Chai Tea Sunday (11 page)

“And what about you Mama Bu? I know you often help out at Kidaai. Are you there every day?”

“No, not every day. Usually just when Jebet needs me to help out with the cooking or the cleaning. But she recently hired some house help, so I have not been going very much.”

“Ah, it's time for the news to come on,” Kiano interrupted, snapping on the television. “We watch the news as a family together every night.”

Kiano flipped the station. The news anchor was just starting the headline story about a thirty-year-old man who had been accused of trying to steal a tire. The cameras panned to crowds narrowing in on the man; he was beaten, stripped and mocked by a jeering group of people. The man was left to waddle around the city streets of Nairobi, naked and trying to escape the laughing onlookers.

“Just like we were talking about at Barika's house,” Mama Bu whispered in my ear. “Public humiliation is common. It is considered to be appropriate.”

“The idiot! Serves him right for stealing.” Kiano pumped a fist in the air and mocked the man for his crime. “People ought to know not to steal.”

I bit my lip, wanting to ask Kiano how he knew the man had actually stolen the tire when it hadn't been proven. I hoped the next story was better.

No such luck. With Mama Bu translating quietly in my ear so that I could understand, the news anchor described a horrific encounter between a wife's husband and her lover. As the camera crew panned the scene of the bloody aftermath, the anchor reported on the husband who, after finding his wife in bed with another man, locked the two lovers in his house and left to grab a few friends. Returning to his house, the man brought his brooding friends and a crowd that egged them on. The husband pulled his wife's lover out of the house, and caned him until his face was unrecognizable with blood. I had to turn away from the
TV
.

“
Naam! Naam!
” Kiano cried, jumping up and cheering for the man beating the other.

I choked back words and realized that I couldn't watch the stories any longer. One of two things was going to inevitably occur — either awkward tears on my end, or a heated, argumentative discussion with Kiano, who was not only undisturbed by the stories but excited about them.

I thanked my host family for dinner and announced that jet lag was taking over.

“Good night,
rafiki
,” Kiano said. Mama Bu rose out of her seat to give me a hug. “Tomorrow, we will walk to church as a family.”

“Sure, sounds good,” I replied. The concrete was cold, even on my sock feet, as I left the sitting room to get ready for bed.

As I changed into my pyjamas, I couldn't help but note the irony of a Christian who mandated family worship on the morning after a hardhearted reaction to another man's beating.

Outside my room, Kiano continued to cheer on the men he watched on
TV
.

“Are you ready,
rafiki
?” Mama Bu asked. We had just finished our Sunday breakfast: one egg, one piece of toast.

“Yes, definitely. Do you think what I'm wearing is okay?” I asked, slightly uneasy that I would wear something that would stick out. This was comical, of course, given I knew my skin colour would stand out more. I turned to show Mama Bu my simple black skirt, short-sleeved red shirt with capped sleeves, and black ballerina flats.

“Oh yes, dolly, you look nice. Really nice. But it does not matter what you wear to church. God will love you no matter what,” Mama Bu answered, tugging on her own skirt. It was thick and yellow, hanging down to her ankles, with a matching untucked long-sleeve top that buttoned down her front. She had on the same thick beige sandals I had noticed on our walk to the slum the day before. “Now, let's get Kiano and Petar and be on our way.”

Our walk started on the dirt road that Mama Bu and I had taken the day before, but that was quickly abandoned for a dusty trail through a field that I would have missed had I been travelling on my own. We walked two by two, given the narrow width of the path, with Petar and Kiano leading the way. Mama Bu and I fell into a comfortable walk beside each other.

The parched grass under our feet was turning brown; the trampled blades morphing into the dried up dirt patches they were anchored to. The stench of garbage smoke lingered, making itself comfortable in our noses, and thick clouds of dust formed as we walked.

“Here in Kenya, we are very spiritual,” Mama Bu said simply, breaking the silence as she began telling me about African religion. “Life is tough in Africa. Very hard. And often it is too short. Sometimes the only real thing that makes sense to us is believing in something bigger. To know there is something else, with more meaning that explains what we go through.”

I nodded, clearing my throat as the dust around me tickled it.

“Do you think that too, Nicky?”

I shrugged. “I'm not sure what I believe.”

“Do you believe in God?”

I shrugged again. It was a forward question, one that normally would have made me feel uncomfortable. But for some reason, it seemed to make sense coming from Mama Bu. “I thought so, at one point. Now I'm not sure. I don't know what I believe.”

“I see.” Mama Bu didn't push. Instead, she shielded her eyes from the sun, and continued, “Well, our beliefs are based on the spirit world . . . how we connect with them. In times of great danger, we appeal to God directly. But in other times, we call on lesser divinities.”

“Lesser divinities?”

“Yes, like the spirits of natural objects. We hold them in awe. Things like the spirits of the sun, or moon, or sky. We believe they have all been created by God as intermediaries.”

I nodded.

“We believe the spirits hold a hidden mystical power that they received from our supreme God. We all participate in daily prayer, and often pray to these spirits for things like healing or rainmaking. But when troubles are really big, we pray to God directly.”

I nodded again, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu as the memory of a third-year global religion class set in. It was a night class many students took as an easy-credit course, three hours long, and in the coldest lecture hall on campus. On some nights, Eric would meet me at the double doors when class was over, and I'd imitate my professor as he walked me home. “It is the
deities
and
dimensions
of African religion that make it
so
interesting
. . . .” I'd sing, mocking my professor and pretending to comb over the bit of hair that perpetually fell in his eyes. “The people of Africa
thrive
on it. Religion is
life
, and life is
religion
. . . .”

Mama Bu paused, lifting her foot. She extended one arm out to maintain balance, and stuck the pudgy fingers of her other hand into her shoe. Her lip curled, and she held up a rock to show me she got it. “We are Christian folk in Africa, and many people around here are Maasai. You will see some of them today in church.”

“I remember learning a bit about the Maasai in school, but I don't really know very much,” I admitted. My calf was starting to cramp from walking so far in ballerina flats. It had been over forty-five minutes.

“I can teach you, if you are interested. Let us start with today's church service.” Mama Bu pointed in front of her, and I could see a wooden church in the distance. It had been painted white, and was sitting on top of a hill of brown grass. Churchgoers milled about, shaking hands and burying themselves in friendly conversations as they waited for the service to begin while children of all ages ran about the yard.

“Come on,
rafiki
,” Kiano called out from in front of me. He waved Mama Bu and me forward. “Bu, I want to introduce Nicky to our priest.”

Kiano tapped a slender man on the shoulder. The man turned and immediately greeted my host father with a handshake and a grin. “
Marahaba
!” the man said. Hello, good day!

“Wambua, this is Nicole. She will be staying with us for three months while she volunteers at Kidaai.”

Wambua turned to greet me and gave me a gummy, toothless grin. He took both hands in mine and gave them a little squeeze. “
Karibu
, Nicole. Welcome to our village, to our church and to this morning's service. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you, Wambua. And it is so nice to speak with you. I'm glad to hear you speak English.”

Wambua chuckled and shook his head. “Well, of course! Didn't Kiano and Mama Bu tell you that this is the English service? We have two — one in Swahili and the other in English.”

“Oh, I didn't know,” I said. My cheeks flushed lightly.

“We usually go to the Swahili service, but wanted you to understand what was going on,” Mama Bu said warmly.

“Wambua is our priest, and also our rainmaker,” Kiano jumped in, interrupting Mama Bu. “He is an important man to us for many reasons, and the person who will stop our drought.”

“A rainmaker?” I asked.

“We must pray for the rains to come and save us. I'm sure you have noticed how dry it is here, yes, Nicky? The drought is starting to be so severe that we are facing hunger and starvation due to crop failure,” Wambua explained. “Today's service will focus on bringing the rains, and we will pray to the Lord for Him to take care of us until they arrive.”

This guy would have fascinated Eric. Not typically one to veer in any direction other than the straight and narrow path he lived his life on, Eric had become wrapped up in the natural side of our fertility treatments. I'd spend hours telling him about
everything
Bib said and did during my reiki treatments, or exactly what I remembered from my hypnotherapy sessions.

“Come, Kiano, and bring your family and new friend. I'd love for you all to have a special seat at the front of the church.” Wambua pointed to the church stairs, and signalled for us to follow him.

Wambua ushered us deep into the sanctuary and instructed us to take our seats. Instead of pews, the church rows were made of white lawn chairs that reminded me of the patio furniture my university roommates and I had purchased at a garage sale in the summer before our final year.

“
I love you, Nic.
. . .” Eric had whispered to me one night, leaning sideways in the rickety white lawn chair. It was about 2
A.M
. on a warm September night, and we had just smoked an after-bar joint. My roommates were sleeping upstairs, passed out after a night of hard drinking at the university pub, when Eric pulled the chair I was sitting on towards him. Two of my chair legs lifted and we lost balance, landing in a heap on the floor and laughing uncontrollably in the dark. We stayed there, Eric and I, gazing at the sea of stars overhead before making love. We didn't move until we were hit by the early morning dew. . . .

I looked around me and took in the simplicity of the sanctuary. The concrete walls were cold and corroded with grey paint peeling and chipped. The altar at the front of the church was raised about eight inches, as if to create a small stage, and a lightly coloured wooden pulpit was placed in the centre, a microphone resting on its ledge.

Within minutes, the white, wobbly chairs were completely filled with the congregation who had been waiting outside when we had arrived. I looked around, smiling hello when my eyes met others, and admiring the layers of coloured clothing the Kenyans had dressed up in. Babies were cradled in mothers' arms and small toddlers held older children's hands as we waited for the service to begin.

I felt a tug on my arm and was brought to my feet by Mama Bu. The peekaboo speakers I had noticed behind layers of blue and gold curtains started crackling, which was quickly replaced by the beats of Sunday sound. Even before the first note, the congregation was on their feet. Clapping, singing, dancing. Some stayed near their seats, while others formed lines and locomotioned their way through the sanctuary, tapping and clapping to the sweet beat of gospel.

“Ujesu ungowethu . . . siya vuma . . . ungo wethu ngempela.”
Kenyan voices surrounding me sang loud and proud.

“I thought this service was in English?” I asked Mama Bu above the music.

“It will be. The speaking and message will all be in English for you, but most songs are in Swahili.”

“Siya vuma — sithi amen, amen, siya vuma. . . .”

Feeling like a stiff pole amid dancing flags, I awkwardly started to move my hips and get into the beat of the music. When no one outwardly laughed at me, I gained confidence. By the end of the song, I had fully joined my new friends in their energy.

“Good morning, and welcome to our English Sunday service,” Wambua began once the singing had quieted and people had taken their seats. “I'd like to put forth a very warm and special welcome to our new friend, Nicky, who will be staying with Kiano and Abuya for the next few months. Nicky is here to help teach the children of Kidaai, and we thank God for her selfless contributions.”

Mama Bu gave my knee a squeeze and everyone around me smiled and gestured hello.

Wambua continued, “Every Sunday we focus our messages on real-life issues. We want you to be able to say that what we talked about on Sunday gave you something that could help you on Monday, whether it is in your family, at your work or in another area of your life. It's not about pretending that we're perfect. It's about God, who is willing to give His grace to grow us,” Wambua said loudly. He used his hands as he spoke, waving them in the air until sweat marks lined his underarms.

“He is very good,” Mama Bu whispered in my ear, nodding her head. “We are lucky to have him.”

“Today we will focus on what we need in the coming week — the raaaaaaains!” Wambua continued.

The congregation broke out in cheers, clapping and raising their hands, singing, “Praise the Lord! Hallelujah!”

“
Aisifuye mvua imemnyea
,” Wambua thundered. He who praises rain has been rained on.

“Praise the Lord! Hallelujah!”

“The earth is our female deity, a mother-goddess who rules
all
of us and is the mother of
all
of our creatures. She lives and gives birth to ever new generations of beings. She will make the grass grow when heaven gives Her rain.” Wambua paused. He looked up and lifted his arms towards the ceiling.

The congregation answered him. “Praise the Lord! Hallelujah!”

“Without the rain, She will withdraw into Her own depths, waiting for better times to come. Bring us rain, dear Lord, so our grass will sprout, flowers will open and frogs will croak. As soon as the new rains come, life will once again begin miraculously.”

“Praise the Lord! Hallelujah!”

“
Dalili ya mvua ni mawingu,”
Wambua cried. Clouds are the sign of the rains. Bring us the clouds, and bring us the rains!

“Praise the Lord! Hallelujah!”

“From waters of the heavens, to waters of the sea, I ask of the spirits to bring rain to thee!”

“Praise the Lord! Hallelujah!”

Wambua paused again. Inhaled deep breaths, and looked around before continuing. “We have many children here with us this morning. Many who like to sing. Please, choir, come forward and sing ‘Where Is the Rain?'”

The pastor beckoned with his hands, and brightly clothed children wearing their Sunday best joined him at the altar. They formed two lines — little ones at the front — and started singing and clapping.

Mama Bu leaned over and said, almost proudly, “The small children wanted to learn an English song, so the older children decided to teach this one to them. They taught the little ones how to sing it all on their own.”

The giraffe and the elephant went for a walk,

They stopped in some shade and started to talk;

“I wish it would rain,” said the giraffe with a sigh.

“I'm tired of watching the clouds pass us by!”

“Yes,” said the elephant, “Where is the rain?

I wish I could eat fresh green leaves again.

The sun is so hot and the land is so dry,

When will the rain fall from the sky?”

Later in the day the sky turned grey,

The flying ants flew out to say,

“The rain is coming! We smell it in the air!

And in the distance, thunder we hear!”

The giraffe and the elephant looked up at the sky,

And heard the black eagle give forth his cry,

“The rain has come, The rivers will flow,

The dry season is over; now the green grass will grow!”

The kids' choir finished with broad smiles. Some bowed as we clapped and cheered, and then the children walked back to their seats.

“This morning I want to remind you that the window shall be opened,” Wambua said, starting his morning message. “It is easy to forget, in times like this, but we must all remember that our Lord will not shut the door on us without opening a window. The rains will come — and our hearts and our fields and our crops will be open to receive it.”