Joseph Lemasolai Lekuton (6 page)

B
ACK WHEN I WAS A LITTLE KID
in elementary school, I got the idea that someday I would go to America. Esther Anderson, one of the missionaries who ran the school, was from California. She would tell me, “Joseph, one day you’ll go to school in America. You’ll go to California.” She told me that many times. And when I went home, I’d tell my mom I was going to America.

“America?” she’d say. “What is America?” She knew nothing about the place—and of course, neither did I. Nothing. I was a little nomadic kid who played in trees and hyena holes.

All the same, I’d tell her, “I’m going to go to America.” And once something comes out of my mouth, it sticks. So all the time I was growing up, right on into high school, I had this ambition to go to the United States and finish my schooling there.

When the time came, I applied to American universities to take my degree. I took the SATs and English language examination. All the colleges I applied to accepted me, but none offered me a scholarship or any other financial aid. I didn’t have the money—there weren’t enough cows in Kenya to send me to school in America—so I thought, Well, I’ll just have to change my plans. I’ll go to the local university. I took my national examinations, and while I was waiting for the results to come in, I went to see President Moi.

“I need to do something before my results come and I go to college in Nairobi,” I told him. “There’s a bank in Marsabit, not far from my village. I’d like to work in the bank.” It’s really prestigious to work in a bank. Bankers are considered smart people, and they make a lot of money. I knew my family would be happy to know I had a bank job. So the president called the head of the bank and introduced me, and the next day I went down to Nairobi from Nakuru to meet him. I filled out some forms, and in a short time I had a job. I got a
ride in a bank vehicle from Nairobi all the way home to Marsabit, and the president gave me some pocket money. I bought a new suit of clothes and some shoes.

So one day I was working at the bank when an American man came in with his family and a group of students. The students were all wearing T-shirts with St. Lawrence University printed on them. He was a big man with a beard. He said to me, “My students would like to change some American traveler’s checks. Can you do this?” I asked for his passport and the checks and gave him the forms. While he was filling out the forms we talked.

It turned out later that Dennis Doyle, a man I knew in Nairobi, had sent the man from St. Lawrence University to see me while he was in Kenya doing fieldwork with his students. His name was Paul Robinson, and he was in Kenya as part of a program that provided scholarships to African students to study in the United States. The students in the group with him were part of the program. He asked me, “Have you thought of going to school in America?” I explained that I’d taken the test of English as a foreign language.

“I passed real well,” I told him, “I got accepted to all these schools, but I have no money.”

“Have you heard of St. Lawrence?” he asked me.

“Yeah,” I said. “I see the T-shirts.” A smart aleck.

But we went on talking, and when we finished he said, “Well, let me give you a call in a week or so.” I was a little excited, but not much—I didn’t think anything was going to come of it. But four days later he called and asked me if I could come down to Nairobi for an interview.

I took a truck down there. It was a cattle truck. I had to stand inside with the cows, and I had to help out. That’s how it worked—you paid the driver a little money, but you also had to help out with the cows. The truck took forever, and the cows kept falling down. I helped pick them up. Sometimes they didn’t want to get up—they’re so stubborn. The only sure way to get a cow to stand is to take a piece of rubber and tie it over its nose and mouth. When it realizes that it can’t breathe, it gets up. So that’s how I got to Nairobi. I was a wreck by the time I got there: 330 miles, two days, standing in the truck with the cows going to the bathroom on my shoes, on my clothes. You can imagine how strong I smelled. That’s how I had my interview: smelling of cows. Then I went back to the bank and waited. A few months later, I got a letter: I’d been accepted. I was going to St. Lawrence University, in Canton, New York, with a full scholarship.

No one I knew—except those missionaries—had ever been to America, and I knew nothing about it. I’d been told all sorts of stories.

“Don’t eat with the wrong fork.”

“Always watch your things—in New York, they’ll steal them right from you.”

“American women? Don’t mess with them! They have little guns in their bags—small guns you can’t see. And if you bother them, they just shoot you.”

So there I was at Nairobi Airport, alone, with stories like these in my head, scared as a puppy. I’d been home to say good-bye to my mother and my brothers. My mother asked a lot of questions: “Are you afraid? Will you come back? Is America close to Nairobi?” Not that she had ever seen Nairobi. The Americans she knew were missionaries. She’d seen what they could do—drill wells, give medical treatment—and I think she thought I’d return like them. With my brothers, it was all man talk: the cattle, the weather, the grazing. They did not understand what I was doing, and they did not ask.

I rode a cattle truck from Marsabit to Nairobi, just the way I had for my interview. For two days before leaving, I literally couldn’t eat—not a thing—I was so nervous. So by the time I checked in for my flight, I was very hungry. I was wearing a three-piece wool suit, with
a collar and tie. I wanted to make the right impression. I had no idea how hot it was going to be in New York in August.

The first part of the journey was to London. I boarded the flight, and in the next seat there was an American man. I asked him where he was from. He told me, “Ohio.” My English was terrible, but my geography was pretty good, and I knew where Ohio was, so we got along all right. An hour or two into the flight, they served a meal. I wanted to be careful not to embarrass myself in front of Americans. I certainly didn’t want to offend my seatmate by using the wrong fork. And I wanted to be sure not to make any other mistake, like eating from the wrong side of the plate or starting with the entrée when I should have started with the salad, or something like that. The only way to get it exactly right, I thought, was to watch the man next to me, so when my food arrived, I sat reading a newspaper and sneaking glances to see what my neighbor was doing. He picked up his fork, so I picked up my fork. He pushed his food around a bit and picked at his salad, so I did the same.

Then he put his fork down.
“Aaah!
I don’t like this airplane food,” he said. “It’s really bad.”

So of course I did the same. “Me, too. It’s very bad.” And I was so hungry that I could have eaten my shoes!

Later, the flight attendant came by again and asked if we needed anything else. My neighbor told her, “No, I’m fine.”

“How about you?” she asked me.

“No, I’m fine, too.”

By then I was dying of hunger. But that’s how it went, all the way to London. My neighbor didn’t eat anything—just drank water. I didn’t eat anything either, and I just got hungrier and hungrier. In London, I changed planes for the flight to New York. And do you know what? On the New York flight I was in the same seat, with the same guy next to me! By then I knew he wasn’t going to touch his food. As soon as the plane took off I got a blanket, covered my head, and tried to sleep.

NAIROBI IS BIG
, but it is nothing like New York. I looked down, and there was this huge city. At Kennedy Airport I was supposed to transfer to a plane to Syracuse. I’d written a letter to the YMCA in New York because they help international students with travel. Somebody was going to meet me at the plane, but I didn’t realize the person couldn’t come all the way to the gate. I stepped off the plane expecting somebody to be waiting right there, and when I didn’t see anybody I panicked. So I followed everybody else, and I figured out that you have
to go through immigration and pick up your luggage before you get to the meeting point. And eventually I found someone waiting for me—a young woman. I was so relieved, I gave her a hug—a big hug. I forgot all about those little guns!

She was supposed to take me from the international terminal to the domestic terminal so I could catch my flight to Syracuse. I had my things. I’d brought everything I owned: T-shirts, shorts—so worn out that people in America would just have thrown them away. Everything fit in two suitcases. I was still wearing my three-piece suit. I was hot, I was nervous, and I was hungry—all I’d had for about four days now was water. It was a terrible combination for someone in an unfamiliar place.

We started walking, and eventually my guide said, “Okay, Joseph. I have to leave you now. The terminal’s not far; just go around here, take a left and a right and you’ll be there.” Now in my home, if somebody told me that, I’d think it was pretty far away. The village is just there? I’d think, probably four miles. And when somebody gives you directions, it’s simple: “Climb the hill and the village is down below.” There’s no “left” and “right.” “You go past the big tree.” Simple—there’s only one big tree. But this young woman had helped
me and I didn’t want to be a bother, so I thanked her and set off. I took two or three rights, whatever lefts came along—and in a few minutes I was completely lost. By the time I found my way to the right gate, I’d missed my flight.

It was about noon, and the next flight to Syracuse wasn’t until four in the afternoon. So I sat down, pushed my suitcases under the chair, and waited for check-in. I was still nervous—every time someone came close to me, I’d cross my legs to hide my bags, afraid they might try to take them. Even old men and children.

I wanted to call the school to tell them I’d missed my flight. A student was going to meet me at the airport, and I wanted them to know I’d be late. I went to a pay phone, but I wasn’t sure where to put the money or exactly how to make a long-distance call. Someone on the phone kept saying to me, “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again.”

I didn’t realize that it was a recording—I started arguing with the machine, saying, “I need to call this number. I don’t understand. Why can’t you help me?” This went on for a while. Finally, I saw a black man nearby. Back home, I’d been told, “When you see a black person, call him ‘brother.’” So I asked him, “Brother, can you help me?”

“Are you from Africa, brother?” He could tell—my accent was so strong.

“Yes, I’m from Africa. Can you help me make this call?”

I explained my situation. He was sympathetic and he helped me get the call through to St. Lawrence, and I told them what had happened. Other people helped me out, too. A policeman watched my things while I went to the bathroom. I was in there for about five seconds—I went so quickly because I thought maybe he’d take them. Then finally check-in time came, and I was on my flight to Syracuse.

WHEN I ARRIVED
, two female students were there to meet me. They had a car—it’s about a three-hour drive from Syracuse to St. Lawrence—and we set off. It was a warm day, and they had the air conditioning turned all the way up. It was cold in the car, I was tired, and I hadn’t eaten—I was almost sick. There I was, someone who’d learned to survive out in the open with the cattle back home, who’d learned to go without food and water all day—and I was helpless. I couldn’t do anything. I started shaking.

One of the women asked me, “Joseph! Are you okay? Did you eat?”

I said, “No.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No.” Because back home, a warrior never accepts food from a woman. It goes against tradition; if a woman asks if you’re hungry and you say yes, it makes you appear weak. It’s unacceptable. So I said, “No, I’m fine.”

“Are you cold?”

“No. I’m fine, really.” This happened several times. They asked me, “Are you sure you don’t want to eat?” and I kept telling them, “No, it’s fine.” I knew it was a long drive; I thought that if I could just go to sleep until the next day, I’d be able to figure out what to do. But finally I couldn’t take it anymore. Part of me was acting on tradition; part of me was worried about embarrassing myself and eating the wrong way—and part of me was thinking, I hope they ask me just one more time. I guess I realized that the state of New York wasn’t going to look down on me if I accepted the offer of a meal.

The opportunity came at McDonald’s. By then it was about ten o’clock in the evening. “Joseph, we’re stopping at McDonald’s here. Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

I asked, “Are there any chips?” I didn’t know what chips were called in the United States, but one of the women had been to Europe and she knew.

“French fries?”

“Potatoes—chips. Yes!”

They were so excited. They bought me a big burger and a big order of french fries, and I felt a lot better. And that was my introduction to America—McDonald’s.

W
HEN I TELL MY MOM
about the sun—how it doesn’t move—she thinks I’m crazy. I tell her, “Mom, the sun is fixed. It’s the Earth that moves around the sun.”

She says, “OK, Son. I’m putting this rock here. Let’s see if it’s going to move before tomorrow.” She just doesn’t understand it. If I ask her what she thinks happens, she says, “Well, Son. I think the sun goes down, goes all the way underground, and rises up on the other side of the country.”

“And how about the stars?”

“Well, the stars—during the day, they go out and graze, like the cows do. So you don’t see them. At night, they come home and sleep, and we see them up there.”

That’s all she knows. For her, there’s just nature. Bring science, bring technology to her, and she’ll never really get it. If there’s an eclipse of the moon, she thinks that we did something wrong, and she prays. When I’m home and staying with her in her hut, I’ll sometimes hear her get up in the night and pray: “Thanks for bringing my son home. Thanks for the things you’ve done for me. And bring the moon back!”

I tell her, “Mom, when I come home, I fly here.” She has no idea where America is. She knows it’s far away, that’s all. She’d never get in a plane. She sees them up there, but they don’t mean anything to her. So I tell her, “My plane leaves at 6:30 in the morning, when you take the cows out. You go the whole day, and the cows come home, and I’m still up in the air. And you sleep, and I’m still traveling, and the next day when you take the cows out again is when I reach America.”

She says, “All that time, you’re up there?”

“Yes.”

“And you eat and move around in the plane?”

“Yes.”

And she says, “Son, I don’t believe it. But I trust you. I trust what you’re telling me.”

The thing is, I spent very little time with my mother when I was growing up. I was away at boarding schools from the age of six, and when I wasn’t at school I was usually at cattle camp with my brothers and the other men. I was learning how a boy is supposed to live, learning our traditions, how to be brave, how to protect the cattle—and not to involve myself too much with women. That’s our culture. I’d see my mother for perhaps ten days a year. So now I make it a point to spend time with her. I go home to Kenya during the school vacations, and I spend two or three weeks with her, telling her what I’m doing and finding out from her about life at home.

Whenever I go home, I bring her a present—usually some cloth. It’s not very much: As I told you, she doesn’t have many possessions; she doesn’t live like that. After college, I became a teacher in McLean, Virginia, at The Langley School. A teacher doesn’t make a lot of money, but I always saved what I could. I wanted to do something more for my mom. At the end of my second year teaching, I took a group of students and parents to Kenya during the summer vacation. They saw where I came from, what kind of life I’d lived as a child,
the kind of huts we lived in. I told them, “This is how my mother lives. She lives in a hut like this.” And I was thinking about what I could do for her.

At the end of the trip, the group gave me some money, to help me and to say thanks. I took that money, put it in an envelope, wrapped it tight with a rubber band, and stuffed it away at the bottom of my bag. I didn’t even look at it—I thought, if I see it, I’m going to want to spend it. I knew I wanted to do something special for my mom. So I went home, and with Lmatarion and a friend and some soldiers I knew, I went up to an area near the Ethiopian border where there are a lot of cows. With the group’s money and the money I had been saving, I bought my mom some cattle.

The cows up there were a good breed. They were more drought resistant and gave more milk than our cows. I thought that they would be the perfect present for my mom—not only for her, but for the whole community. There would be more milk for everybody, and the new cattle would improve our breeding stock. So we went up there and bought the cows. We arranged for transportation, then we drove home. I never said a word to my mom, so she wasn’t expecting anything.

The cows arrived about a week later. I made sure that they were brought to the village early in the morning.
Mornings are regarded as a blessing. As the sun was coming up, I brought the cows into the kraal, one by one, eight of them. I said to my mom, “This is a gift for you. What you’ve done for me has been incredible. You’ve supported me my whole life, through all the tough decisions to allow me to stay in school. When people wanted me to drop out, you made me stay. So this is your gift. Come and see your cows.” She couldn’t believe it! She couldn’t say a word. She just went and looked at them, touched them.

It was time for the cattle to go out and graze, so the new cows went out with the rest of the herd. When they came back that evening, Mom went out and looked at them again, and that night she woke up many times to go out to be with them. What she was doing was naming them. In the morning, she took me out and told me their names—“This is so-and-so, this is so-and-so, this is so-and-so.” She was very happy—I knew it was going to make her happy, but I didn’t know how happy. And now the kids in the village are saying, “I’ll go to school to buy cows for my mom, like Lekuton did.” It’s been very good.