Chai Tea Sunday (6 page)

The following Tuesday I fell asleep at my desk while my students were writing in their journals. Unfortunately for me, my principal walked by at that precise moment. She requested an end-of-the-day meeting, which ended up marking the end of my time at the school. At least temporarily. I was strongly encouraged to take a semester leave of absence, and was assured the position would be mine to retrieve come the following fall. “Go to the beach, Nicky. Take the vacation you've always wanted. Climb a mountain. Go skydiving. Whatever you need to clear your head,” my principal encouraged. Deep down I knew she was right. I wasn't the same teacher she had hired, and it wasn't fair to the students.

The problem was I didn't want to do any of those things she had suggested. It wasn't that I didn't have dreams, it was just that every line item on my bucket list had included Eric. We had talked about seeing the glowworms in the Waitomo Caves in Auckland
together.
He was going to be my dive buddy when we learned to scuba dive on the Great Barrier Reef. I had always imagined holding
his
hand as I took in the awesomeness of Egypt's Great Pyramid of Giza. And we had always planned on hiking the tiny paths of the Inca Trail, one following the
other
. Our life list was long, and was too quickly cut short by the undefeatable heartbreak that was out of our control.

In the middle of the night after my principal had delivered her blow, I was having a typical 2
A.M
. date with my computer. I abandoned my meaningless night surfing and googled:
how teachers can help in other parts of the world
.

My computer was flooded with options, but eventually the online path I followed took me to a company that was recruiting teacher volunteers for small towns in Africa. I got sucked into the details, reading everything I could find on what it would be like to actually leave my current depressing world and enter a brand new one — one without any memories of Eric or the tragedy we had experienced together.

The company was searching for qualified teachers who could help support African teachers in the orphanage classrooms of small towns on a volunteer basis. They would stay with screened and approved host families who would provide safety, shelter and food to their home stays. Commitment times were variable and could be flexible based on the volunteer teacher's willingness and availability. I made a mental note to call the volunteer company the next day to find out more details about what I needed to do before leaving.

For the first time in over a year, I felt a sense of hope. I needed to be freed of everything encircling my world that emphasized what I no longer had — and would never have again. I needed to be as far away from Eric as I could imagine. Being within a drivable distance of him was too painful, too distracting and too tempting.

Most of all, I needed to find a way to stop feeling the pain I had been going through since Ella's death. I needed to feel other things. Happy things.

I knew that by giving back — by giving what I could to the world's most unfortunate children — I would somehow find some sense of reward, even if just a little bit. I would do something that I could feel
good
about doing.

It was the only way; I would drown in sorrow unless I did something completely opposite of the world I knew. Best of all, I could do it while staying true to the one thing I loved — teaching.

That night, for the first time in months, I slept like a baby.

The iron gate heavily clanked shut. Behind it, an armed guard with a face as black as the star-filled night sky around him stood still as a stone, his face exuding boredom and his camouflaged uniform failing to hide his oversized torso. His index finger rested on the gun's trigger, leaving me uncertain about whether I felt sheer terror or gratefully safe.

The guard continued to stare right through me as I ungracefully juggled my bags and watched the private
matatu
that I had taken from the Nairobi airport drive away. A voice inside me screamed for the van to stay, and my lungs seemed to buckle as utter panic took over a very tired travel body that suddenly felt heavier than my own.

I somehow managed to take hold of my two bulging suitcases, duffle bag and backpack. It had been so much easier at the airport when my teary-eyed mother and father had been there to help carry the load. I walked towards the home where I would be staying during my post of teaching the children at the orphanage. Just as I thought I had it figured out, my oversized pink duffle bag fell off my shoulder, directly punching into the tender, bruised area where I had received my last round of vaccinations.

“Damn it!” I said out loud. There was no one to hear me except a black and white stray cat that had slinked in from the dry grass beside me. Tired tears filled my eyes and I suddenly yearned for my king-sized bed more than anything else. I kept shuffling forward, wondering why there was no one there to greet me. Or help me. I dropped my bags to take a rest, and strained to see the new world around me. Given the late hour, I couldn't see much except for dim lights coming from the home in front of me.

Due to obsessive pre-trip planning, I knew that I was about forty-five minutes outside of Nairobi in a secure villa neighbourhood called Ngong (or “Gong” as pronounced by the locals) and that the mean-looking man I had left behind at the gate really did have my best interest at heart. My host family lived in one of the safer neighbourhoods, the pamphlets had said, which was largely made possible by the night guard wearing a gun.

Slinging my backpack and duffle bag over my shoulder, I pulled my two suitcases across the dirt path. Clouds of red powdery dust pillowed around me in the still night. I sneezed.

In front of me, a brighter light went on at the front of my host family's home, signalling that they were awake and waiting. Seeing the light, I gained new energy, and forced a smile as the entire family stepped out from inside. They waved to greet me.

“Welcome,
rafiki
!” my host father greeted me, using the Swahili word for
friend
. He and a boy about sixteen years old darted forward to help carry my bags. “We are so happy to finally meet you. And we are pleased to have you stay in our home. I am Kiano, and this is our youngest child, Petar. We have four other sons, but they are grown and live in homes with their own families.” Kiano paused and turned to the woman standing behind him. “And this is my beautiful wife, Abuya.”

Relieved of my bags, my arms became free for obligatory, yet very warm and welcoming, hugs from each family member. Kiano squeezed me tightly, gently slapping my back, while Petar offered a shy hug.

“
Karibu
,
Nicole,” Abuya said. Welcome, Nicole. She had warm, brown eyes that flickered in the light, and skin that looked like molasses. “We are so happy to have you stay in our home,” Abuya continued in near-perfect English. She immediately took my hand in hers; it was rough to the touch and she had short, brittle nails that were yellowing — an obvious sign of constant hard work.

“Thank you, Abuya. And, please, call me Nicky.” I smiled, grateful to be speaking with friendly faces. “I'm so relieved to be here, and very thankful that you are willing to take me in while I stay in Kenya.”

“Nonsense. It is we who should be grateful,” Kiano responded. “You are here to help the children and while you do that you need a place to stay. If we can provide a place for you to eat and rest your head, then we are called to do it. It is our . . . how do you say . . . our
duty
? And it is our pleasure.”

“Please, come in, come in,” Abuya said as she ushered me into her home. She wore a belted, dark blue dress that buttoned all the way down the front, reminding me of an African version of June Cleaver. Her shoulder-length hair matched the colour of the espresso beans Eric had ground each morning for our daily cappuccinos, and she held it back with a thick red hair band. “It is getting cold outside,
rafiki
. Come in, where it is warm.” Abuya smiled then, showing the whiteness of slightly crooked teeth against black skin; instantly she conveyed a warmth and maternal dependability that comforted me.

I stepped through the front door, directly into a small living room the size of Amelia and Brian's cottage bathroom. Three oversized, worn couches were stuffed into the room, all with frayed fabric and noticeable holes. In the far corner, there was a small chair that I later realized wobbled too much to actually sit on and, beside it, there was a small black and white television sitting on a rickety card table.

“You have a
TV
?” I asked, failing miserably at my attempt to hide my surprise.

“Yes, Nicky,” Kiano replied, smiling through a toothy grin that was more crooked than Abuya's. “We have television. What did you expect?”

“I'm not sure,” I replied, hesitating to tell them the truth. “I guess I thought there might not be electronics of any type. The orientation book said that many Kenyan homes don't even have electricity.”

“I am only teasing you,
rafiki
. You are the third person who has lived with us while staying in Ngong — and everyone who comes here is surprised to see our television. We also have a kitchen with a microwave, which often seems to be a surprise as well. We have an oven too, but that stopped working about a year ago, and we cannot get it fixed right now.” Kiano pointed to a small room beside the living room. “Here, let me show you the kitchen.”

I followed Kiano into the kitchen. It was obvious the room had received a vigorous scrub shortly before I arrived, but I couldn't help but notice two cockroaches run into the plywood wall when Kiano turned on the kitchen light. I somehow managed to stifle a scream, and shifted my glance in an effort to pretend I hadn't noticed.

Beside the broken oven was an open window, which mosquitoes were using as their own private entrance into the house. “No screens?” I asked, pointing to the window. Instead of any sort of netting that might prevent malaria from entering, there were steel bars. Once again, I wasn't sure if I felt safer to see the bars or more afraid given the reasons the family might need them.

“You notice the steel bars, I see?” Kiano said, nodding his head towards the window. “They are here to protect us.”

I smiled at Kiano, offering him a hint of thanks, but inwardly said a quick prayer for safety. The house, which Kiano and Abuya had proudly boasted about building themselves, was made of thin plywood, and I didn't have the heart to point out that if someone wanted in, they could easily get in — bars or no bars.

“Would you like to see the rest of the house? I will have Abuya show you to your room, which I know she is preparing now.”

I nodded my head. I was exhausted and desperately wanted to sleep.

“Bu, come please,” Kiano called to his wife, barely raising his voice. When she instantly appeared, I realized just how easily sound travelled throughout the home. The entire house was small, about the size of two rooms back home, but, more than that, the noise could be heard everywhere because
all
of the internal walls were about two feet too short. Not one of them touched the ceiling, and the open structure reminded me of the cubicles Eric had worked in when he first started at his law firm.

“Follow me, Nicky. I will show you to your room.” Abuya once again took my hand, and guided me to a tiny room directly off the living room.

In one corner was a small bed. At the top of it was a lumpy, white pillow with no case, and covering the bed was a fraying orange and grey quilt that had obviously been handmade. Despite its wear and tear, the thinning blanket was still beautiful and I had to stop myself from getting cozy underneath it right then and there.

“Petar has brought your things in here. I hope you will find your stay in this room enjoyable,” Abuya said, pointing to the pile of bags in the corner. My suitcases, duffle bag and backpack created a luggage teepee in the only spare space in the room.

Just as I was about to tell Abuya that I wanted to call it a night, she offered me some chai. “We have been looking forward to your arrival for so long and we are excited to get to know you, Nicky. We made some chai in preparation for your arrival. Would you like some?”

I looked into the enthusiasm of her warm eyes and didn't have the heart to say no. I nodded, and hoped the Kenyan version of my longtime Starbucks favourite had as much caffeine as a double espresso.

Once in the living room, I sank into a worn and tattered couch. Abuya poured the tea, and explained its tradition over the kitchen's six-foot wall. “Chai is a daily tradition in our country and an ongoing excuse to sit and discuss the day. We all drink it every day, and all day. Each family has a slightly different recipe, but we all serve it with milk and sugar. My own recipe is one that was passed down from my Grandma Hamisi and it is a favourite among many people in Ngong. I have managed to keep the recipe a secret for many years but, if you like it, I will tell it to you before you return home.”

“I'm intrigued,” I said, taking the gigantic mug of steaming tea Abuya offered to me. By Starbucks standards, the mug would have been bigger than a venti.

“I do hope you like it, Nicky. I make the tea each morning, and then again each evening. It is kept in our kitchen thermos. Please feel free to help yourself whenever you would like some.”

“It's delicious,” I replied honestly after I had taken my first sip. “I can see why so many people here love it so much.”

As I sipped at my tea, Abuya hovered beside the couch I was sitting on, and Petar rose to give his mother his seat; his gesture didn't go unnoticed by Kiano, who gave his son a nod of approval as Abuya took her spot directly beside me.

Sitting, my host mother patted my knee, “So, my dear Nicky, please do tell us about you. We are so curious to get to know you.”

“Okay, Abuya . . .”

My host mother quickly cut me off. “Please, Nicky, call me Mama Bu. That is what all of our house stays call me. The kids at the Kidaai orphanage too.”

“Okay, then. Let's see, where should I start? I'm thirty-three years old, and I've always lived in the suburbs, the area outside of Toronto. I was born and raised there, and then went off to university and teachers' college.” My host family nodded their heads, listening to every word I spoke. “Hmmm, I guess you already know that I'm a teacher. I really love it, and am looking forward to working with the children at Kidaai as well.”

“The organization sent a description on you a few weeks ago. They said many good things about what a wonderful teacher you are,” Mama Bu commented, her eyes meeting mine over the brim of her mug.

“Thank you.” I blushed lightly at the compliment and looked down at the cement floor.

“And what about your family?”

“My parents are both well, and I also have a sister, Maggie. She's a permanent global traveller, it seems, and is always in some faraway place. Her most recent adventure has taken her to Australia. The last I heard she was in a place called Byron Bay, but leaving shortly to make her way down to Sydney.”

“It seems that your mother has two world travellers. Look where
you
are!” Kiano pointed out, still smiling through his pearly, crooked whites.

“Hmm, I guess I
have
caught a bit of the travel bug myself. This is my first time to Africa though.”

“And what about your other family, Nicky? The organization said that you are married?” Mama Bu pressed on, although gently. “Was it hard to leave your husband?”

I paused, unsure of how to answer Mama Bu's question, or how much of it I wanted to tell them. The mention of Eric drove a sharp pain through my heart and my entire body felt rigid. “Yes, I was married,” I said softly, taking a deep breath. “But it is a very long and sad story. The short version is that my husband, Eric, and I were dealt some really crummy hands. Unfortunately, we weren't able to make our marriage work.”

“What do you mean ‘dealt some really crummy hands'? I do not understand the translation?” Mama Bu looked confused, and I forced a smile, grateful for a break in the conversation.

“Oh, it's an expression referring to what life brings you. I guess it compares the uncontrollable things that happen in a game of cards, and most often the expression is used when someone is unlucky in life. I'm pretty sure it's based on the game of poker,” I explained, wanting to change the subject from the questions Mama Bu and Kiano were asking. “Do you play poker here, or any game of cards?”

Just as Kiano was about to answer, the room went dark. Pitch black. I was instantly scared.

“It is okay, Nicky,” Mama Bu said soothingly, her voice carrying through the dark room. “This happens often, unfortunately. The electricity has gone out. Petar? Kiano? Please. Get the lanterns.”

I heard scrambling. Fumbling through the dark. Within a minute, Petar and Kiano had lit the kerosene lanterns. They brought them into the sitting area where Mama Bu and I were still sitting on the couches.

“There! That is better.” Mama Bu smiled over the lamplight.

“Why did the electricity go out?” I asked, puzzled. There was no storm to affect the power; the calm night was still and quiet.

“It is the government. They control the electricity and have the authority to decide when it goes on — and when it goes off. We have no command of this and do not know when it will happen. We just light candles and hope that the electricity comes back on soon.”