Chai Tea Sunday (10 page)

At one point, the stench and heartbreak became too much for me. I threw up on the side of the dirt road, embarrassed, and conscious of those watching me.

It was the first time I let go of the hand of the little girl in blue, yet I sensed that she didn't move as I hurled the little bit of food I had in my stomach into the ditch. And I was well aware of the irony when it was she who patted my back in an attempt to make me feel better.

When Mama Bu and I returned home a few hours before dinner, I excused myself and went to my host family's backyard to call my parents. It was only ten o'clock there, and I knew they would be awake and watching the last period of
Hockey Night in Canada
.

“Mom?! It's me!” I cried over the slightly crackly reception when she answered the phone.

“Oh, honey! It's so wonderful to hear your voice. We've been so worried! We didn't know when we would hear from you and I've just been sick over not knowing when we'd talk to you. How are you?! How is everything? Are you safe? Are you liking Africa? Is your host family taking care of you?”

“Mom? Mom! Slow down,” I interrupted her, laughing. I was overjoyed to be talking to her. I told her about my host family, my first day in Kenya and all that Mama Bu had shown me. I could hear my mom sighing on the other end of the phone as I described the conditions of the slum.

“Oh, honey, that sounds awful. Really heartbreaking.”

“It was. But I'm glad I went. I needed to see what it is really like here.” Then, out of nowhere, I asked, “Have you heard from Eric?”

The question surprised even me. I had no idea where it came from; I had promised myself before the call that I wouldn't ask about him. He was no longer my husband and we had both moved on.

“No, sweetie, I haven't,” my mom said sadly. I knew her heart was broken for both Eric and me.

“Well, uh, I guess that makes sense,” I said, stumbling. “After all, why would you hear from him? We're over and nothing will change that.”

“We could call him for you, if you'd like?” my father offered. He had picked up another extension and had been listening in.

“No, no. Don't do that, Dad. I just thought that if you had heard from him . . . well, uh, I guess I just wanted to know how he is coping.” I blinked back tears, desperate to not cry while speaking to my parents. “But, please, don't call him. It would be humiliating. We're . . . well, you know . . . officially separated and all, so there really isn't a point anymore.”

“Oh, honey, of course. We'll do whatever you want. You tell us what you need and we'll do whatever we can for you. You know that. If you want us to get on a plane tomorrow and join you in Kenya, we're there. You just let us know what it is you want us to do — or not do,” my mom responded, her voice filled with concern. I knew she was grasping for a way to make me feel better and — considering it was over a cell phone, halfway across the world — she was actually doing a pretty good job.

“Thanks, Mom. I appreciate that,” I answered, stalling for more time but knowing I had to hang up. “I hate to do this, Mom and Dad, I really do, but I need to hang up now. It's really expensive to call you, but I wanted to make sure that you knew I was okay. But I'll be able to access email really cheaply, so send me as many emails as you want. I'm going to try to check often.”

“We love you, Nicole.”

“I know. And I love you too. I miss you!”

When I hung up the phone, I sat silently by myself for a few minutes, thinking of them. Three months was a long time, and I already missed them more than ever.

I left the backyard and walked into the kitchen to see if I could help. “Wow, something smells fantastic in here! What can I do?”

“I would love some help,
rafiki
. Thank you for offering,” Mama Bu answered. She gave me her toothy grin. “For your first dinner with us, we are having
chapati na sukuma wiki
. It is like collard greens, and we boil them with tomatoes and onions. We will have it with chapatis.”

“Sounds great,” I said. After a long day full of walking and eating very little, I was starving and would eat anything. “What is chapatis?”

“A flat and round bread. Thick, and good for scooping. We use it to pick up the
sukuma wiki
instead of a spoon or fork.”

“I can't wait to taste it,” I said, genuinely interested in trying authentic Kenyan food. I was also secretly relieved that there was no mention of meat.

“You shall, except that we will not eat for several more hours. Dinner is not until 7:30, and you can help me then. What do you think of going now and taking a nap? I sense that you did not sleep well last night.” Mama Bu gave me a look and I knew, then, that she had heard me crying. “I have got everything covered until dinner, and you need to rest.”

I nodded, completely exhausted. I couldn't have refused a nap even if I wanted to. I agreed to take a rest, and went to my bedroom to lie down. With my eyes already closing, I stuck my hand in my jeans pocket to remove the cross necklace so that I could tuck it somewhere safe.

It was gone.

I dug deeper, but found nothing — except for total panic.

I tore my room apart, hopeful it had fallen out and I would find it. I didn't. With the family's help, we searched every corner of the tiny house but came up with nothing.

“I am so sorry!” Mama Bu said, guilt taking over her face. “I told you to remove it, and now it is gone! I feel terrible. I wish I had seen it before we left as I would have told you to leave it at home, but you were wearing a sweatshirt. . . .”

“Oh, it's okay, Mama Bu. Really. It's not your fault. I should have been more careful. I knew it was silly to even bring it to Kenya . . . but, well, it reminded me of home, and I couldn't seem to part with it.” My throat was closing, and I knew I was near tears, so I excused myself and left to take my nap.

On the hard bed, I bit into my pillow to try to mask the gut-wrenching sobs that took over. I was disappointed to have lost the necklace, but I knew my tears were bigger than that; I was devastated to lose the final connection I had to Ella and Eric.

Eventually, I forced myself to stop crying. It was over. They were gone, and so was my necklace. Perhaps it was a sign: I needed to accept the truth. Neither Eric nor Ella were coming back, and the sooner I realized it, the sooner I could heal.

When I woke up two hours later, new smells greeted me from the kitchen and my stomach grumbled. It was dark out and the cold air had started to seep back into the house through my window bars.

I jumped out of bed, hopeful that I hadn't slept through dinner — or the preparations. I wanted to help Mama Bu and was interested to see how she would be cooking our dinner. But when I got to the kitchen, I realized that dinner was already ready.

“It is okay, Nicky,” Mama Bu said when I apologized for sleeping so long. “We will have many more dinners together with lots of opportunities to help. For now, you can put these plates on the coffee table and get ready to wash your hands.”

“Do I do that here?” I asked, pointing to the kitchen sink.

“No, you just need to take a seat, dolly. On one of the couches. We eat in the sitting room. I will be bringing you what you need to wash your hands.”

Mama Bu called Kiano and Petar for dinner and I took my seat on my own tattered couch. Mama Bu followed, carrying a pitcher of slightly warmed water, along with a plastic bowl, bar of soap and towel.

“We always wash our hands together. Even in restaurants,” Petar said. “There is a sink with a bar of soap and towel — right where you eat. It is considered to be bad manners if you don't.”

“Petar!” Mama Bu warned, glaring at her son. “Let us not tell Nicky what is rude, for that is rude.”

“His intentions are good, Bu,” Kiano interjected, patting his son on the knee. “Let him be.”

“That's okay, Mama Bu, I'm glad Petar told me about it. I like knowing all about your customs. Better to hear about it now than embarrass myself later!” I smiled at Petar who grinned back. I finished washing my hands and watched as Mama Bu took the water, soap and towel to Kiano. Then she served Petar. Lastly, herself.

We all joined hands as Kiano led us in grace. It was longer than I was used to, and spoken in Swahili, but I enjoyed listening to the words of another language. When he finished, Kiano added, in English, “We thank you, dear God, for bringing us our new
rafiki
, Nicky. Please keep her safe during her travels here and help her find strength and wisdom as she works with the children at Kidaai. Amen.”

“Amen,” I added, smiling warmly at Kiano and feeling like I was part of the family.

“Here you are, Nicky. Your first supper in Kenya.” Mama Bu first served everyone a mug of chai from her oversized thermos, and then she handed me the bowl of food
.
“Use the chapati to pick it up. Like a fork.”

As I started to scoop, a flash of worry took over as I remembered the stories of Canadians getting sick after eating African food. Montezuma's revenge in a house with six-foot walls and sounds that bounced around like the Grand Canyon's echo would be, to say the very least, embarrassing for everyone. Most especially me.

I forced myself to push the thought to the back of my mind. To stop worrying, and start tasting.

I took a bite.

It was delicious. The warm flavours from the spices Mama Bu had used made the collard greens taste tender and savory. And the chapati was served warm — soft and buttery with a flaky middle — but still great for scooping. It tasted like a warmed, thick tortilla, but heartier and more flavourful.

After dinner, Mama Bu and I cleared the plates and placed them in the kitchen. I cut up mango, while she prepared the chai.

I bit into the fruit and savoured the juicy sweetness. “It almost tastes like honey!”

“Well it should, Nicky. Remember, it is our backyard sweet treat!” Mama Bu teased me. “Would you like some more?”

“Thank you, but this is plenty.” I did want more, but didn't want to seem gluttonous in a country so damaged by famine.

“So, Nicky, Bu tells me you visited the slums this afternoon. Not a nice sight, is it?” Kiano said, stretching out on the couch as his wife took his fruit plate away. She returned to stir his tea with some milk and sugar.

“It was pretty shocking. And devastating. I wish I could do more to help everyone who lives in the slum,” I admitted, thinking of the elderly man who didn't have enough food to feed his grandchildren — and the little girl in blue who was so loving, despite having so little.

“Ah, but you already are, Nicky. By being here and taking the steps to teach the children of Kidaai. You are already doing so much for the people of Kenya. You will see.” Kiano blew on his tea. Took a sip.

“I'm looking forward to meeting them on Monday. And I'm excited to get working,” I said.

“I could see in your eyes today, Nicky, that you are a born healer and teacher. I know you will do great things for our people,” Mama Bu jumped in, returning from finishing up in the kitchen. “I have no doubt that you will help them greatly. You will teach them, and love them, that is for sure. But I am also certain that
they
will give
you
even more back.”

Kiano set his empty cup on the table, and Mama Bu took it to the kitchen. Calling behind her, she said, “We have church tomorrow, Nicky
.
We do not have many rules in this house, but one rule that must not be broken is church. Anyone staying here always joins us so that we can go together, as a family. It starts at nine. We leave at eight.”

“I'd love to join you for church. I'm not much of a rule breaker, after all,” I teased.

“That is great to hear,” Kiano replied, grinning.

I took a long sip of tea. “I feel like I've spent a lot of time telling you about me. I'd love to know more about you. You work in a bank?”

“Yes, that is right. I am a teller that helps people with deposits and getting their money out. Like you might have where you live,” Kiano described.

“In Ngong?”

“No, unfortunately not. I work at the Buru Buru branch in Nairobi.”

“How do you get there?”

“By
matatu.
There and back.”

Mama Bu came back into the room and joined us on the couch. “Kiano works very hard, Nicky. Long hours and he is very committed to his job. He leaves the house very early in the morning and is not home until dinner time,” Mama Bu said. Pride filled her cheeks.