Chai Tea Sunday (7 page)

I tried to wrap my mind around what Mama Bu had just said. The Kenyan government just turned off electricity
whenever
they wanted to? I couldn't imagine living in a country where external authorities had such direct control over the everyday light in my living room.

“How long is it out for?” I asked, still bewildered.

“Sometimes it is for a few hours, and sometimes it lasts for days. Last month the power was out for six days. It was not fun, as you can imagine. We missed the nightly Kenyan news for almost a week!” I could see Mama Bu shaking her head in the shadows of the lamplight.

“We can give you the big lantern for your bedroom if the power does not come back on,” Petar piped up. “We are used to the dark so you can have it.”

I smiled at his generosity. “Thank you, Petar, but I brought a small flashlight with me. I can use that until the power goes back on. Are there any plans for tomorrow?” I asked, changing the subject. I was enjoying getting to know my host family, but serious jet lag had taken over and I was about to fall asleep on Mama Bu's lap.

“Well, since tomorrow is Saturday, I told the orphanage director that we would not be arriving until early Monday morning. That is the first day of school for the week. Kiano and Petar have chores to do around the house, but I was thinking I could show you around Ngong. How does that sound to you, Nicky?”

“I would love that,” I replied, forcing a smile through my exhaustion. I wanted to learn everything I could about Kenya. Sadly, other than the research I had done in the weeks leading up to my trip, the only thing I really knew about Africa was what I learned while watching
The Lion King
with Eric's nieces and nephews.

“How wonderful. I will be honoured to teach you,” Mama Bu responded, finishing her last sip of tea. Then, looking straight into my eyes, she hospitably continued, “I can see that you are very tired and need a good night's rest, my dear Nicky. Let us retire for the night, shall we? We will see you in the morning, and we will have breakfast together before leaving for your first real journey into Kenya.”

“Thank you, Mama Bu.” I stood up and realized I didn't know where the bathroom was. “I would love to wash my face and brush my teeth before going to bed. And I
really
need to go to the bathroom after all of your delicious chai.”

“Yes, I will show you where it is.” Mama Bu rose from her chair and pointed to a closed door. “We are thankful to have a toilet, as many of our friends only have squats, but unfortunately there is no sink to wash your face or brush your teeth. I will bring you some warm water, which I still have from dinner. You can take it into the bathroom to use it there.”

“Here, Nicky, take the big lantern so you can see. It will be very dark in there. The smaller lanterns will be enough light for Bu,” Kiano said, insisting that I take the biggest lantern with me.

I thanked them for the light, and got my toothbrush and toothpaste from my backpack. Stepping into the closet-sized washroom, I was shocked by what the lantern light
didn't
reveal. After Mama Bu's explanation, I hadn't expected to find a sink, but there was also
no
bathtub and
no
shower. Not even a mirror.

I squatted over the seatless toilet, and made a mental note to dig out some of the sanitizer I had brought with me in my suitcase. Relieved to see a handle, I flushed the toilet.

Mama Bu lightly tapped on the door and handed me a tin cup filled with water, and a tattered face cloth. Using my index finger, I tested the temperature; the water wasn't cold, although it certainly wasn't warm by Canadian standards.

I thanked Mama Bu for the water and said good night to my host mother.

“Good night, Nicky. We will see you in the morning.” I could see Mama Bu smiling in the dim light. She squeezed my arm and then turned towards her bedroom.

I shut the bathroom door and used the lukewarm water to wash my face. I scrubbed my teeth — vigorously — and tried to free myself from the dirty feeling that airplanes always brought me. Without a sink to use, I spit into the toilet.

Once finished in the bathroom, I made my way to the tiny bed; I shivered in the cold, my bare feet curling against the icy cement floor as I walked.

Finally, after twenty-four hours of travel, it was time to sleep.

The bed was as hard as it looked, and the pillow was frayed and damp. Darkness like I had never experienced flooded the room and I grew scared of the unknown around me. I clutched my small flashlight, which I had brought into bed with me and tried to resist the temptation to turn it on to look around. I had no idea where to get new batteries if they died, and I didn't want my host family to see the beam of light over their six-foot walls.

Mosquitoes buzzed in my ear and I swatted them away in the dark. I had forgotten to retrieve the netting that I had brought in one of my suitcases and knew it would be impossible to find it blind in the tower of bags. Instead, I pulled the quilt high over my ears and prayed for malaria to stay away. That, plus the two cockroaches I had seen earlier in the kitchen.

In the near distance, I could hear a dog barking and the occasional truck driving by the house. Farther away, I could make out the sound of bongo drums, which Kiano had earlier explained was the
Mijikenda
(literally, the nine tribes) performing percussion-based music that was as beautiful as it was complex. Accompanying the bongos was singing and the occasional howl of laughter.

Closer to home, Petar sneezed in the room directly beside me. Mama Bu sighed in the room she shared with her husband and, later, I heard Kiano fart in his sleep. I could hear
everything
.

The deep sleep that I had been promised while falling asleep in the sitting room escaped me and, suddenly, my body felt electric. The black room combined with my inability to sleep (and probably some caffeine kicking in) created a mind-racing hotspot, and I was afraid of where my brain would take me. Remembering Ella hurt too much, and thinking of Eric was just as painful.

I didn't want to go there.

Yet, after about an hour of lying in the darkest of black, long after the
Mijikenda
had quieted down, I was no longer able to distract my mind, and my thoughts crept to our beautiful Ella.

I could still feel the light weight of her peaceful body that I held in my arms for so many minutes after she left us. Her long eyelashes, a mirror of her father's, were etched in my mind. The feeling of desperation as I begged God to reopen her eyes came flooding back to me.

I clung to my pillow, biting into it as I tried to mask my cries. I buried my sobs, hopeful that no one in the house would hear me.

An image of Eric appeared in my mind, bright-eyed and smiling. I missed him in a way that I didn't know was possible. I thought of the way he would tickle my ear when we were lying on the couch, watching a movie. I remembered how he would always brush the snow off my car after a storm had hit — just so that I wouldn't have to do it.

I needed Eric. My lungs constricted from the sobs, and my heart screamed, “
Why are we half a world away from each other . . . without our beautiful baby and without each other?
”

When the tears seemed to finally dry up, my thoughts turned to what Eric would be doing at that very minute. Was he also sobbing? No, that wasn't him. But what was he thinking? Was his mind on me, so many miles away? Did he even know that I was in Africa?

In an attempt to feel a little less pain — even a smidgen — I turned on my imagination. I shut my eyes and pretended it was a long-ago Saturday morning, and I was still there with Eric. I imagined it was as it had been on so many other weekend mornings, and we were just waking up to the bright sunshine streaming through the shutters. We would make love, and then Eric would bring his freshly made cappuccinos and the morning newspaper to our bed. After catching up on the daily headlines, it would be a double shower . . . I smiled, remembering Eric's never-ending joke about us needing to conserve water.

Finally, somewhere in the deep night, I fell asleep.

Within a few hours, I was shaken back to reality by a rooster crowing right outside my window bars. I was confused at first, given the last thought before I fell asleep was of a happy hubby and the perfect marriage, but the shrill cackle of the morning alarm clock quickly proved that I was, in fact, not in Canada anymore.

I could hear Mama Bu clinking pans in the kitchen, and realized that catching up on my sleep would need to wait. I changed into a clean pair of yoga pants and a red T-shirt, then realized it was still quite cold in the house. I grabbed a hooded grey sweatshirt and threw it over my T-shirt.

“Good morning, Mama Bu,” I said, joining my host mother in the kitchen. I eyed the counter for the duo of beady-eyed cockroaches I had seen the night before, holding my breath and hoping they had left the building. My disgust of the repulsive critters formed a temporary sense of guilt for not being more appreciative of the family who had taken me in, but I disregarded the feeling knowing that Mama Bu, or any woman in her right mind, would agree there was nothing overly
rafiki
-like about vermin.

“Good morning to you as well, Nicky,” Mama Bu replied hospitably, giving me a friendly hug. I thought again how much I liked the warmth of her voice — it was comforting, mellow, and made me feel safe. “Would you like some chai? I just finished brewing it.”

“Yes, thank you. That would be great. I'm definitely in need of some more caffeine. I'm afraid I'll still be terribly jet lagged today.”

“There is an endless pot of chai for you, dear, which will help with your tiredness. Help yourself to as much as you wish. I also have some eggs and toast — it is a good thing the power went back on through the night so I could make our breakfast. Would you like some?” Mama Bu offered me the plate she was holding, which contained one egg. A square piece of toast sat alongside the single egg, coated in bright red jam.

I nodded, taking the plate from Mama Bu. I mustered a smile of appreciation; the kitchen did not have a refrigerator in it, and I had no idea where the egg would have been stored. Saying a silent prayer for health, I hoped my body would be okay with cupboard-stored eggs.

“Let us take our breakfast to the sitting area. We usually eat around the table in there, sitting on our couches, as we do not have room for a kitchen table.”

“I noticed your many couches last night. Do you have a lot of people visit?”

“That is the Kenyan way, my child. You will see that family and friends will be always dropping by, just as we always drop by their homes. Kiano and I have many couches so that people will have room to sit.”

“Makes sense. I look forward to meeting your family and friends,” I replied, taking a bite of my toast. It tasted like sweet cardboard.

“Good morning, Nicky,” Kiano greeted me warmly, coming into the sitting area. “Bu, have you made some breakfast for me?”

“Yes, Kiano. I will get it.” Mama Bu left her half-eaten egg and went to the kitchen to retrieve another plate for her husband.

“You slept well, yes?” Kiano asked.

“I did, thank you, although I was just saying to Mama Bu that I'm still very tired.”

“I suspect that will be with you for a day or two yet
.
By your first or second day in the Kidaai classroom, you should be good as new!”

Mama Bu returned with a plate mirroring ours, and handed it to her husband.

“Thank you for breakfast. It's delicious,” I said through bites of toast. My rumbling stomach was happy to be eating again. Gaining confidence, I attempted the egg. I took a bite, small at first, then larger. The egg was creamy and tasted like home.

“Petar is sorry to have missed you, but he is already out tending to his chores. You will see him later today, once you and Bu are back from your travels.” Kiano inhaled his breakfast, speaking through his bites.

“Speaking of our plans, we will leave in half an hour,” Mama Bu said as she took Kiano's empty plate from him and carried it into the kitchen to wash the dishes. She filled the sink with cold, soapy water. I jumped up to help her.

“We will start by showing you around our land. Then we will walk into Ngong town. Does that sound alright with you?” Mama Bu said, scrubbing the dishes, which she handed to me to dry. She pointed to the various spots in the open cupboard where each dish went. “I will show you where Kidaai is, as well as the market. And later I will take you to the slums. It is always sad to see, but I think it is needed for you — many of the children you will be teaching are from the slums. You need to see the reality of where they come from.”

“Is Kidaai in the slums?” I asked, anxious to learn more about where I would be working, and suddenly nervous about having to go into the slums of Ngong every day.

“No, Nicky. Kidaai is very close. It is about ten minutes up the road, near Ngong town. The slums, well, they are about twenty minutes past that by foot,” Mama Bu answered. She scrubbed the thin plastic kitchen counter with vigour, careful to wipe every inch before hanging the cloth over the sink. “The little ones who need help get taken from the slums, or other places, and put into orphanage care. They are the ones you will be teaching.”

“How long have the kids been in the orphanage?”

“It really all depends. Some have been there for only a few months, while others have been there for years. I think the youngest Jebet has right now is three. The oldest is about eleven, or so.” Mama Bu took a pot from the sink and put it away in a cupboard. “The biggest problem Kidaai has right now is that the kids do not stick around past that age. They all seem to run away when they reach the age of eleven or twelve. It is really very sad — they almost always end up back in the slums.”

Puzzled, I wondered why kids would leave the comfort of an orphanage, only to return to the devastation they came from. “Why would they do that?”

“Oh, many different reasons, I guess. Some are acting out and . . . how do you say it . . .
rebelling
? Others think they can take care of themselves. Many do not like Jebet — she is the orphanage director — so I wonder if they do it to get away from her. Others have family back in the slums, and they leave to go and find them. But mostly the older kids don't want to stick around because they don't like caring for the younger kids all the time. It's too much work for them.”

I nodded, wondering how much work they were actually doing. “And why don't they like Jebet?”

“She is pretty tough on some of the kids,” Mama Bu said sadly. She wiped her hands on a tea cloth, then smiled, clearly wanting to change the subject. “Now, shall we go? Let's walk around our land and I will show you some of our trees and gardens. We have got plenty of it, compared to most.”

“Sure. Sounds great!” I grabbed my backpack from my bedroom and stuffed it with things I'd need that day, including a granola bar, hand sanitizer and a bottle of water from the plane. Plus one of the three big bottles of sunscreen I'd stuffed in my suitcase. My fair skin had always burned easily and I was paranoid of turning into a lobster after a few minutes in the African sun. I knew I'd be slathering on the thick sunscreen many times per day and I hoped no one would make fun of me.

The brochure I read at the airport warned visitors to carry their backpack on their front, so I slipped my arms through the straps and carried it like I was a kangaroo and it was my joey.

“Ready?” Mama Bu asked, when she saw me.

“Definitely! Let's go.” I was ready to take on the world. Or, at the very least, my new part of the world.

Walking out the front door, I shielded my eyes from the sun and took in my first daylight view of Africa. The ground was covered with red dirt, and dustier than I was expecting; every surface had been covered with a russet-coloured dry, powdery film. It tickled my nose. I sneezed.

Taking two more steps out the door, I was greeted by a burning stench that was so strong it made me gag. I covered my mouth. “Mama Bu? What is that? What's burning?”

“That is garbage smoke, Nicky. We have got nothing to do with our garbage but burn it,” Mama Bu replied. She shut the warped door behind her. The door was decaying and about the same width as a thick pad of paper. “You'll get used to it. Everyone does.”

I hoped so, but wasn't sure. With each new breath I took, the thick smoke choked at my throat and threatened to launch a wheezy cough from deep within my chest.

“Now, Nicky, let us check out the fruit trees we have growing.” Mama Bu led me up a patchy grass hill, dried out and thirsty, directly behind their house. When we got to the top, we found a grove of trees littered in fruit.

“We have mostly mango and papaya. Have you had them before?”

“Oh yes! They're two of my favourites. We don't have any trees growing in our backyards though. We have to buy fruit at the grocery store.” I touched the smooth surface of one of the mangoes that had fallen from the tree; it was cool from being in the shade. “What a sweet treat to have it right at your doorstep.”

“You are right about that, chicka. We do not have a lot, but God is a good God and He blessed us with these trees on our property . . . and a backyard filled with
sweet treats
,” Mama Bu answered, laughing at the expression. “Here, now I will show you our garden.” My host mother led me through the patch of trees and over another hill to a hidden vegetable garden, which was filled with rows of brightly coloured vegetables. “This is what we use to make our meals. All of it is grown by us.”

“Wow! Look at it all. You've got
so
much!”

“Thank you, Nicky. This year we have grown some snow peas, bobby beans, sweet potatoes, okra and maize.”

“Maize? I haven't heard that term since I was in elementary school and we were learning about the pioneers.” I paused, admiring the perfect, weed-free rows of the garden, which had clearly enjoyed a lot of farming
TLC
. “Back home, we now call that corn.”

“Yes, one of the past volunteers who stayed with us talked about corn. But here we call it maize.”

“I love to hear about what you call things. And I'd love to pick up a bit of Swahili while I'm here as well, if you'd help me?”

“Of course,
rafiki
. I will teach you about life in Africa and you can teach me more about North America.” Mama Bu gave my hand another firm squeeze. Her affectionate touch made me feel so grounded and safe, almost as though I was a child again. I welcomed the feeling and relished how it made me feel warm and protected.

“We have also got some rice wheat and sugar cane, though I would like to grow more.” Mama Bu began walking again, to another section of the garden. “We started having a good year, but the dry season is coming, so our crops might turn soon. They are already not doing as well as in previous weeks.”

“Oh, I hope that doesn't happen. What you've got now is very impressive.”

“Thank you, Nicky. I agree, but only God knows what is in store for us.” Mama Bu paused, shielding her eyes from the blazing sun and looking past the garden. “You can see in the distance where the chickens are. We will not go there right now, because Kiano and Petar are tending to the eggs. We do not want to disrupt them.” Mama Bu tugged gently at my arm, and started walking in the other direction, past where the night guard had been standing.

“The guard doesn't stay in the day?” I asked.

“No, he leaves at six o'clock. You have got no worries in Ngong town during the day, dolly. You can wear that backsack on your stomach if it makes you feel better, but it is safe in daylight. It is the night that you have to worry about.” Mama Bu stopped in her tracks and turned to look straight at me. “No matter what, Nicky, you absolutely cannot be out after dark. You have to plan your travel around the sun schedule, do you hear me? Because if the snatch-and-run thieves do not get you, it will be Kiano who has your hide when you get back to the house. We worry about our home stays, and it is our job to keep you safe!”

I listened to Mama Bu's words, taking them seriously. Fear of being targeted by violence obviously didn't sit well with me and I vowed to never be out after dark — no matter what.

“Are you okay with a quick stop? My neighbour, Barika, has been going on about wanting to meet you for days now. I can't wait for you to meet her.” Mama Bu beckoned me to follow.

“Of course.”

“Wonderful. You will like her . . . just be prepared for her to talk.
A lot
.” Mama Bu tugged at my hand once again and guided me down the path to the red dirt road where I comfortably fell into step alongside her.