It Takes a
Village
I had become
somewhat accustomed to people in Kenegut knowing my every move, but Mr. Mbaka had invaded my privacy. And he had no qualms about letting me know he had done so.
Mr. Mbaka was a portly man with an arthritic hip and a walking
stick. He had donated the land on which the school had been built, so he was an
important person, something like a mayor. I suppose that gave him the right, in
his mind, to enter my blue hovel without permission.
Late Monday, after
returning from my weekend with Christy, Mr. Mbaka approached me as I was headed
to the bar to meet Mr. Tembur, as promised.
“Meestah
Ree-chahd, please to let me show you something,” he said.
After six hours of
gut-churning rides on matatus and buses, I was itching for a Tusker, but I
could not refuse an elder of his standing, so I followed him as we retraced my
steps back to the blue hovel. Without hesitation, he pushed open my front door
and proceeded to my bedroom.
“I was wondering,”
he said, poking his walking stick into my duffle bag on the floor. “What is
this?”
He prodded at a
large bottle of multi-vitamins I had bought in Phoenix. I gazed at him in
astonishment.
“We hope it is not
drugs,” he said, solemnly.
We! I
thought. How many people had invaded my blue hovel? Had a committee formed
in my bedroom?
“Those are
vitamins,” I explained.
He furrowed his
brow.
“Dawa,” I said,
using the Swahili word for medicine.
“So, it is good
for you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“It’s for my health.”
“It will not hurt
me?”
“Did you take
some?”
I retrieved the
bottle from my duffle bag. The contents, as far as I could tell, were the same.
“Yes,” he said.
“Why?”
“We must think of
the students,” he said. “Some of them have been in trouble for smoking bangi.”
“I don’t smoke bangi,”
I said, with some hostility in my voice.
“So this will not
hurt me?” he said, plucking the bottle from my hand and inspecting it.
“No,” I said, “but
your urine might turn orange.”
“Eh?”
“Your water,” I
said, gesturing at my crotch. “It might turn orange.”
“Orange?”
“Yes.”
He still looked
confused, but I left it at that. I told him Mr. Tembur was waiting for me.
“Where?”
“The market,” I
said, avoiding mention of the bar.
“You and Mister
Tembur spend much time at the market.”
“He is my friend,”
I said.
“The market is
closed at night.”
“Not the bar.”
I turned and
walked out of my blue hovel, leaving Mr. Mbaka behind. It was a rude gesture,
but I was beginning to feel a little incensed at these intrusions in my life. By
now, the headmaster had submitted his quarterly report to TFA about me. I was
given stellar marks, except on my morality, which he had rated “below average.”
Christian missionaries had done a thorough job in Kenegut, and the rest of the
highlands, so most people frowned upon alcohol consumption.
At the bar, with a
Tusker nestled safely in my hand, I told Mr. Tembur about how I had walked out
on Mr. Mbaka. I asked him if he thought I had been rude.
“Do not worry,” he
said, waving his hand dismissively. “You are still a baby here.”
I groaned. He was
referring to a speech I had given the day after my arrival in Kenegut, at a
ceremony held in my honor. On that day, Mr. Kiryui, the headmaster, escorted me
to the school grounds, where more than a hundred villagers had gathered.
“What is this
about?” I asked Mr. Kiryui.
“They are here to
greet you.”
Most of the
villagers were sitting on the ground, splintered into various groups. Women sat
in one group, men in another. A group of elders were perched on chairs and benches
brought out in their honor. The largest group was of students, and they were
relegated to the back of the assembly.
Mr. Kiryui
informed me that Mr. Mtoo, who served in a security capacity for President
Daniel Arap Moi, and therefore the most respected person in Kenegut, would open
the ceremony and introduce me, at which point I was expected to give a speech
to the gathering. Just a month ago, I was a worker bee at a behemoth insurance
company, a hamster on his wheel. Now, I was being honored by the entire village
of Kenegut. I was awed and embarrassed.
I had no idea what
I would say to the people gathered in my honor. Then I saw Mr. Simoni, a fellow
English teacher, in the distance, and I remembered what he had told me that
very morning. He said his wife had given birth to a boy the day before, a few
hours before my arrival.
“We have named him
Reeh-chahd,” he had said. “In your honor.”
I had my
inspiration.
When it was my
turn to speak, I stood, screwed up my courage, and let the words tumble out,
while Mr. Kiryui stood beside me, translating my words into Swahili. I told
them that the birth of Mr. Simoni’s baby was a blessing, and that I was honored
the boy was named after me. I then told the gathering that two babies had
arrived in Kenegut.
“I am like a
baby,” I said. “I don’t know your language. I don’t know your customs. I don’t
know your culture.”
Several members of
the audience began to laugh. I looked at Mr. Kiryui. He gave me a sideways
glance and nodded his head in encouragement.
“Like a baby, I
will make mistakes,” I said.
Now the women
joined in the laughter. I needed to wrap it up before I turned crimson.
“You must please
forgive me now for any mistakes I make in the future,” I implored. “I am
learning what it means to be a member of your family, and I thank you now for
all the help you will give me.”
By now, elders
were slapping each others’ backs, and the women covered their mouths and waved
hands in the air, as if to swat my words away. Mr. Kiryui spoke above me, over
the heads of the women, so the elders could hear. When he was finished, he
looked at me, a bountiful smile on his face, waiting for my next words.
I cleared my
throat, feeling blood fill the capillaries of my face. “Thank you for welcoming
me to your home,” I said. “I am truly grateful to your hospitality.”
I took a few steps
backwards to indicate I was finished. Mr. Kiryui translated the last of my
words, and the hilarity gradually subsided. A few of the women shouted
mirthfully back and forth to one another. I dared not look at the students in
the distance.
Mr. Kiryui tossed
the proceedings back to Mr. Mtoo and then stood beside me. I asked him how my
speech was received.
“They liked it,”
he said, smiling.
****
“Tell me, Mister
Tembur,” I asked for the umpteenth time, “did they really like my speech?”
Just then, Mr.
Maritim, a history teacher, appeared at our table. He had patchy muttonchop
sideburns that made him look like a mangy lion.
“Ah, Meestah
Maritim!” Tembur said, raising his Tusker and pointing the bottle at me.
“Meestah Reeh-chahd wants to know again if everyone liked his speech.”
“You mean the baby
speech?” Maritim said, grinning.
“It is the only
speech he has given,” Tembur said.
Mr. Maritim slid
into the both beside Mr. Tembur. I raised my hand to get the bartender’s
attention and ordered a Tusker for Mr. Maritim.
“It was very
funny,” Maritim said.
“See there,” I said.
“That’s the point. It wasn’t meant to be funny.”
“You did not mean
it to be funny?”
“No.”
“Then you must be
a very funny man,” Tembur said. “I would like to hear you when you mean to be
funny.”
Mr. Maritim
slapped the table and chortled, covering his mouth with his hand.
“Tell us a joke,” Tembur
said.
“I don’t know any
jokes,” I said.
But then one
occurred to me.
“Okay. A man walks
into a doctor’s office,” I said. “He is naked, but he is wrapped entirely
in Saran Wrap.”
“Eh?”
“Cellophane.”
“Eh?”
“Plastic wrap.”
Tembur and Maritim
exchanged quizzical glances.
“The man was
wrapped in clear plastic,” I said. “He was naked, but you could see right
through the plastic.”
“He must be
crazy,” Tembur said.
“Yes,” I said.
“When he walks in to the doctor’s office, the doctor turns to him.”
“Yes?”
“And the doctor
says, Clearly, I can see your nuts.”
“Yes?”
“That’s it,” I
said. “That’s the joke.”
“Eh?”
“Clearly, I can
see your nuts,” I explained. “Do you know what nuts means?”
“It is meaning
crazy?” Tembur asked.
“Yes, but it also
refers to a man’s private parts,” I feebly explained.
“Eh?”
“His testicles.”
“Testicles?”
“Yes, nuts is
another word for testicles.”
Mr. Maritim
scratched his sideburns, uncomprehending. Suddenly, Mr. Tembur slapped the
table and guffawed. “I understand,” he said, and he proceeded to tell the
joke to Mr. Maritim in Swahili.
Mt. Maritim burst
out laughing.
****
Three rounds
later, and I soon learned that Mr. Maritim was a bitter drunk.
“Meestah
Ree-chahd,” he said, “are you owning a car in the U.S.?”
"Yes."
"Yes."
“Me,” he said, “I
have never been owning a car.”
I nodded my head
dubiously, unsure where he was headed. He had that glazed look in his eyes that
suggested he had donned a different personality.
“Do you know,” he
said, poking his chest, “I have never been to Nairobi.”
And I had
already been there at least a dozen times. These niggling observations
about my privilege annoyed me. Yes, I enjoyed certain privileges, but that did
not make me happier?
“Imagine,” Mr.
Maritim said. “I have been living here all my life, and I have never seen
Nairobi.”
Mr. Tembur could
see I was getting irritated.
“Look here,” he
said to Mr. Maritim. “If you have never been to Nairobi, it is your own fault.”
“Eh?”
“Do you have money
in your pocket right now?”
“Eh?”
“You have money in
your pocket,” Mr. Tembur said, “yet you let Meestah Ree-chahd here buy you your
drinks.”
That flummoxed Mr.
Maritim.
“You see here,”
Mr. Tembur said, turning to me. He pointed at Mr. Maritim, who was still
speechless. “This is Africa in a nutshell. We have the means to do for ourselves,
but instead we put our hand out.”
“I did not ask him to buy me a Tusker,” said Maritim.
“Indeed,” I said.
“He did not.”
"But neither did he refuse," said Tembur.
"But neither did he refuse," said Tembur.
That silenced Mr.
Maritim, and I thrust the knife further by ordering another round of Tuskers
for our table.
****
I stepped out of
the bar into the inky black night of a new moon and followed a corridor of
light emanating from a nearby window to where it fingered the treeline at the
outskirts of the market. I unzipped and urinated into the bushes. As I stood
there, glancing nervously around, I suddenly heard a man’s raised voice coming
from a nearby hut. I cocked my ear as the voice became more aggressive. The
meek protestations of a female voice followed each outburst. Then, it happened:
a smack loud enough to make me wince.
She spoke in
Swahili, and though I did not know the words, I understood the universal
language of mercy. The man pelted her with angry words. I shook off the last
drops and zipped my trousers. The scrape of furniture being shoved aside.
Muffled cries. I despised myself for remaining rooted to the spot. A tin wall
separated me from the violence happening on the other side, and I felt
powerless.
Shaking with
anger, I turned and marched back into the bar. I slipped into the booth,
visibly upset. Mr. Tembur asked what was wrong, and I told him what I had
overheard.
“Just there?” he
asked, pointing out the door.
“Yes.”
“Aiii,” he said,
clicking his tongue. “That is the owner’s home.”
“The owner of this
bar?”
“Yes,” Mr. Maritim
confirmed. “He is a mean one. Especially when he is drunk.”
I drank more than
I had planned to that night. Around midnight, we finally stumbled out of the
bar into a night that had been extinguished of all light. I had never in my
life been deposited into such darkness. I took a few blind steps and stumbled over a stone in the path. It was clear I would not be able to
find my way back to my blue hovel.
“I am thinking we
must walk you home,” Mr. Tembur said.
****
A rooster crowed
at dawn outside my window. I nudged the curtain aside to see cows
feeding on my lawn and the rooster perched defiantly on my fence, eyeing me
sideways. Tuesday morning. A day closer to reuniting with Christy. That is how
I counted my days in Kenegut now, and it was becoming clear that the situation
was untenable. When TFA first offered to send me to Kenya, they originally had
me posted in the Literature Department at Eldoret University, but by the time I got to the orientation in
Phoenix, I had been re-stationed to Kenegut Secondary School.
I decided during
my next trip to Nairobi that I would visit the TFA office and demand to be
re-stationed near Christy. By now, several other TFAers had been relocated.
Michelle had been moved a few miles outside Kericho. Helene and Soren had been
plucked from the slopes of Mt. Kilimanjaro and had been deposited comfortably at
the Teachers College in downtown Kericho. It was my turn, I decided, as I
sipped coffee in my blue hovel.
Kenegut was a
beautiful locale. At any turn on the path or road, I might be confronted with a
magnificent view of the surrounding highlands. And the people were generous,
kind, hospitable. I was their sorry son, and they looked after me, watched my
every move. They knew I drank beer in the bar and wine in my blue hovel. They
knew I traveled to Nairobi every weekend, and they wondered at the reason why.
They suspected me of harboring drugs, of possibly smoking bangi.
Those unseen eyes
followed me everywhere, and I was beginning to feel claustrophobic.
As I sauntered
toward the school grounds, I saw Mr. Mbaka in the distance, sitting with Mr.
Langat, the oldest man in Kenegut, who was presumed to be more than 100 years
old. Sitting beside them, all smiles, was Kiptoo Kiryui, the headmaster’s son.
It was a marvelous tableau, and I hurried back to my blue hovel to retrieve my
camera.
Mr. Mbaka ruined
the photo by picking his nose, an action that was seemingly not frowned upon in
rural Kenya. In fact, each morning, Kiptoo bounded trouserless out of his house
next door and perched himself on top of a dirt pile in my backyard, where he
would defecate without the least sign of bashfulness.
I shook hands with Mr. Langat, with my free hand supporting my wrist, as was the custom with elders. I looked into his rheumy eyes, magnified behind black, horn-rimmed glasses, and wondered at what he had seen.
If he were truly more than one-hundred years old, he would have been born around the time the British colonized East Africa. As a boy, he would have witnessed the British forcibly take over the highlands, and he and his family would have been relocated onto "native reserves." He would have been middle aged when Mau Mau rebels fought against British rule, and I wondered if he had participated in the effort to reclaim his family's ancestral lands. To ask would be rude, and he most likely would be evasive anyway. By the time Kenya gained independence in 1963, he would already have been an old man, well into his sixties, if not his seventies.
I would have asked him a number of questions, but Mr. Mbaka had something important to tell me.
“Mistah
Ree-chahd,” he said. “Last night, I thought I was dying.”
I eyed him quizzically.
“My water was
orange,” he said, “so I thought I was very sick.”
I smiled.
“Then I remembered
what you told me.”
He pointed an index finger at me, the one with which he had picked his nose. “But do you know,” he said, “my hip still bothers me.”
He pointed an index finger at me, the one with which he had picked his nose. “But do you know,” he said, “my hip still bothers me.”
I smiled. I
thought about explaining to him that vitamins did not work that way.
Instead, I told
him I was sorry.
(To be continued)
(To be continued)