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."

“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.

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.”

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)