Chai Tea Sunday

by Heather A. Clark

  Things are okay with me. We’re pretty busy at work. Too many cases if you ask me, and we’re all going crazy. I’m working longer hours than ever before, but I guess that’s a good thing. . . . It is pretty tough to go home to an empty apartment at the end of the day. I’m considering getting a dog. Just a small one. Maybe a wiener dog, or a wrinkly pug. I’ve always wanted one, as you know. I think I’d call him Griffin, after Family Guy. I’d need to get a dog walker, but they are all the rage in the city so it would be pretty easy, I’m sure. We’ll see.

  Love,

  Eric

  P.S. How is your family?

  I couldn’t hit reply fast enough. I craved his words and needed to hear more.

  Eric —

  A puppy?! Wow. That would be a big change for you. I know how much you’ve always wanted a dog though, so I’m not surprised to hear you are considering getting one. My vote is for a wiener dog — they are so adorable! A former colleague of mine had one and she said they are the most lovable, cuddly dogs. Apparently they are burrowers . . . so they sleep under your covers at your feet. (That is, if you decide to let him or her sleep in your bed — although I think I already know the answer to that one!)

  Thank you for your kind words — they were really encouraging and nice to hear. I’m going through a rough patch here right now, and I’m not quite sure what to do. To be honest, it felt a bit serendipitous to get your email today . . . all I’ve been thinking of lately is how much I wanted to be working through this problem with you, to talk to you about it and get your advice. If you’re willing, I’d still love to hear your perspective. It has always made me feel so much better. No one seems to have clearer judgement than you when it comes to these things.

  Love,

  Nic

  P.S. My family is great. Things are the same as always for my parents, and my sister is now in Vietnam . . . always the world traveller! How is your family?

  A couple of minutes later, his response came,

  Nic — I would love to help you in any way I can. More than happy to listen to what’s going on and to help you figure out what to do. I’m at work, but able to chat. Can you log in to MSN Messenger?

  After our agreement of no communication, I had deleted Eric’s name from my MSN list — and thought it would never reappear. But with his invite, I sent the cursor flying to the “Add a Contact” key and started typing his email address from memory.

  Then, like a jolt from nowhere, I couldn’t get up from the computer fast enough. The chair I was sitting on flipped behind me as I stood up abruptly.

  My heart had sung when I got the first email from Eric, and I had temporarily gotten caught up in it. I even asked him for his advice! But chatting with him so casually now sent fear through my veins.

  I had flown thousands of miles around the globe to a world that couldn’t be more opposite from the one Eric and I lived in — and I had, in an instant, reverted right back into the simple and comfortable conversation of our past. We couldn’t go down that road again. I wouldn’t let it happen.

  I flew out the internet café door, barely escaping a smackdown with a speeding matatu. The driver screamed at me, hanging out the window. “Chunga! Chunga!” he screeched. Watch out! Watch out! The driver’s arm hung out the window, giving me the finger as he blew by me, leaving a trace of dusty red dirt on my sneakers.

  “Where have you been for so long, rafiki?” Mama Bu asked when I returned to the house. She had just finished scrubbing the floors, which were still a bit wet, and had moved on to dusting the tables. I grabbed a second cloth from the kitchen and began to help her.

  “I was emailing a bit and then I took a walk through the market. I thought it might clear my head and make me feel better. No dice, unfortunately.”

  “No dice?”

  “Sorry, I forget about expressions. We use it back home to mean there is no chance or possibility of it happening. My head is still a muddy mess of thoughts!”

  “Poor thing, I wish you found your dice. What is on your mind?”

  “This whole thing with Jebet is really getting to me. I’m desperate to help the kids and so scared for them. What if one of them gets really hurt? A big part of me thinks I should just go back to the orphanage, even though Jebet kicked me out.”

  “I know it is different here, Nicky. And I do not like what is going on there any more than you do. But you have to know what you can change here and what you cannot. It is different here than in your Western world. What Jebet did to Gracie is not right, but it happens here all the time. I am not saying we should not keep watch over the children at Kidaai, but fixing all of the problems we have got here in Kenya . . . well, it would be easier to boil the ocean.”

  “So what do you think we should do?”

  “We wait, rafiki. We wait.”

  Mama Bu turned from me then, quietly humming a song I recognized from church. She stopped suddenly. “You have got to trust in God. He knows what is best. He will take care of you, no matter what. He knows. He always knows, and He will guide you to the right spot.”

  “I heard from Eric,” I said gently, anxious to speak to someone about what had happened. I wanted to know Mama Bu’s thoughts on it all. “He emailed me and we bounced a few messages back and forth. Pretty casual . . . nothing complicated.”

  “And how are you feeling about that, dolly?”

  “I don’t know, to be honest. At first I was excited and so happy to hear from him. I really miss him, you know? It felt like old times . . . before . . . well, just before. But I’m not sure it’s a good idea to go there.”

  “Remember what I told you before, Nicky. There is not a right or a wrong answer. You will know what to do. And whatever you do will be the right decision. Want to know how you will know that it was the right decision? Because you made it.”

  Mama Bu started humming again, but my thoughts ran rampant against her tune, flipping between the kids at the orphanage and Eric. We continued working, side by side, dusting furniture, washing walls, fluffing couches.

  That night, I lay in bed, frantic for sleep and hopeful I wouldn’t cry out once I found it. The hard bed seemed to be even more uncomfortable than other nights and my right side was numb from lying on the hard surface.

  I tried to ignore my thoughts of Eric, struggling to stop my mind from reeling through our earlier email conversations — yet every word played out in my mind, over and over and over.

  I wanted to ignore Eric. Yet I couldn’t. I wished I wasn’t so happy that he had reached out. I had no choice but to force myself to ignore him and, hopefully, start to stifle my feelings for him. I would block him from my email. Permanently remove his name from anything that would allow him to communicate with me. We were over. Finished. And I needed to move on, or I would never find happiness again. It really was as simple as that.

  I waited for sleep to take over. Wanted it to find me. When it didn’t, I listened to the sounds of Africa that I finally found calming.

  Muted bongo drums beat in the distance.

  A dog barked twice, then fell silent.

  Wind whispered its way through the leaves of the mango trees.

  And, then — finally — the almost silent splatter of raindrops against roof.

  22

  The next morning, Johanna tapped lightly at the front door. She came with a message from Jebet, who requested that I return to the orphanage to continue teaching the children.

  Nothing was said about the day before, only that she needed someone to mind the children during the day and she wanted me to do it. I refrained from commenting on the description of “minding” the children; although it required forcibly biting my tongue, I didn’t want to say anything that might lead to Jebet reneging.

  I quickly dressed and walked with Johanna to the orphanage. She was tired, her steps sluggish and slow. She tried to keep up with me and I felt sorry for her. I slowed to match her pace,
but didn’t voice my concerns about how much she lagged.

  “Why did you walk all this way, Johanna? I gave you my cell phone number, why didn’t you just call me?”

  “Jebet, she tell me to come get you. She not know I have your number, and if I called you, she might take my phone away. Or ask me why you gave me your number. So I just come get you.”

  “Why did she change her mind?”

  “I dunno. But Hasina come by yesterday afternoon and I overhear her talking to Jebet. The teacher strike almost over, but Hasina tell Jebet she no want to go back to orphanage. She found new job, paying more money.”

  And just like that, Jebet’s quick change in attitude was clear. She had no one to teach the kids — or mind them as she referred to it — and needed me back at the orphanage to get them out of her hair. I started to ask Johanna more about it, but I could tell she was having a tough time talking as we walked; her voice was raspy and her lungs puffed as she tried to keep up.

  Instead, I slowed even more, and let silence take over. I turned my attention to the newfound surroundings around us. The rain that had showered the land throughout the night had covered the outside world with a sheen that resembled slick varnish. Gone were the dust clouds that I had grown so used to; the allergies I had been battling disappeared as though I had taken a heavy dose of antihistamine. The red dirt had deepened in hue, turning to a rich russet, and the air surrounding us held a crisper clarity that felt good to breathe.

  We kept walking, my thoughts suddenly on the rainmaker, Wambua. I wondered how he would be celebrating.

  Once in the classroom, I was relieved to see the learning stations still set up in the places I had left them. I had been worried that Jebet would take her anger out on the classroom and had been certain I would be returning to upside-down desks.

  I retrieved the bell from the teacher desk. I rang it loudly and the children came running. They each hugged me on their way in, taking their seats and facing the front of the room in a style that reminded me of troops taking their posts.

  We spent a quiet morning working through math puzzles and English lessons. Bursts of pride pumped through my veins as, one by one, different children absorbed bite-sized pieces of knowledge. I could see their confidence growing with each new thing they learned and I relished the fact that the only face showing more delight than mine was that of the student who had accomplished the task.

  Once the children were buried in their activities, I panned the room for any sign of abuse: scrapes, bruises, scars. A child acting isolated and inward. Hurt of any kind.

  Thankfully, nothing stuck out.

  A few days later, I called my parents. It had been almost a week since I had spoken to them and I needed to hear their voices — just as I knew they needed to hear mine. It was tough for them, having both Maggie and me gone, and I had promised I would call home as much as I could.

  “Mom? It’s me! Can you hear me?” I asked, excited to hear her pick up the phone. It was just before eight o’clock in the morning and I had purposely called then as I knew they would likely be at home, drinking their coffee and reading the newspaper.

  “Oh, yes, sweetie! I can hear you perfectly. It’s so clear it’s almost like you are in the same city.”

  “Nicky? How are you?” my dad asked, once again on the other extension.

  “I’m fine. And so glad to be talking to you! I have so much to fill you in on. So much has happened since I last emailed you.”

  “So fill us in, Nic. How is being a teacher in Africa?” my mother asked. I had sent my close friends and family a detailed email letting them know about the teachers’ strike and that I would be taking over the classroom, but they weren’t aware of everything else that had gone on. I had thought about emailing just my parents about it but, even then, it somehow didn’t feel right to simply email them the tale of the hardships I had learned about and faced.

  I was careful to speak of Jebet’s story only in vague details. A promise was a promise, after all, and I had given my word to Mama Bu. I told my parents that, despite Jebet’s abuse and neglect towards the children, the situation was complicated given Jebet’s own recent tragedies, which had changed her, making her jaded and hateful of the world.

  “Still, she sounds dangerous. I don’t know about this, Nicky,” my mom answered. “I think you’re right to trust your gut and find a way to get her out of there.”

  “Mama Bu and I are working on it, Mom. It’s just going to take some time. Things don’t work here the same way they do back home.”

  “Speaking of home, Nic, there’s something I need to tell you. Eric called. Two nights ago. And he didn’t sound like he was doing very well. We hadn’t talked to him since you guys sold the house and he seemed almost apologetic for calling, but he said that he really needed to speak with us. That he needs to talk.”

  I paused, listening to a faint crackle in the phone line starting to set in.

  “Nicky? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “What do you think about that? I told him I needed to speak to you first and make sure it was okay. If you prefer that we don’t see him, we won’t. You are our daughter, and you come first. Whatever you feel, or want us to do, is okay and we’ll respect that.”

  “Well, I’m not sure. . . . I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

  “I know. And I almost didn’t, Nic. And I wouldn’t have, except that I’ve never seen that side of Eric before. He’s really broken, Nicky. He ended up begging me for our help, something about trying everything else and not knowing where else to turn.”

  “Er . . . well . . . it’s okay, I guess. You can get together with him. I know you were a big part of each other’s lives, for a long time . . . and this has been hard on everyone.” I gulped, listening to the words coming out of my mouth, but not sure I wanted to be saying them. I was torn — a big part of me wanted to tell my parents to hang up on Eric for good and remove him from their lives, just as I had chosen to do. But another part of me silently wept to hear of Eric’s sadness and difficulty moving forward — and if my parents could help him heal, then I felt they should. (Plus, even though I was trying not to admit it to myself, a big part of me wanted to know exactly how Eric was doing, what he was thinking and feeling, and I hoped my parents would share at least some of it with me.)

  “Okay, honey, as long as you’re sure?” my dad asked.

  “No. Really. It’s okay. I would tell you. I’m okay if you see Eric. Truly. But I should probably go now. This call is costing a lot and I don’t make much of a salary these days!”

  “Okay, honey. We love you! Stay safe, and email us soon. We wait every day for another update.”

  “Will do. I love you guys too. Bye.”

  I blinked back tears, thinking of my parents — and Eric — thousands of miles away.

  23

  As the days crept forward, the children and I settled into a consistent schedule. We had lessons and activities for the majority of the day, and then spent the second half of our afternoons outside in the field, playing games that reinforced the lessons we had reviewed that morning.

  Jebet always kept her distance, although I knew she lurked about. I would see her watching from her bedroom window, thinking the sheer curtain was hiding her stare. Frequently, I could overhear her barking at Johanna; Jebet’s words were always clipped and forceful — and easy to hear from far away.

  As my number of days in Africa increased, so did my bond with the children at Kidaai; the strength of my connection and innate need to protect them, teach them, guide them and love them surprised me. My attachment to the kids was so strong it was subtly lined in fear. I wondered what would happen when I needed to go home, knowing that it was only a matter of time until I would no longer be able to spend my days with them.

  At the end of each week, I was disappointed to greet the long and empty weekend that
lay ahead of me. Although Sundays were reserved for church and family time, I began going to the orphanage on Saturdays to hang out with the kids in the common room or play with them outside. I never imposed lessons on Saturdays; we simply spent the time playing together and having fun. I wanted them to be kids. I knew they hadn’t had a lot of that — not with all of the chores Jebet made them do.

  Each day when I had to leave the children to make it home to Mama Bu and Kiano’s before dark, my heart would break a little more. I would miss them, yes, but more than that, it was the fear that something would happen when I was gone.

  There hadn’t seemed to be any more beatings, but — even when she was keeping her stick to herself — I didn’t like the way Jebet treated the children. A ten-year-old chopping firewood for hours, constantly falling behind and desperate to replenish the dwindling stacks that were needed to make a fire for the jiko. An eight-year-old forced to get water, which I knew from firsthand experience was even heavier than his own body. A four-year-old forced to clean her sheets if she accidentally wet the bed, lowering her head in embarrassment and shame as she suffered the ridicule that came from her two bedmates.

  I craved being with the children in the way I suspected a crack addict needs drugs. I couldn’t get enough of them and never tired of teaching them — which was a new phenomenon for me given that in my earlier teaching experiences so many of my previous students had nearly driven me to drink at the end of the day.

  I changed all of my previous plans I had to tour Africa; while thinking I would treat myself to a safari to see lions up close, I couldn’t seem to tear myself away from the children for long enough to go — and knew there was no way I could spend money on a safari when I could use it to help the kids.