Chai Tea Sunday

by Heather A. Clark

  20

  When Mama Bu and I got to the orphanage the next morning, Johanna told us that Jebet was still sleeping. I could see the surprise register on Mama Bu’s face and she murmured to me that Jebet had typically been an early riser, getting up at the crack of dawn to brush the kids’ teeth and prepare their breakfast with Mama Susan and Rita.

  “No, no . . . she no done that for long as I been here. She sleep to end of morning. Sometimes lunch,” Johanna said, shaking her head. “She no help me feed kids. Only by myself.”

  “Well, that is it, then. There will be no more of it. That woman has an orphanage to run,” Mama Bu retorted. I watched her disappear up the steps, a knot forming in my stomach, before I turned and made my way into the school room to start preparing for that day’s lesson.

  Five minutes before I was about to ring the bell, Jebet stormed into the classroom. “You causing trouble ’round here, girly?”

  “N-no, Jebet. I just want to make sure the children are alright. And safe.”

  “Bu know ’bout what happened last week with Gracie. I wonder how that happened?!” Jebet screamed at me. Her hair was disheveled and frizzy, and it looked like she was wearing the same muumuu that she had slept in. I could see her fat belly jiggling under the dress as she screamed.

  Mama Bu flew into the classroom directly behind the orphanage director. “Jebet, I told you, I do not know exactly what has been going on around here, but I wanted to make sure you are okay. It is just me, your friend, wanting to know that all is right with you. Now, come, we will sit on the porch and you can wake up with some of my famous chai.”

  They left, but my hands were still shaking from fear, and I needed to get out of the classroom to clear my head. I found Johanna in the kitchen, just about to serve each child their breakfast. She had lined the plates in multiple rows of five, and had just started scooping some unknown form of yellowish slop onto each plate.

  The older children came to retrieve the plates from the kitchen, and took them to the hungry bellies waiting in the common room. The children slurped up the slop in a matter of minutes, still looking hungry, and I asked Johanna about seconds.

  “No, no . . . there not enough for more than one per child. That’s it.”

  “What about you? Have you eaten? You need to make sure you get something as well.” Johanna seemed to be even skinnier than the last time I saw her, and I was suddenly concerned.

  “Me? No, I not so good these days,” Johanna said, looking a little green. “Can’t keep nothing down. Try to eat to feed my l’il one, but most times, well, I just start puking my stomach out.” Johanna patted her belly.

  “Wait . . . you’re pregnant?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise. I had had no idea, and certainly hadn’t suspected anything given how tiny Johanna was. She wasn’t even showing.

  “Yes ma’am. More than halfway through.”

  “Does Jebet know?” I asked, suddenly worried that Jebet would kick Johanna out.

  “Yes . . . she why I got work in the first place. Jebet be mean to those chil’n, but she took care of me when I got nowhere to go. I got no family to turn to, and no husband. And my friends go away. I lost my job when my bump came and I told my boss I pregnant. Jebet took me in, and now I got food and safety and water and a place to sleep.”

  “But . . . you’re not even showing. How did your previous employer know you were pregnant?”

  “I lost weight since then,” Johanna said quickly. “It was bad time. Plus now I in looser shirt and pant so harder to tell.”

  The children started coming into the kitchen, carrying their plates and placing them in the sink. They greeted me with chirpy, singsong voices and I could tell they were genuinely happy to see me. Gracie ran to me, hugging my legs and pulling at my arms.

  “Mwalimu Nicky, we got surprise for you,” a few of them cried out at the same time. “We sing you song. We practise a lot.” Ten of the children, all of them Maasai, pulled at my arms and shirt to drag me into the common room, before quickly lining up in a row.

  Together, the children started singing a song in their tribal language, Maa. They jointly danced and kept the beat of the music by fluidly bending their knees in sync before pushing their little bums out behind them and bending their waists forward over and over and over throughout the song. The children who weren’t singing with them watched from the sidelines, laughing and clapping along.

  “Oh! Oh oh oh oh oh oh! Yo quiero vivir como un Maasai! Yo quiero vivir como un Maasai! Oh! Oh oh oh oh oh oh!”

  “How wonderful! That was amazing!” I exclaimed when they were finished. I suddenly felt more a part of the Maasai culture.

  “It Maasai song for you,” John called out, clapping his hands. It was obvious how proud he was of himself and his songmates. “We happy you here. Wanted to do nice thing.”

  My heart swelled and I wrapped the little boy in my arms, waving the others to come in and join us. One by one, they piled on top of John and me, until we were all giggling uncontrollably. Every one of the children had a wide smile on his or her face, and it hit me with mixed emotions how a little love — just a very little — could give them so much.

  “I love your hair,” Esther said, gently combing through it with her fingers. I knew her hands were filthy and probably crusty with snot, but I didn’t care. I had long ago accepted my time in Africa wasn’t going to be daisy fresh.

  When I noticed Gracie shyly hanging back from the crowd I motioned her over. I hadn’t stopped thinking of her since the previous week, and I was relieved to be spending more time with her. She snuggled into my cross-legged lap, and opened her heart up to receive the love I had to give. Thankfully, she seemed to be doing well.

  “Are you okay?” I asked her quietly.

  She said nothing, but nodded and smiled. I took it as a good sign.

  “You come outside with us?” Ita asked, his inquisitive face hopeful and innocent.

  “I’d love to. Why don’t we go out there and start the day by playing in the field. I’m sure we can think of lots of fun gym games to play.” I made the quick decision to switch gears from my previous lesson plans. It was a beautiful day, and it would be good to show the children some new organized games.

  Once in the field, I could see Jebet and Mama Bu sitting on the porch; it was clear they were having a heated discussion. Jebet was animated, throwing her hands in the air, and Mama Bu kept shaking her head. Every once in a while, Mama Bu would bury her head in her hands. Their voices were raised, but both the distance and the language barrier prevented me from understanding what they were saying.

  I introduced the kids to a game called Doggy Where’s Your Bone — a favourite childhood game of mine where a blindfolded child sits in the middle of a circle and places the “bone” (in this case, a stick) behind her back until one of the other students quietly sneaks up and takes the bone without her hearing them; the successful bone stealer then takes their turn in the middle of the circle.

  As I watched Nadia try to successfully rescue the bone in an attempt to steal the coveted position of “doggy,” Mama Bu came up behind me and gently put her hand on my shoulder. “Unfortunately we have to go, Nicky,” she said sadly. “Jebet has asked that we both leave.”

  “But I just got here! And I haven’t begun to teach the children anything,” I cried, disappointed to hear the news that I, once again, would need to leave the kids. “She kicked me out for the remainder of last week, and I went crazy not being here. I’m so happy to be back! Do you think she’ll talk to me? I’d like to try to convince her to let me stay.”

  “She needs to cool off, Nicky. She is more upset and disturbed by my questions than I anticipated, and she is mad that I ‘stuck my nose in it all,’ as she so clearly just said to me. Do not worry, I know she will not want you to stay away forever. To be honest, I think she will want you to come back soon because she will not want to deal w
ith taking care of the children all day, every day.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Jebet’s not well, I am sorry to say. My guess is that if you give it a day or two, and then come back, she will say nothing when you return. The teachers’ strike is still going on, so Hasina will not be here and Jebet has no one else to mind the children all day.”

  I watched the children play their new game. My heart crumbled. I didn’t want to disappoint them — or myself — and was so delighted to be back with them. Plus, I was worried about what Jebet might do now that she was in her snit.

  Mama Bu gently pushed me forward. Begrudgingly, I tried to explain to the children that I needed to leave for the day.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said. Esther quickly translated for me.

  “No!” the children cried in unison.

  “Mwalimu Nicky . . . tafadhali ngoja,” Ita said. Teacher Nicky . . . please stay.

  “We need you!” John piped up. “Please, don’t go!”

  “Please, don’t go!” Sadika yelled at me. She stomped her feet and angrily threw the stick she had been holding into the empty field. It reminded me of the two-year-old temper tantrums I had so frequently witnessed with Eric’s nieces and nephews.

  I looked at Mama Bu, quietly asking her if there was any way we could find a way to stay. When she shook her head, her eyes filled with sadness and regret, I trusted that there was no way around leaving for the day.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.” I blinked back my tears and told the children to watch out for one another. “You take care of each other, do you hear me? And if you need anything at all, go and find Johanna. She’ll help you.”

  I looked at Mama Bu. “Can you give me five minutes?” She nodded yes.

  I quickly made my way to the back kitchen door to find Johanna.

  “Time for dishes now,” Johanna said nervously, nodding at the pile she was tackling. She seemed skittish and a bit panicked. “Don’t wanna upset Jebet or . . . I lose job.”

  “Here, I’ll help you. I’ve got a few minutes to spare, and you shouldn’t be on your feet for so long!” I grabbed a tea towel and started drying the dishes that Johanna had washed.

  “What happen with Bu and Jebet?” Johanna asked quietly.

  “I think Mama Bu is worried about Jebet, just like we all are. Something isn’t right, and we want to help her.” I pressed gently, not wanting Johanna to shut me out. “Johanna, I was really upset at what I saw happen to Gracie last week. You mentioned that day that you see Jebet use her stick on the children regularly. Can you tell me more about that?”

  “Me no say. I get kicked out. Bu take care of everythin’ now that she here. It okay.”

  “That’s true, Johanna, but for today Mama Bu and I are going to have to leave. I’ll be back tomorrow though — bright and early. Jebet isn’t happy right now and has told both Mama Bu and I that we need to go home. I think she is upset or embarrassed that we know about what happened with Gracie.” I took a deep breath and continued. “I won’t be here, Johanna, so I need to know that you’ll watch out for the children. And that you’ll protect them and keep them safe. Can you do that, Johanna?”

  “I try, but Jebet sometimes real mean. Especially when she mad. Is she really mad? I scared for what happen.” Johanna looked around her for a chair. I could tell she needed to sit down.

  “Has Jebet always been like that, Johanna?”

  “Ever since I come to work, but that only couple months ago now. But the older chil’n tell me she not been like that b’fore. She just like that now.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She hurt ’em. Lots of ’em. With her stick, or foot — sometimes lots of kicks. She punch ’em, too. Jebet get real angry sometimes.”

  I cringed. Hearing the words out loud turned them into more of a reality. I started to ask Johanna for examples, but she cut me off mid-sentence. “I say no more, Nicky. I wanna help, but I scared. You don’t need know nothing except that them chil’n scared of Jebet. Real scared. Just watch ’em and you’ll know how bad it is. I no wanna say. Don’t wanna get Jebet mad, or she might hurt the chil’n — or me.”

  “Does she hit you too?” I asked Johanna. I hadn’t even thought of that as a possibility.

  “Not real bad, but she push. And sometimes she pinch real hard. But I can take pinches, as long as I gotta place to stay and food to eat. I be okay.” Johanna’s gaze revealed both truth and sadness. She shifted her eyes downwards.

  “Do you have a cell phone?” I asked Johanna. My fear for Jebet and what she might do was escalating by the minute.

  “No, but Jebet do. She leave it in the kitchen drawer mostly so I know where it is. I can’t use it though. She might get mad.”

  “Well, as long as you have an emergency phone that you can use if you need to, that makes me feel a bit better. If anything happens at all, please call me immediately. Here is my cell phone number. I’ll leave it on all day — morning, noon and night,” I said. I wrote my cell phone number down on a piece of paper and made her promise to call if she needed any help. When Johanna finally agreed, I slipped out the back door before an angry Jebet could find me in her kitchen.

  21

  After our mandatory evacuation at the orphanage, I told Mama Bu I would see her back at the house. I wanted to use my free afternoon responding to a few friends’ emails that I had been avoiding. I had always intended to respond properly, but it seemed that every previous minute I had spent in Kenya was with either my host family or the children at the orphanage.

  I paid my fee and sat down at the only open computer left in the small room. I waited through the click-click-click of the slowly creeping internet; I was now used to its speed, but no more patient with its sluggishness.

  When Yahoo! finally flipped from that day’s headlines to my inbox, the third email nearly flattened my lungs.

  Eric.

  I hadn’t spoken to him in 127 days — not that I was counting.

  The subject line was a casual and breezy “Hi.” I paused before opening the email. A big part of me was desperate to soak up every word he wrote — the other part of me nervous, and not really sure I wanted to communicate with him at all.

  Read or delete? Read or delete?

  I promised myself that I would count to ten before making a decision. I started counting: one . . . two . . . three . . .

  Forget it, I couldn’t make it to ten.

  I clicked the email open.

  Nicky,

  I don’t know what to say, except that I miss you.

  I think of you every minute of every day.

  How are you?

  Love, Eric

  I read the email fourteen times before his words sank in. Then, following a solid minute during which I stared blankly at the screen and contemplated what to write, I began my reply.

  And then I deleted it.

  Hi Eric — I’m great! I’m in Africa and it is fantastic — I am loving my time here!

  I started again, and hit the backspace key once more.

  Eric — I miss you too. So very, very much! I’m miserable and cry myself to sleep every night without you. Even my host mother knows how upset I constantly am — she heard me crying at night, which I’m pretty embarrassed about. What happened to us?

  Again.

  Hello, Eric. Nice to hear from you. It has been a while

  Until — finally,

  Hi Eric,

  Thanks for your email — it was really nice to hear from you. I miss you too and think of you often. A lot, actually.

  Not sure if you heard or not, but I am in Africa, volunteering in the classroom at an orphanage. I needed the break. Needed to clear my head. It has been challenging, but rewarding. There are so many people (particularly the children who I am working with) who need so much, and I really struggle with it since I only
have so much to give. But the kids are adorable and full of life, energy and happiness — despite having next to nothing. A wise person once told me that they would give me far more than I could ever give them, and I already believe this to be true.

  How are you doing? I would love to know everything.

  Love,

  Nic xoxo

  I took a big breath, reread the email one final time, and hit send. I knew I wouldn’t be emailing my friends back that day, as originally planned. I was too distracted and practically chewing my nails to nubs.

  I paused to let the emotions sink in. For the first time in as long as I could remember, my spirit was breathing again. And my soul felt comfort; it was like being under an oversized quilt with a steaming mug of hot chocolate on a snowy, Saturday morning. With Eric.

  And then there were other feelings of recognition.

  Trickles of excitement.

  Hints of bliss.

  The flashback feelings took me to a previous evening many moons before, when Eric finally got the nerve to ask me if I’d like to join him for a beer after one of our lifeguarding shifts. The same butterflies resurfaced. The buzz in my brain was reborn. And it was all from a simple email, no more than a few lines long.

  I tried to push the memories from my mind. The feelings from my heart. I knew I would be headed into dangerous ground if I couldn’t clear them.

  Just as I was about force myself to sign out, my inbox notification showed a new message was waiting. Apprehensively, I checked.

  More Eric.

  Hi Nic,

  So great to hear from you! Thanks for emailing me back — I wasn’t sure if you would. I was just about to hit the gym for an early morning workout when I saw your email — and I wanted to write you back right away.

  I loved reading about how you are doing. I had heard through the grapevine that you were in Africa, but it was nice to hear the details from you. Congratulations, by the way — it sounds very exciting, and I’m happy for you. It’s great to know you are making such a difference over there — not that I’m surprised at all. You’re one of the good ones, Nic. Always have been, always will be. You have a way with people and I have no doubt you are touching everyone you meet over there with your generosity, spirit and kindness.