young girl who came to see me a month ago ended up choosing her destiny, despite how much had gone wrong and how many things were against her. Gathoni could have given in to her suicidal thoughts, killing both herself and her baby. But she didn’t. Instead, she responded to her horrific situation by getting the help she needed. She took all of the bad luck and awful circumstances that had been thrown at her and gained strength through choosing a path that led to recovery. And when she did, we were able to find her a new job with an employer who was willing to overlook her pregnancy and give her room and board as payment. Gathoni still doesn’t have much, but she does have a safe place to sleep, as well as food and drink for both her and her baby.”
I fanned myself with a piece of paper that had been tucked into a hymn book. The sanctuary had become stuffy and hot throughout Wambua’s message.
“When we find ourselves knocked down and in situations that we don’t ask to be in and when the pains of life are overwhelming . . . we are not out of control. We are always in control of how we respond, and we need to respond like Simon. And like Gathoni. Genuine faith develops from times of trial and pain and, as Paul tells us, we need to rejoice in our sufferings because they are an opportunity to put our faith into action. No longer think of carrying the cross as a burden, but as something that will ultimately lead you to a greater place. And when you take control, despite the fact that a door may have been shut on you, I am quite certain that God will be right there beside you to open a window.”
As Wambua finished the last words of his sermon, he held my gaze for many seconds before turning away. And it was then that I became convinced he was speaking directly to me.
14
After we had returned from church, Mama Bu made us a lunch of rice and beans. I was hungry given our long walk, and inhaled the food.
“What did you think of church, Nicky?” Petar asked me, diving into his portion of the mango, which we were having for dessert again.
“I thought it was great,” I said honestly. “I loved the energy and the passion. The singing and dancing is so much fun. And the little kids who sang in the choir were so adorable, even if a little off-key.”
Kiano laughed, “You noticed that too, huh? Good thing our Petar here has always sung like a cherub.”
“I was a bit surprised at how long it was though. Is it usually over two hours?”
Kiano fought a yawn as he answered, and stretched out on the couch, “Depends on the day, but usually the services are about that long . . . sometimes two and a half hours.”
“It is not time to get comfortable, Kiano,” Mama Bu gently scolded her husband as she piled the dishes up on the coffee table. “It is just about time for you and Petar to get out of here.”
“Mwenda pole hajikwai,” Kiano answered with a smile. He stood up and affectionately poked his wife.
“That, Nicky, is an old Swahili expression meaning, ‘He who moves forward slowly does not trip,’” Mama Bu translated for me. Then, with a friendly poke back at him, she smiled and said, “But really, Kiano is just procrastinating.”
“Ah, Baba is just teasing you, Mama. He is running on Kenya time. We’re only about fifteen minutes late,” Petar said.
“Fifteen minutes! It will be half an hour by the time you get there. Now . . . kugo, kugo! Go, go! Or you will embarrass our family.”
“We’re going, Mama. Thanks for lunch. We’ll be back soon.” Petar stood to join his father, and kissed his mother on the cheek before leaving. After only a few short days with my host family, I could already tell how much Petar adored his mama.
“Where are they going?” I asked Mama Bu after they shut the door.
“To Kiano’s sister’s house, who lives about fifteen minutes from here. They have gone through some great hardships in the past year, and Kiano and Petar are going to help out.” Mama Bu shook her head, lost in thought.
“Hardships? What kind?”
“Lucy, Kiano’s sister, lost her husband about a year ago when he was beaten on the side of the road by a gang of strangers.”
“No!”
“Sadly, yes. No one knows exactly why it happened, but it was after nightfall and he was late returning home from work.”
“Why was he late?”
“I do not know. It is not really important now, I guess. There was a gang of men who attacked him on his walk home. Poor Chege, he did not have a chance. Gossip followed his death, which made it worse for Lucy and the children. . . . Garbage stories floated around about him stealing a chicken from the home of one of the men who beat him, but Kiano and I do not believe that for one second. Chege was a good and honourable man. I do not know what happened that night, but I do know that he did not steal a chicken!”
“Poor Lucy. And their children! It must have been devastating for them.”
“Yes, and she has five of them, all under the age of six.”
I couldn’t believe it. Eric’s and my next door neighbour had had five children — three boys followed by twin girls — and we had watched her constantly struggle to parent so many kids, even with the help of her very involved husband and a nanny named Renee. And Lucy was raising five all on her own?
“Lucy was a teacher before she had children, but then stayed at home to raise her children. She was forced to get a job when Chege died. Teaching did not pay enough so she now works seven days a week as a maid so that she can support her family. She rarely sees her children anymore and we hardly ever see her.” Mama Bu stopped talking and quietly clucked her tongue.
“Who watches the children?” I asked sadly.
“Chege’s mother. She moved in to help. She had lost her own husband a few years back, so it was natural she would take care of the kids. But their property and gardens are big and take a lot of care, which Lucy cannot do any longer because she is working so much. Chege’s mother is old and frail and cannot tend to the yard and fix what is broken around the house.”
“So Kiano and Petar help with the yardwork?”
“That is right. They have been going there once a week on Sunday afternoons for the past few months or so. It was Kiano’s idea to help. He says he and Petar will do it until the children are old enough to take over.”
“Do you ever go with Kiano and Petar?”
“I have been a few times. But mostly I stay here to try and get some weekly chores done.”
“Well, I’m free on Sundays. I can help you out.”
Mama Bu smiled. “In Kenya we have an expression that says, ‘Mgeni siku ya kwanza, siku ya pili mpe jembe akalime.’ In English it means, ‘A visitor is only a visitor on the first day. On the second day give him a hoe so he can cultivate your field.’ Does that make sense to you, Nicky?”
I nodded my head yes, knowing that the expectation was for me to help as much as needed.
“That is how it is in Kenya so, yes, you can help me soon. But only when we are good and ready.” Mama Bu winked at me before walking to the kitchen, calling out behind her. “First, before we start our chores, we will drink some chai.”
Mama Bu and I settled on the coziest of the three couches, side by side, and drank from our oversized steaming mugs of chai. We were still both wearing our Sunday church clothes, and Mama Bu folded her long skirt beneath her legs. She curled her calloused bare feet underneath her and blew on her tea.
“I feel a bit guilty about having a mid-afternoon chai as soon as Kiano and Petar leave for Lucy’s house, but I really need the break. My days are long with work and I need a few moments to myself at the end of the weekend to sit by myself and have a quiet cup of chai.”
“Oh, I hope I’m not intruding!”
“No, goodness, no. I am glad you are here. My quiet time can include you. I just do not want the men around me on Sunday afternoons. When they are here, my work never seems to end.”
“Do you do all of the work at home
?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Mama Bu answered, sipping her tea and closing her eyes.
“Do Kiano and Petar help you?”
“They tend to the chickens and do some outdoor work, but anything that is needed for the inside — fetching water, cooking, cleaning — that is what I do. It is our custom for the men to work outside the home, so they can make money to put food on the table, and for the woman to take care of everything else.”
“Do any women work?”
“Oh yes. Some because they want to, and others because they need to. Such as Lucy.”
“In my house, growing up, it was like that as well. My mother did the majority of the work, although she had a job as well.”
“Outside of the house?”
“Yes, she was dental assistant. She’s retired now.”
“And your baba?”
“He is now also retired. But he was the principal at one of the local high schools for thirty-five years.”
“Where you get the love of teaching, yes, Nicky?”
“You’re probably right. Especially because my father was a teacher before he became a principal.” I laughed then, suddenly remembering myself as a child. “When I was really little, I used to line up my stuffed animals and pretend that I was just like him. For my sixth birthday, when the majority of my friends were asking for new bikes, I asked for a classroom-sized chalkboard. To this day, I think it was my favourite birthday yet. I still remember how excited I was when I woke up and found it hanging on the wall of my playroom.”
“Teaching is in you, clearly. That is nice.”
“I guess so, yes.” I took a sip of tea. It was still too hot. “How about you? Any special birthdays that you can remember?”
“I do not know when my birthday is, Nicky.”
“You don’t know when your birthday is?” I said, shocked to hear Mama Bu’s response. I suspected she probably didn’t have elaborate birthdays, but how could someone not know when their birthday was?
“Siyo,” Mama Bu replied. No. “Kiano either. Birthdays are not a big deal in Africa. We never celebrate them — we do not have extra money for presents, so what is the point of knowing the date? My mama and baba never told me, even when I asked. They said they forgot the exact day, but had memories of it being during the rainy season.”
My mind flew to my own last birthday. I had been pregnant with Ella, and Eric had surprised me with dinner at Auberge du Pommier and a diamond bracelet. “Baby diamonds,” he had said, smiling over the candlelight. “Anyone who pushes out a baby deserves some baby diamonds. . . .”
“Do you know the year, Mama Bu?”
“No, I do not,” Mama Bu responded simply. “You need to understand, Nicky . . . I was the second youngest of twelve children. My parents simply could not keep track, because they were too busy taking care of us and making sure we all had enough to eat. But I do know how old I am. I am fifty-three. Or fifty-four. One of the two.”
“Do you know when Petar was born?”
“Yes, we made sure to keep track of all of our kids’ birthdays. Petar has a really easy birthday to remember. He was born on the first day in June, which is also Madaraka Day.”
“Madaraka Day?”
“It is a holiday here. It remembers the day we were finally able to rule ourselves. Before that, it was Britain.”
“Do you do anything for Petar’s birthday?”
“We do not celebrate in any special way. Not like you would do. We never get gifts, but we do try to have meat for dinner on Petar’s birthday, which makes him happy. A special occasion usually calls for a special dinner around here. For us, it is usually that night and Christmas that we get our meat.”
I felt relieved, knowing then that it was unlikely I would find myself in a situation where I was expected to eat the unrefrigerated meat I had seen hanging at the market. I hadn’t eaten meat in years, and knew refrigerated meat would do a number on my insides, let alone the meat Kenyans ate.
“So, what do you think I should expect tomorrow?” I asked, changing the subject. “I have to admit I’m a bit nervous. I feel like I have a rock in my stomach.”
“You will do great work here, rafiki. I am quite sure of it. There is a permanent Kenyan teacher that you will be working with. She has the name of Hasina. She is a wonderful woman, and has been teaching at Kidaai for a couple of years. She speaks fluent Swahili and English, so you will be able to speak directly with her. Some of the pupils, especially the older ones, speak English, but the younger ones only speak Swahili.”
“You mentioned the oldest kids will be thirteen or so. What about the youngest?”
“The youngest are in pre-unit, which I believe you call kindergarten. Schools here are based on standards, which run from Standard 1 to Standard 8. Thanks to our President Kibaki, primary education was reintroduced a few years back for all children. They just need a desk, a uniform and books. That part needs to get paid for by the parents.”
“How does Kidaai get those things, with no parents?”
“Donations, mostly.”
“I see. And what standard does Hasina teach?” I asked, interested to know what room I would be in and which level of students I would be teaching.
“Ah, Nicky, Hasina teaches all of them.”
My face clearly showed surprise, for Mama Bu further explained. “There is only one room, dolly. All thirty-five pupils are in the same classroom and they all learn from Hasina. They range from Standard 1 to Standard 8.”
Suddenly, the rock in my stomach grew larger.
15
On the morning of my first day of volunteer teaching, I rose early. There was no way to deny it: I was nervous. And my nervousness had created insomnia. I had been a teacher for almost ten years by that point, yet my nerves were experiencing a new kind of jumpiness I had never felt before. I was concerned about the language barrier. I was anxious about fitting in, particularly given that I would be the odd white person standing out in a room of thirty-five black faces. And I was downright scared about how two teachers could successfully manage (and teach!) thirty-five students of all different ages.
I grabbed my last granola bar and headed out early. On our Saturday tour, Mama Bu had pointed out where Kidaai was and told me that she would probably see me there later in the day. She had planned on taking me to introduce me to Jebet, but Kiano had returned the night before saying that Lucy’s eldest daughter had developed a high fever. Mama Bu had spent the night tending to her.
I was expected to arrive at seven o’clock and had been instructed to ask for Jebet, who would show me to the single-room school. The orphan children would have eaten their breakfast at that point and would be playing in the yard, waiting for their first lesson to begin.
I walked ten minutes up the road, choking back garbage smoke and sneezing from the dust. As the orphanage drew nearer, I saw beside the dilapidated building uniformed children running about an open field, skipping and smiling as they played. They didn’t see me at first, so I took advantage of the few moments of solitude to soak up the authentic world of Kenyan children.
The children seemed happy, chasing each other on the dried grass and falling to the ground in bubbly giggles. It reminded me of the countless recess periods I had supervised over the years — with the exception of hopscotch courts, swings and slides. Instead of playground equipment, these shoeless students used feathers, sticks and discarded trash as centrepieces for their imaginative games. I silently applauded the endless innovation that I knew only children could muster.
A young girl about ten years old was the first to spot me watching them play and she ran up to me shouting the now-expected “Mzungu! Mzungu!” She pointed at me for all of her friends to see. Within moments, every child that had been playing in the field trampled over the dirty, dried-out ground to throw themselves at my feet. I had about twenty children — all of them in school u
niform but none of them in shoes — pulling at my hands and shirt and pants and hair in greetings filled with joy.
The kids took turns shaking my hand and, as I greeted each one of them in turn, I noticed that almost all of their school uniforms were torn and ratty. The shorts and shirts on the majority of the children didn’t fit correctly; some needed to roll sleeves and others were barely able to squeeze into their undersized uniforms.
The stench of the group was overwhelming and I forced myself to avoid covering my nose. The children smelled as though they hadn’t bathed in months and the majority of them had filthy faces and noses that were both crusty and running with snot.
They all had matching shaved heads that were as identical as the uniforms they wore, and I found it difficult to tell the difference between boys and girls. Later, I found out that the children had their heads shaved to keep things as easy and clean as possible — but, because of this, the only real thing that I could distinguish between them was their ages. The youngest was close to five, and the oldest, fourteen.
One of the smaller children took my hand and said, “Me Gracie. How are you?”
“I am great,” I answered, exaggerating a big smile with my mouth and hands. I chose a different word in hopes of teaching them an answer other than fine. “How are you, Gracie?”
“Fine!” the children echoed.
“Do any of you speak English?” I asked, still holding two of their hands.
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