Chai Tea Sunday

by Heather A. Clark

  “Well, I’m glad to have you on my side with this. I’ve missed you.”

  “I wish I could have been here this week, Nicky. It was just not possible.”

  “I know.”

  “How have things been, other than what you’ve told me? I know there has been a lot that has happened, but how have you enjoyed your stay in Kenya otherwise?”

  I shrugged. I thought about the best way to answer her question. “Well, I adore the kids, as I think you know. They are all so special. Adorable, really. And so full of innocence.”

  Mama Bu nodded. “Yes, they really are. Very special, indeed.”

  “And I’ve loved staying here. You and Petar and Kiano — you’ve really welcomed me into your home. I will forever be grateful for that.”

  More nodding. “We are happy to make you feel at home. I hope you will continue to feel that way.”

  I paused, then, unsure of what else to say.

  “Anything more? Good or bad, rafiki?”

  “I don’t know. It’s harder, I guess. Harder than what I was thinking it would be like.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “I guess . . . I don’t really know. I thought it would be difficult, particularly seeing the kids at the orphanage. But you know what? That’s been the easy part. They are so full of life and energy. They are so happy, yet they have nothing. It’s amazing, really. Amazing to watch.”

  “So what is bothering you so?”

  “The things I wasn’t prepared for, I guess. The garbage smoke. It’s everywhere. And I’m constantly sick because of it. I think it might be my allergies, but I can’t stop coughing or sneezing. I’ve always been really sensitive.”

  “You also might have a cold. The children at the orphanage? They are always sick. Makes it easy to pick up their bugs until you are immune.”

  I nodded, realizing she was right.

  I continued, “I also didn’t realize there would be so much violence. I’ve always known that people from Africa have really suffered because of external and environmental factors — drought, famine, poverty — but I never suspected there would also be so much suffering from each other. It’s not okay for people to beat each other to death. It’s not okay for orphanage directors to hit children until they bleed . . . or worse.”

  Mama Bu nodded, agreeing. “You are right, rafiki.”

  “So then tell me, Mama Bu, how do you cope with it?”

  “I have gotten used to it, I guess. But it still bothers me. And frightens me. I wish I could do something to change it, but it is the way it is here, I am afraid.”

  “And Jebet?”

  “Well, hopefully that is one way we can do something to help. We will get Jebet to stop hurting those children. One way or another, we will make sure it happens. Together.” Mama Bu put her arm around me, bringing me in for a squeeze. Then she continued, “You know, Nicky, I am a really good listener. If there something else you want to talk about, I would love to listen.”

  She paused, watching my face.

  “You do not seem right at night, tossing and turning in your bed. Kiano and Petar sleep right through everything, but I have mama ears. I hear your tears. I see your pain. What is the matter, dolly? Do you want to talk about it with Mama Bu?”

  I looked at the woman I had grown so fond of, wondering how she could know all the pain I had kept inside since arriving in Kenya. With all of her wisdom and warmth, she was very special, and I suddenly couldn’t keep the story inside any longer.

  Like lava erupting from a volcano, my words poured out. Without conscious thought of what I was even saying, the story of Eric and the loss of our daughter came bursting out.

  I had tried to bury my feelings by escaping to a new life, but even that couldn’t silence me. Just as I had done immediately after we lost Ella, I had an innate need to talk about her and all that Eric and I had been through.

  Through it all, Mama Bu sat patiently, absorbing every word that I said while she listened. She nodded her head in sympathy throughout my story and I could tell by her warm eyes that her own heart was clenched with pain as she learned what had really happened to me.

  As I continued the story, Mama Bu moved closer. When I described Ella to her, she squeezed my knee and handed me the tea cloth she had resting on her shoulder. I wiped away my tears, and passed it back when she shed her own.

  “Eric and I tried to make it work, but somehow we never found our way. I still love him with all of my heart, but I feel as though he left me when Ella died. No matter how hard I tried, and no matter what I did, I just couldn’t seem to bring him back to me. He’s gone. Like Ella.” I sobbed into Mama Bu’s arms, which she opened fully to me.

  “Rafiki, losing a child affects mamas and babas in different ways. It happens far too often here as well, and I have seen many marriages fall apart after a couple goes through something so devastating. We all know that men and women are completely different. It is only natural that you and Eric responded in your own way.”

  I sniffled, then blew my nose into the tea cloth.

  “In marriage, rafiki, two become one by turning to each other. In grief though, particularly with the loss of a child, the mama and baba often turn away from each other, and become even more alone. It should never, ever happen, but sometimes, like all things in life, it does.”

  “But why didn’t Eric want to protect me and take care of me the way he should? The way he always has? Why did it feel like he didn’t love me?”

  “I do not know, child. Maybe the grief was too much for him to be able to cope with. Maybe it took everything in him to just exist. You both went through the absolute hardest kind of sadness — the kind that reaches down to the bottom of your soul. But it hit you in different ways. And you reacted in different ways.”

  “He pretended like Ella just didn’t exist. He erased her from his mind. Do you know he went back to work? Two days after she died?”

  “I suspect Eric was trying to flee his pain. Men . . . they go through grief like they are in a cocoon . . . they wrap themselves in it as they try to deal with the suffering. They want no part of the world that is making them feel so sad. Unfortunately, this all happens at the exact same time the mama desperately needs her husband for her support. I am so very sorry to hear what happened to you and Eric, but unfortunately it is not surprising.”

  As I listened to Mama Bu’s explanation, it dawned on me that I had done the same thing as Eric. Ultimately, when things got really bad and our marriage fell apart, I ran. I fled my pain, and the only world I knew. I needed to get away from everything, but instead of burying myself in work, like Eric did, I went to Africa.

  I sniffled into the tea cloth, now drenched in our shared tears. After such a long time facing internal grief, feelings of relief pulsed through my heart as I listened to Mama Bu. She was kind and thoughtful — and so in tune with what Eric and I had been through.

  “You know these men, Nicky, they talk only for practical reasons. Even in everyday life, they only want to talk about something so they can come to a solution, and then just move on. But us women? We want to talk about all that happened to us . . . and usually over and over until we have over-evaluated and over-analyzed every last detail.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, laughing. “Eric used to always accuse me of ‘analysis paralysis.’ He said I could talk about any detail until I forgot what I was talking about. But Eric? He never wanted to talk about anything. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even want to tell me about how his day at work was.”

  “Hmmph. Kiano too! And he always approaches any situation with his head. Our men, they think on facts and seem to talk only to find a solution.” Mama Bu’s voice turned gentle. “But with the loss of a child, there is not a solution. So they do not talk. They just try to avoid the situation.”

  I nodded, remembering, as though it had just happened yesterday.

/>   “And this reaction of theirs does not mix with the fact that women . . . well, we just want to talk about everything that has happened. Finding a solution is not why we talk . . . we just want to know that someone is listening. And usually we want that person to be our husband. We approach loss — especially big loss — with our hearts. We need to discuss. We need to ponder. Babas . . . they need to move on.”

  “Like Eric did.”

  “Yes, like Eric did.”

  “I guess I understand what you are saying. But why couldn’t he heal? Why couldn’t he take the time to be in his damn cocoon and then come back to me?”

  “Everyone’s time is different, Nicky. Maybe he still will.”

  “No. It’s really over. We’re over. We’re separated now, Eric and I. There’s no turning back. Too much has changed. We’ve gone through too much.”

  “Maybe you are right. Maybe.”

  “So how do I get through this? How do I stop hurting?” I asked Mama Bu, craving more words from her. Each one seemed to be lifting the teeniest, tiniest piece of the world off my shoulders.

  “I do not know that you ever will. But I can promise you that it will get easier,” Mama Bu replied, lifting my chin. “But you need to know that for you, rafiki, your way of dealing with Ella’s death was the right way. For you. Whatever you did, and whatever you need to do now, well, that is okay too. You have got to cope your way. Dealing with something this big takes you one step from survival and you have got to do what you can to not shut down. And my belief is that ignoring something big like this that happened — by shutting the door in its face — well, it just ends up darkening each day you have got to live. But by talking about it, and living through it, will help you to step out of death’s nasty shadow.”

  “I know. I agree. And I’m trying! Really, I am. But I just miss Ella so much — and I only knew her for less than a day,” I cried.

  “No, child, you knew her for a lifetime. And you knew her well for the nine months that you carried her. The nine months that God gives to us is a gift to a mama and her child. God brought you together in the most intimate form. You felt her kicks, her movements, her presence. You felt her. And you loved her. You will always love Ella.” Mama Bu squeezed her cheeks with the palms of her hands. “Bless your soul, child, you will never lose her, no matter how much you talk or do not talk about her. We do not lose the people we love, even to death. The presence you felt for nine months — and the glorious day she was here on earth — well, those moments will continue to participate in every action you take and every thought you make for the rest of your life. Ella has left a mark on your soul and there is no one and nothing that can take that from you.”

  I smiled through tears at my host mother, thankful to be sitting with her in that moment. She seemed to have a gift for making me feel better. A way of encouraging me to think beyond only my view. Her words gave me perspective, particularly coming from someone who hadn’t gone through it directly with me, but who had experienced more than her fair share of tough times and grief. “Thanks, Mama Bu. You’ve made me feel so much better.”

  “Nothing really that I did, Nicky. I swear to you, you do not feel better because of me. You feel better because of the chai.” Mama Bu winked at me. “As the expression goes around here, ‘There is nothing that a big, steaming cup of chai can’t make better.’ At least, a little bit better.”

  “Well, then, no wonder I feel like my heart is starting to heal, even if just a little bit. I’ve had more tea in my time here than all the tea I’ve had in my life!”

  “Well, maybe that is the solution with Jebet too? I will just go and talk to her honestly, over some good chai that I will bring by. She is probably hurting, just as much as you. The girl has got to let it out! I never wanted to press her, because she seemed so resistant to talking about the post-election attacks. But it is now way past her wanting to talk. She has got to get better, and if she does not, those children need someone who will take better care of them.”

  “Are you and Jebet close?”

  “We used to be. I spent so much time there that we had developed a chummy friendship. But like I said, she is different now. She is different without her mama and sister, Rita. Not many people know about what happened, because Jebet blocked everyone out when she got back. And she lied about what happened. As far as most people know around here, her mama and sister stayed with her aunt to take care of her. Jebet did not want to talk about it or receive any sympathy or have to deal with it at all. She just wanted to ignore it and make it go away.”

  “Kind of like Eric did. . . .” I murmured, thinking of all Mama Bu and I had just talked about.

  “She certainly blocks people out. And her feelings too. It is probably one of the reasons she has never married. My guess is that she lies to protect her heart from everything. She does not want anyone to know just how little she has — no father, no husband, no children — and then the only family she had left was taken as well.” Mama Bu shook her head, sorrow filling her warm, brown eyes.

  “Why is it that you know her story?” I asked, not surprised, but intrigued to know why Mama Bu knew the truth when no one else did.

  “I picked up on some things when we spent time on the orphanage porch swing, having our chai. A few things were not adding up and I asked her about it. Jebet collapsed into tears and there was no way out after that. She swore me to secrecy, and so far I have not told anyone. Not even Kiano. But that was before I knew she was really hurting the kids at Kidaai. If Jebet cannot cope with her loss, she must get out of that orphanage. And we will figure that plan out together.”

  I nodded my head. I was distraught by what had happened to Jebet and her family, but couldn’t allow her personal pain to put the children in jeopardy.

  “But rafiki, I trust that you will not tell anyone about what happened to Jebet in Eldoret. No matter what she has done, she deserves for her story to be kept in confidence.”

  I promised, knowing that I could never send any more hurt Jebet’s way by letting her secret escape. She had been through too much already and deserved the respect of deciding who should or should not know of the enormous tragedy that had taken place on that deadly day in Eldoret.

  Later that afternoon, after we finished cleaning the kitchen, it was time to do the laundry. I hadn’t done it since arriving in Kenya.

  “My guess is that you are wearing some pretty dirty clothes, rafiki?” I blushed, given that my clothes were, admittedly, all filthy. I had tried to keep them as clean as I could, but I didn’t want to waste water and I wasn’t sure how I should be washing my clothes. Mama Bu hadn’t been there and I doubted that Kiano and Petar had ever done a load of laundry in their lives.

  “Here, I will show you how we do it,” Mama Bu said, grabbing laundry from her bedroom. Then she grabbed Petar’s. “Go on, now. Get what you want to wash.”

  I hurried to my room, filled my arms with dirty clothes and returned to the living room.

  “We have got to fill the two buckets out back. It is okay to use the water for this. We wash our clothes every week too, you know. We just do not have those fancy machines you have back home. It is all in our arm muscle. With a little bit of soap.”

  I carried my clothes to the backyard. It had turned into a hot and steamy day and my face was glowing with sweat before I even started my washing workout.

  Mama Bu showed me how to fill both tubs with cold water, placing soap in one and leaving the other for rinsing. Since there was no hot water that could be used, Mama Bu explained that we would need to be even more “spirited with scrubbing” to ensure the germs and stains came out.

  We dumped as many clothes as would fit into the soap bucket, and rubbed them vigorously against each other to get the dirt out.

  I scrubbed and scrubbed. Scrubbed harder. And harder. Then . . .

  “Not like that, silly. You’ve got to put soap on the clothe
s and rub the corners of the shirt together, over the stain,” Eric teased. He took my shirt from me to demonstrate.

  We had just moved into our first apartment together, which was “simply charming,” as Eric’s mother had said. So charming, in fact, that it didn’t have a washer — or a dryer.

  We had planned on doing our laundry that Sunday afternoon, but had gotten distracted christening the bedroom . . . and then the living room . . . and, finally, the shower.

  We arrived at the Laundromat half an hour after it closed. With nowhere to do our laundry, and in need of clothes for work the next morning, Eric and I were using our bathtub.

  “There, Nic. That coffee stain you spilled on your shirt this morning? Completely gone.” He handed me my shirt and gave me a delicate kiss on the tip of my nose. . . .

  “Nicky? I think that one is clean,” Mama Bu said, pointing to the shirt I had overwashed.

  “What? Oh, thanks. I guess I got lost in thought for a minute. . . .”

  We finished the laundry, and I stood to full height, stretching my back. I was soaked, both from the bucket splashes and the sweat that has resulted from how hard I had scrubbed. I stretched further, then fell back to the ground, exhausted, lying on the dirt.

  “Tough work, rafiki?” Mama Bu asked, teasing me about avoiding hard laundry work for my whole life. She splashed droplets of water from her hands onto my face. Despite being dirty, the cool water was refreshing and I resisted the temptation to jump into the bucket. I sat up.

  “It is definitely that. I never knew my washing machine had to work so hard!” I retorted, splashing her back.

  Before I knew it, Mama Bu and I were in an all-out water fight. We ended up in heaps on the ground, dripping wet and laughing uncontrollably.

  She winked at me, then, almost as if she knew the water fight and the gut-aching laughter that resulted were exactly what I needed.