It Happened on the Way to War (39 page)

“I'm a power woman.” She burst out laughing with Jane.

“Yes, yes, you are!” I exclaimed.

“Jane is, too. You know about power women?” she asked.

I didn't know what Achieng was talking about, and wondered if I was misunderstanding her Swahili. “Yes. Powerful women. Yes. Survivors.”

Jane and Achieng laughed some more.

“Omosh! No, no, no, Omosh. We mean this, our group,” Achieng explained. “We're called the power women. There are twelve of us.”

“These twelve women, they all knew Tabitha. She cared for them. There were others, but they passed on,” Jane added.

“They were all HIV-positive?”

“Yes, we are.” Achieng replied, confidently. “All except our leader, Jane.”

“They are widows with children,” Jane said. “Together we're starting businesses, making jewelry. You'll see. Omosh, even you, you can buy. We want you to take power women beads back to the U.S. and help us sell them.”

“Yes, whatever you need.”

“Do your level best, Omosh.” Achieng reached for something in a box under her bed. She placed a folded purple
kanga
on the table. Jane put her hands over her mouth and took a deep breath as Achieng unfolded it.

“You remember this?” Achieng asked.

I cracked the door open to let more sunlight into the room.

“Jane told me the story,” she added.

The Swahili aphorism on the
kanga
read:
Mawingu ya dunia ufanika wajane
.

“It was like the
kanga
you gave to Tabitha, same saying,” Jane said. “Now it's our motto. Power women motto.”

The clouds of the earth cover the widows.

I'LL NEVER KNOW if Tabitha was HIV-positive when we first met in the summer of 2000. As a nurse she must have known her condition before the time of her death in December 2004. Yet she never revealed it. Had the doctor not told me her status as she was dying of an infection from a burst appendix, I would never have known. Even her children were unaware.

Salim had been confused when I told him that Tabitha was HIV-positive. “Why'd she not tell us?” he had asked. We were partners after all, a trio. Perhaps we could have helped prolong her life or planned for the clinic's longevity without her.

We were frustrated, especially by the challenge of keeping the clinic running after Tabitha's sudden departure. But Salim and I also sympathized with her. The stereotypes surrounding HIV/AIDS were venomous. Myths spread rapidly about the killer virus, badly distorting public awareness of the truth. By some estimates, the virus infected as much as 15 percent of the adult population in Kibera. Although our Binti Pamoja Girls' Center was doing a lot of work to educate the community, there was a dangerous lack of knowledge about how HIV was transmitted. Tabitha was wise. There were reasons for keeping her secret from everyone, including her children.

The blessed reunion that Jane had arranged for me with Achieng reminded me of a duty that I had not yet fulfilled. I felt obligated to reveal to Tabitha's children that their mother had died of HIV-related complications. They deserved to know, and I regretted not telling them immediately after she passed away.

Perhaps stunted by years of poor nutrition, Tabitha's oldest son Kevin had not grown much for an eighteen-year-old. He wore glasses that he called “specs,” and he was shorter and thinner than Salim. His mannerisms exuded caution, and he rarely spoke unless he was asked a direct question. One day we met for a lunch of pilau and then returned to his humble ten-by-ten. It reminded me of his mother's shack in 2000 when we had first met. There was a wood cross on the wall hanging next to a photograph of his mother in her clinic, her hair pulled back in short braids.

I didn't know how to say it other than directly. I hoped he wouldn't be angry with me for waiting so long to reveal the secret. I apologized and told him the truth.

“Oh.” His eyes opened wide. He took a quick breath.

“I know, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. You didn't know, did you?”

“No. You know, with Mom, there's so much she didn't tell us.”

“I'm sure she did it to protect you.”

He nodded.

“She did it to protect the clinic, too, I think.”

“Yes.”

We sat in silence. “You think your dad may have had it?”

“That's what I'm thinking. My dad, he was not so good.”

“I never heard much about him from your mother.” Apart from the time that I had asked her directly about him, Tabitha had never spoken about her late husband. She had only told me that he was a welder and had died unexpectedly of an illness. After Tabitha's funeral, I was aware that most of her extended family had ostracized her, ostensibly because she refused to obey the Luo custom and marry one of the brothers of her late husband.

“Dad, he hurt Mom.” I remained quiet as Kevin took me deep into his life. His face was blank as he told me that his father frequently slept with other women. His promiscuous behavior was a source of bitter conflict with Tabitha, who refused to be treated in such a way. One night, when Kevin was nine years old, Tabitha took him and his five-year-old sister Joy and left the man.

Kevin's father eventually found them at a relative's house. He drew a pistol and pointed it at Tabitha. She fled in haste, leaving Kevin and Joy behind. Her husband chased after her until she reached a
matatu
minibus on Kibera Drive.

“My husband's going to kill me. Go. Please go now!” Tabitha pleaded to the driver. He stepped on the gas as her husband sprinted in pursuit.

Kevin's father returned that evening, mixed rat poison into a glass of milk, and killed himself in front of his only son and youngest daughter.

I put my arm over Kevin's shoulder. We wept. How can anyone ever recover from such trauma?

“Life became so, so hard from there.” Kevin recalled how some relatives began accusing his mother of murder. Tabitha shifted homes to a different village in Kibera, where she became neighbors with Jane. Shortly after, the government reduced its health care expenditures. Tabitha lost her job as a nurse. When we first met in 2000, she had been unemployed for more than two years.

In some ways, Kevin's story of his father felt like a central piece to an intricate puzzle that I would never complete. No wonder Tabitha was so cautious, methodical, and guarded with information. She protected her secrets because she realized the damage they could cause. While she was alive, I respected her privacy and the knowledge that her life was very different from mine. She had no obligation to tell me about the nightmares of her past, or even her HIV-positive status.

“Nobody could have known I was facing difficulties,” Tabitha once told me, “but I personally knew it was a hard life.”

Tabitha was my partner and colleague, my mentor and guide, and I loved her like a mother. The fuller picture of her life made our work at CFK all the more relevant and urgent. She was the model, and she was always the first to make the point that she was not exceptional. There were other Tabithas in Kibera, and in slums and war-torn areas worldwide. The future Tabithas were among the five thousand members of our youth sports program. They were meeting every Sunday at our Binti Pamoja Girls' Center to fight for women's rights. They were creating sustainable businesses in our waste-management program and working at the Tabitha Clinic. They were the next generation of leaders, groomed by CFK and inspired by the life of Tabitha Atieno Festo.

TABITHA'S FINAL WORDS to me were barely audible. She had looked me in the eyes and recited something. It was a passage. But her voice was so soft and pain stricken that I had only caught three words of it:
grass
,
flower
, and
wind
.

For years I carried these three words with me as an unsolved riddle. During the week of Veterans Day in November 2008, near the fourth anniversary of Tabitha's passing, I attended a service at Harvard's Memorial Church. I was a student again, and I loved listening to the witty, engaging sermons of the Reverend Peter Gomes. He was a masterful orator. That day, however, I didn't hear a word he said. I sat in the pew paralyzed by the psalm before the day's sermon:

As for mortals, their days are like grass;
     they flourish like a flower of the field;

For the wind passes over it, and it is gone,
     and its place knows it no more.

But the steadfast love of the Lord is from
     everlasting to everlasting.

*
  Melinda French Gates, “What Women Really Need,”
Newsweek
May 15, 2006.

Acknowledgments

A book, like a nongovernmental organization, takes a community, and this book would not have been possible without the steadfast love, help, and encouragement of my family, friends, and colleagues. My deepest gratitude goes to my wife, Tracy, who showed me the way with her strength and grace. I love you.

Philip Caputo once wrote that the challenge of memoir is to write well, straight, and true. I agree, and I endeavored here to present an accurate and honest portrayal of often chaotic events as I and others experienced them. Along the way I benefited tremendously from nostalgic conversations with friends, many of whom are “characters” in this book. I'm indebted to my father and the writer Andrew Carroll for repeatedly encouraging me to keep a journal. My journals, as well as countless hours of film coverage that producer, friend, and CFK volunteer-extraordinaire Beth-Ann Kutchma coordinated over the years, were invaluable.

The following people believed in this book before there was a “there there.” These friends and mentors helped me shape the proposal and find a way into the publishing industry: Max Anderson, Aaron Charlop-Powers, Dr. Al Chase, Professor Bill George, Professor David Gergen, Colonel Thomas Greenwood, Linda Harrar, Michael Huffington, Michael Kleinman, Professor Richard Kohn, the late professor Ernest May, Tom Rielly and the TED community, Jack Sallay, Second Lieutenant Nicholas Taranto, and authors Bruce Barcott, Rod Beckstrom, Andrew Carroll, Claire Dederer, Nathaniel Fick, George Harrar, Michael Holman, Bryan Mealer, Glenn Rifkin, and Michela Wrong.

A tremendous thanks to my squad of readers who stuck with this through multiple drafts: Tracy Barcott, Yaniv Barzilai, Tyson Belanger, Aaron Charlop-Powers, Professor Jennifer Coffman, Captain Brad Fultz, Linda and George Harrar, Beth-Ann Kutchma, Salim Mohamed, Nathan Nelson, Jonathan Reiber, and my parents T. P. and Donna Schwartz-Barcott.

A mentor of mine suggested that I reach out early to a broad base of advanced readers. I'm glad I followed that sage advice. Each reader made this a better book by revealing new insights and valuable interpretations. To my advanced readers, thank you for your time and candor: Yaw Agyenim-Boateng, Ryan Allis, Jason Arthurs, Jane Atieno, Karen Austrian, David Baker, Leann Bankoski, James and Mary Barcott, Alison Beckwith, Jason Berg, Peter Bisanz, Beth Braxton, Captain Jason Brigadier, Betsy Brink, Matthew Bugher, Diana Bullington, Heather Burke, Major Joe Burke, Anthony Burton, Dr. David Callaway, Andrew Carroll, Canon Chris Chivers, Annie Clark, Zach Clayton, Mary Louise Cohen, Mark Derewicz, Kate Di Pietro, Betsy Dixon, Nancy and Chuck Dobbins, Jean Dobbins, Matt Dougherty, Deborah Dubrule, Fred Faber, Diane Frazier, Amit Garg, Melanie Gerber, Professor Hannah Gill, Sammy Iregi Gitau, Judy Gration, Eli Griffis, William Grumbles, Lynda Goldberg, Blake Hall, Tripp Hardy, Roger Dean Huffstetler, Abdul “Cantar” Hussein, Taylor Jo Isenberg, B. Jamison, Esther Janowski, Semaj Johnson, Judith Kaufmann, Alex Kehl, Danielle Kehl, Gil Kemp, George Kogolla, Professor Richard Kohn, Lynne Kohn, Carin Krasno, Major Jason Ladd, Michael and Christine Lee, Peter Levesque, Donald Lichay, Lieutenant Tyler Lippert, Alex Loizias, Carrie Majer, Erin Marubashi, Rebecca Meyers, William and Sara McCoy, Laura McCready, Professor Kathleen McGinn, William McKinney, Esteban and Dana McMahan, Professor Eric Mlyn, Ambassador George Moose, Ben Mshila, Lisa Mullins, Mary Jo Myers, Joseph Nganga, Kevin Festo Odongo, Dorine Okoko, Michelle Osborn, Lisa Price, Lisa Rathert, Dr. Mary Rowe, Barbara Ryan, Professor John Sanders, Sophie Schmidt, Nancy Serrurier, Captain David Stapleton, Professor Niklaus Steiner and the UNC Center for Global Initiatives team, Doc Skelly, Christian Sutherland-Wong, Professor Nancy Tewksbury, Chris Tomlinson, Ian Thomson, Shawn Turner, Emily Verellen, Kate Wattson, and Aleta Williams.

Thanks, too, to the following people who helped along the way in other ways: Shantha Bloeman, Sam Bond, Brett Bullington, Donovan Campbell, Ronica Cleary, Dr. Alan Cross, William Grumbles, Donald Dixon, Captain Peter Dixon, Thomas S. Kenan III, Jason Kutchma, Jane Kilonzo, Barb Lee, Susan Linnee, Craig Mullaney, Randy Newcomb, Peter Olson, Pam Omidyar, Kim Chapman Page, Bradley Inman, Ginger Sall, Lara Santoro, Jean Woodward, and Croft Young.

Photographers Francesco Broli (cover photo) and Jason Arthurs, and graphic designer Lindy Dobbins, generously gave of their time and extraordinary work. Beth-Ann Kutchma created the book's superb website and trailer.

To my publisher, Bloomsbury, thank you for the opportunity to pursue a dream. I will be forever indebted to Anton Mueller, a brilliant “old school” editor and new friend. Production editor Nathaniel Knaebel went far above and beyond the call of duty. Copy Editor Steve Boldt was so good he caught typos in Swahili. Assistant Editor Rachel Mannheimer's attention to detail and hard work consistently improved the book, and Publisher George Gibson offered valuable input at pivotal moments. My agent Heather Schroder at ICM is a tireless confidante and font of great ideas. Her assistant Nicole Tourtelot also has a keen literary eye and will one day be a great agent in her own right, if she so chooses. I'm lucky to have worked with such consummate professionals.

Large chunks of the initial manuscript were written in four places, each of which was overly generous with their hospitality: High Rise Bakery on Concord Avenue in Cambridge, Owen's Bagel & Deli in Charlotte's South End, Caffe Driade in Chapel Hill, and Nairobi's Java House at Adams Arcade.

THE END OF this book is not the end of our story. A portion of proceeds from sales will go to CFK. The hardcover price is initially being listed at $26. It's the same amount of money that Tabitha took to begin creating what's now the Tabitha Clinic, where more than forty-five thousand residents each year receive care from a staff of dedicated Kenyan doctors and nurses in the heart of Kibera not far from Dan's shack, the old Mad Lion, and the river.

In 2011, CFK proudly celebrates its tenth anniversary. We mark this happy milestone with the release of this book and a feature-length documentary produced by Beth-Ann Kutchma called
Chasing the Mad Lion
. As we pause to reflect on our past accomplishments, our eyes remain fixed on the future. There are Tabithas and Salims in every struggling community, and there is no shortage of work to be done in Kibera. The future of fighting poverty and preventing violence lies in the hands of those who experience it every day. That's the essence of participatory development. With long-term investment in local leadership, communities will transform themselves.

We thank you for helping our cause, and we invite you to do more. If reading CFK's story has meant something to you, please consider taking action:

•  
Share
. Spread the word about CFK. Tell a friend about this book.

•  
Participate
. Give a matching $26 gift to CFK. In local hands, a little can go a long way.

•  
Join.
Log on, meet the everyday heroes who are changing Kibera, and join our community at www.carolinaforkibera.org.

Rye Barcott

August 2010