Chai Tea Sunday (20 page)

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.

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.

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.

Johanna and I grew closer and I trusted the bond to keep the children safe in my absence. I knew Johanna would call me if I was needed at the orphanage.

“I glad you here, Nicky. It nice havin' you, and you make the chil'n laugh like I never heard,” she told me one afternoon after school was over. I was helping her make that night's dinner, and was planning to stay as late as I could to do the work. “You got a gift, Nicky. These chil'n love you.”

And I cared about them as much. Nothing gave me greater joy than to listen to the laughter bubble up in their throats. I felt happiness attach itself to me as I watched them play in the field, their glowing faces turned upwards and smiling as they twirled in the sunlight. Their bliss was contagious, and it filled me with hope; they were joyful and full of spirited highs — despite being barefoot, dressed in rags and still hungry from the insignificant breakfast they had eaten that morning. The children had next to nothing, yet they were filled with a richness that money couldn't buy. It was both lovely and sad to watch.

The language barrier continued to be a challenge, but we communicated mostly through love. The kids responded to attention in a way I had never seen before. All they wanted was to be held. To be given affection. Hugs. Security. Protection. And I was addicted to giving them as much as I could.

As Johanna's belly grew, proving her pregnancy to the world, she became increasingly tired and weak. She struggled to make her way through the day, taking care of the children, then tending to the daily duties of cooking, cleaning and tidying.

Somewhere in the beginning of her twenty-third week, her face went ashen. And it stayed that way as she forced herself to soldier through the motions that were required for her job security.

I tried to help as much as I could, although I was often met with her superhuman resistance. She agreed to let me help her only when Jebet was out; even then, she would let me wash only the large piles of dishes or clean up after the children. In turn, I would mandate that she put her feet up and rest. Johanna always resisted, even when Jebet was nowhere to be found, but I could see relief fill her eyes as she took her needed break.

One Tuesday morning, I arrived at the orphanage to start that day's lessons. When I got there, I found Johanna huddled over two of the children — Kevin, a seven-year-old boy who had lost both of his parents to
AIDS
by the time he was five, and Rhoda, a nine-year-old girl who had just arrived at the orphanage about a week before.

They were both lying side by side, on their backs. Rhoda was moaning in pain and clutching at her leg, while Kevin was curled up in a ball, his eyes glassy and distant. Some of the other children huddled close, their faces grim and concerned.

“What happened?” I asked, taking Rhoda's hand. I rested my other hand on Kevin's back. Neither of them spoke very much English, so I stroked their cheeks and rubbed their backs to let them know I was there, that I would take care of them.

“We not know, Nicky. Kevin woke up this mornin' in real pain, and Rhoda not been right since she got here. And then I found this . . .” Johanna lifted Rhoda's pant leg to reveal an open gash that was oozing pus.

“Jebet gone — she left this mornin',” Johanna continued, “I don't know what to do. I told Jebet that both kids seem real sick and need hospital, but Jebet say she got no money to get 'em treated. Then she left.”

“Did Jebet see Rhoda's leg?”

“Yes. She said Rhoda came to orphanage with her cut already there . . . so it not her fault. And Jebet say it look gross like that for a while, but we got nothin' to fix her up . . . so we can't do nothin' 'bout it. But the reason we don't got nothing is 'cause she sold every bit of medicine and bandage that get given to us as donations. That's why. And it make me real mad . . . 'specially now! But I not say that to her. I scared of what she do.”

Without saying another word to Johanna, I grabbed my cell phone from my backpack. “Mama Bu? I need your help. I don't have time to explain right now. Just, please, can you come quick and help us? Two of the children are really sick and Jebet is not here. Please come, Mama Bu — and be quick.” Mama Bu hadn't been back to the orphanage since she had confronted Jebet on the porch, and I knew she'd be thinking about what altercations might occur when she arrived.

Mama Bu arrived as quickly as her legs could carry her. We agreed that Johanna would stay with the kids while Mama Bu and I took Rhoda and Kevin to the hospital. Some of the younger children who were particularly close to Kevin were crying in the corner. Others seemed oblivious to what was going on and played on their own; saddened by the thought, I wondered if it was because they had seen so much pain in their lives that they were unaffected by what was going on.

Neither of the children could walk well. We helped them as best we could, but it was impossible for Mama Bu and I to carry them the entire way. We took turns trying, but short of collapsing underneath the weight of the kids, we were forced to put them down.

I hated being forced to encourage them to walk, but we had limited time to get them to the hospital. Kevin's eyes were growing increasingly glazed over, as though he wasn't present in the moment. And Rhoda had developed a fever that was so high it scared me.

We wrapped our arms around them, letting them use our bodies as crutches, and Mama Bu told them in Swahili to use us as support. To put as little weight as possible on their legs.

Rhoda was grunting and grimacing, sweat forming beads on her forehead as she struggled to put one leg in front of the other. At one point, I feared she would faint.

Kevin stayed silent, but his limp body seemed fragile. It was as though he would be willing to give up at any step.

My insides cranked with fear, I was suddenly teleported back to the hospital room at Mount Sinai. Despite the differences in situations, the feelings exploding through my veins were too familiar to what I had gone through over a year before, and my panic was close to unbearable.

I could hear Mama Bu praying out loud as we walked and joined her with my own pleas for health. I begged internally, hopeful that Mama Bu's messages would reach the God she swore would always guide us to the right spot.

When we got to the hospital, I emptied my wallet, giving the nurses everything I had so that Kevin and Rhoda could get the care they needed. We were placed in a crammed hospital room. Rhoda continued to groan in pain as she lay on the dirty bed she had been given. Kevin stayed silent.

When a nurse finally arrived, she took one look at Rhoda's wound and called in two other nurses to help her. Rhoda's infection had swelled to a state where she could no longer bend her knee, and the nurses surrounded her and began to push on her knee to get the pus out.

They took turns, two holding her to the bed, pinning both her arms and legs, while the third pushed directly on her gash to free her of the yellowish discharge that seeped from her five-inch cut. Despite her screams, they held her down. She begged them to stop, drooling from so much pain. I had to hold myself back from forcing the nurses to leave her alone.

My face blazed with anger towards Jebet. If she hadn't sold the medical supplies that had been donated by previous volunteers, if she had just
cared
for Rhoda in the first place, this wouldn't have happened. I cursed myself for not realizing Rhoda had had a cut on her leg, thinking I should have paid closer attention. I racked my brain to think of any signs of her limping or hurting in any way. I came up empty.

“Don't they have anesthetic? Or anything that would help her?” I asked Mama Bu.

Shaking her head, Mama Bu explained that hospitals don't use painkillers in Kenya. She whispered, “We do not have any type of pain medicine for the children. Nothing is used here. No painkillers of any kind.”

Rhoda's cries grew louder and more intense, and I held Kevin closer, knowing that his fear was mounting. I wanted to take him from the room, to shield him from Rhoda's agony, but was instructed to stop.

“The beds are all full, some two and three to a bed, and there is nowhere for you to go,” the pudgy nurse said as she pinned Rhoda's arms on either side of her. “Sit and stay. You and the boy are fine here. You leave, and you risk getting no treatment.”

One side rock, other side hard place. I had no solution.

Kevin faded in and out of consciousness. I held him close, desperate to free him of Rhoda's wails. I hugged him tighter, whispering in his ear and hoping he would hear my voice over Rhoda's cries.

When they finished cleaning out Rhoda's gash, they gave her a tetanus shot. She whimpered into Mama Bu's arms, who was leaning over the bed and hugging her tight.

One of the nurses left. The other two stayed and prepared Kevin's needles. After deeming that he had an infection in his ankle — but not from a wound, like Rhoda — they gave him a tetanus shot as well, followed by a second needle in his hip to bring down the infection. Then, they took out a scalpel — and
cut
his ankle open to drain the infection. Kevin screamed less than Rhoda did, but the pain in his eyes somehow seemed worse. He barely blinked through the whole ordeal.

Once the nurses were finished, we were pushed out of the hospital. The kids weren't ready to leave, but the nurses told us it didn't matter — people were waiting and they needed the beds.

“These two children will need to recover in their own beds,” the slim nurse said. “Now, take them home.”

I couldn't bring myself to tell her that Kevin and Rhoda didn't
have
a real home. Or that each of the beds she spoke of would be shared with two other children.