Chai Tea Sunday (17 page)

Jebet and her family arrived at their extended family's home on the night before Christmas Eve. Maria and Frank had decorated the house with curly ribbon. They spent the next few days together eating meat, attending church and singing carols while Frank played harmonica and Maria gazed lovingly at him from her wheelchair.

Two days after Christmas, once the festivities had peaked and everyone was lounging about the house, tired and happy, the family watched the results of the presidential election on television. President Mwai Kibaki was declared the winner and trouble had started to brew as soon as the results were revealed. The family looked on, frantic and dismayed, as supporters of Kibaki's opponent, Raila Odinga of the Orange Democratic Movement, took to the streets, screaming accusations of electoral manipulation. The protests predominantly took place in Odinga's homeland of Nyanza Province. A few popped up in the slums of Nairobi, but remained, for the most part, non-violent, and demonstrated solely by voice.

As the hours and days ticked forward, the police ended up firing their guns in attempts to stop the protesting and demonstrators were shot in clear view of
TV
cameras. Along with the rest of the nation, Jebet and her family watched the police shootings over and over, knowing that demonstrators were on the path to rebellion and violence. In one form or another, they would take over.

In quick time, the protests grew more and more heated, and the family watched, horrified, as they became particularly aggressive and, ultimately, turned into targeted ethnic violence. As the protests heightened, fear bubbled up inside Maria and Frank's home. The most vulnerable group was the Kikuyu people — the community where President Kibaki was from. The Eldoret area was filled with its members. Not knowing where else to turn, Maria and Frank sought refuge by taking the entire family back to the church where they had been days before to celebrate Christ's birth.

For the most part, the church remained dark, quiet and still as the Eldoret people waited for the violent protests to stop. As time passed, hundreds of people trickled through the church's doors, each afraid of what might happen; they all wanted to be in the safest place they knew. The people brought with them a few comforts of home, as well as small amounts of food, which ended up being shared throughout the group.

With tears of fear streaming down trembling chins, the Eldoret people joined hands and prayed silently together — their words were quiet, but their motions were strong, focused and emphatic. Toddlers sat curled in their mothers' arms, unaware of details but knowing something bad was going on; crying babies were shushed over and over, their mamas trying to get them to be quiet in fear of being heard and identified.

Maria, stuck in her wheelchair, was forced to sit in one place, frightened as she was, as she couldn't get around the many mattresses that had been set up as beds, while Frank paced throughout the church, wanting to do more but unable to help.

Out of sheer exhaustion, Jebet had fallen into a light sleep on a section of the mattress puzzle that had been pushed together in the centre of the church, only to quickly awaken to a new buzz of emotion. The church people were huddled in groups, banded together by fear and whispering in the dark. Then, listening.

From far away, Jebet could hear murmured chants repeated over and over in unison, followed by songs sung by an impromptu choir. As she listened, the chants and songs got closer. As they drew even nearer, Jebet recognized what she thought were youthful voices. The sound was later identified as two hundred teenagers and young adults chanting war songs as they closed in on the church. When they were close enough to identify words, Jebet heard their voices ringing out in the still air, maliciously accusing the church campers of contributing to political corruption and voting for President Kibaki. The boys surrounded the church, fighting off the citizens standing guard at its door, and making roadblocks to ensure no help could get through to the compound.

Some of the boys carried bows and arrows while others carried cans of gasoline, which they dumped in a double circle surrounding the church. When the match was struck, the blaze happened quickly, and pain within the church emerged as rapidly as the ferocious flames travelled.

Barbaric chaos erupted as the Eldoret people fought for their lives and tried to escape the inferno. People scratched their way over others as they tried to make it to the windows, where they knew they could breathe again. Those who had been sitting near the front of the church didn't have a chance and the smell of their burned flesh made Jebet retch as she searched frantically for her family. Her eyes scanned the pandemonium and she found Frank trying desperately to carry Maria over his shoulders. Having been confined to a wheelchair for so many years, her weight had surpassed his over the years, and his muscles fell limp underneath her. Rita and Mama Susan tried to help, each taking one of Maria's arms and dragging her over the items that had been left behind by people escaping through windows.

The fire licked its way through the mattresses at increased speed. The wildness and ferocity of the flames mounted.

The three women and Frank attempted to lift Maria through the window. The flames were quickly closing in, and the women's strength lost steam. Frank refused to leave his wife, and yelled at Mama Susan, Jebet and Rita to free themselves from the church. He turned back to his wife.

Frank held Maria close, trying to protect her from the heat. He sang loudly over the scorching fire that ultimately silenced their bodies and voices.

With her own burning skin no longer giving her a choice, Jebet hauled herself through the window, clumsily falling six feet to the dirty, hard ground outside. She crawled away on all fours, coughing and heaving, gasping for clean air and praying that her mama and sister were right behind her.

Jebet turned to search the crowds, desperate to find her sister and mama but unable to do so. Horrified, she watched as one of the activists grabbed a hold of a mother and baby who had managed to escape the church and were scurrying away from the blaze. The mother screamed for help as the young boy's arms wrapped around her, fighting the mother for her child. The demonstrator won. He seized the baby from the mother's arms, and threw the child through the open window, back into the welcoming flames.

Not knowing what else to do, Jebet lobbed herself into a nearby ditch; she pretended to be dead. A demonstrator carrying a bow around his shoulder, with three arrows in his hands, saw her lying on the ground, and kicked her hard with his right boot. Somehow, Jebet managed to stifle her cry, and when the second and third blow hit her ribs, she thought her forced silence would no longer be required. She knew she would soon die. But like a prayer being answered, the boy suddenly seemed satisfied with the limp body in front of him, and moved on to find his next victim.

Jebet lay in the ditch, her nose smashed into red clay dirt as she inhaled its contents. The church continued to burn, creating heavy clouds of smoke that choked up both the demonstrators and the church campers who had managed to escape.

When Jebet felt certain the protestors were no longer around her, she jumped up and hurried to find her family. Running as fast as her limp legs would carry her, she finally saw her mother and Rita clinging to one another, a circle of weaponed boys pacing around them, taunting them with their force. The boys took turns delivering kicks with their boots, graciously allowing each member a turn.

The punches came next, until both the mother and her child were no longer able to stand. Mama Susan was the first to crumple to her knees. She was quickly followed by a defeated Rita.

Jebet stayed frozen in fear as she watched her mother and sister beg for their lives, clasping hands together in a prayer position as the boys continued to deliver blows to their heads. It wasn't long before they collapsed. As Jebet watched in horror, Mama Susan and Rita lay heaped together on the ground, hugging one another as the teenagers delivered the final blows that killed them both, and the life Jebet once knew.

I was silent, trying to absorb all that Mama Bu had told me. I was horrified to hear the tragic story she had exposed and deeply saddened to learn about everything Jebet had been through. The tragedies Jebet had faced and the multiple losses she had personally suffered were too numerous and devastating to even imagine.

“When did this all happen?” I asked quietly. I looked down at my hands. Bit my lip to try to void my eyes of tears.

“Almost exactly a year ago, Nicky,” Mama Bu responded, patting my knee and shaking her head. “As you can imagine, it has been a very rough year for Jebet. She has not been the same since she returned from Eldoret. She has turned into an entirely different person. The only way I can put it is that she was broken when she returned. Her eyes were different. Her mood. Everything she said and did. She was just . . . different. It was like one person left for Eldoret and another person returned to Ngong.”

“Like something in her snapped?” I asked.

“Yes,
rafiki
. Exactly like that.”

The tears I had been fighting fell. “I had an uncle who went through a massive tragedy and he responded in a very similar way. He lost his wife — my mother's sister — in a car accident and he was never the same person again. Ultimately he was diagnosed with mental illness. He has been on medication ever since, but, even with the meds, he's not the same guy I remember from when I was younger. It's like he died when my aunt died.”

“It is really sad. It is so difficult to watch someone you care about go through something so tragic and lose so much that their soul becomes smothered. Like the fire inside them is put out. And no matter what they do, or what anyone else does, they simply cannot seem to find themselves again.”

I nodded, wiping a tear from my cheek. “So what do we do now, Mama Bu?” I asked. “Jebet's story is absolutely awful, but we can't let her continue hurting the children.”

“You are right. I will come with you tomorrow when you go in to teach at the school,” Mama Bu responded. She rubbed her chin. “I am not quite sure what I will say to Jebet, or what should happen now, but we have got to stop her from hurting those children. I have always known the post-election violence, and all that Jebet went through there, had changed her, but this is too much. It is understandable if she is no longer the loving woman she once was with those children, but all of this? It is too much. It is not right.” Mama Bu closed her eyes. “I will figure something out by tomorrow. I have to sleep on it tonight and the answer will come.”

“Well, I'm glad to have you on my side with this. I've missed you.”

“I wish I could have been here this week, Nicky. It was just not possible.”

“I know.”

“How have things been, other than what you've told me? I know there has been a lot that has happened, but how have you enjoyed your stay in Kenya otherwise?”

I shrugged. I thought about the best way to answer her question. “Well, I adore the kids, as I think you know. They are all so special. Adorable, really. And so full of innocence.”

Mama Bu nodded. “Yes, they really are. Very special, indeed.”

“And I've loved staying here. You and Petar and Kiano — you've really welcomed me into your home. I will forever be grateful for that.”

More nodding. “We are happy to make you feel at home. I hope you will continue to feel that way.”

I paused, then, unsure of what else to say.

“Anything more? Good or bad,
rafiki
?”

“I don't know. It's harder, I guess. Harder than what I was thinking it would be like.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I guess . . . I don't really know. I thought it would be difficult, particularly seeing the kids at the orphanage. But you know what? That's been the easy part. They are so full of life and energy. They are so happy, yet they have nothing. It's amazing, really. Amazing to watch.”

“So what is bothering you so?”

“The things I wasn't prepared for, I guess. The garbage smoke. It's everywhere. And I'm constantly sick because of it. I think it might be my allergies, but I can't stop coughing or sneezing. I've always been really sensitive.”

“You also might have a cold. The children at the orphanage? They are always sick. Makes it easy to pick up their bugs until you are immune.”

I nodded, realizing she was right.

I continued, “I also didn't realize there would be so much violence. I've always known that people from Africa have really suffered because of external and environmental factors — drought, famine, poverty — but I never suspected there would also be so much suffering from each
other
. It's not okay for people to beat each other to death. It's not okay for orphanage directors to hit children until they bleed . . . or
worse
.”

Mama Bu nodded, agreeing. “You are right,
rafiki
.”

“So then tell me, Mama Bu, how do you cope with it?”

“I have gotten used to it, I guess. But it still bothers me. And frightens me. I wish I could do something to change it, but it is the way it is here, I am afraid.”

“And Jebet?”

“Well, hopefully that is one way we
can
do something to help. We will get Jebet to stop hurting those children. One way or another, we will make sure it happens. Together.” Mama Bu put her arm around me, bringing me in for a squeeze. Then she continued, “You know, Nicky
,
I am a really good listener. If there something else you want to talk about, I would love to listen.”

She paused, watching my face.

“You do not seem right at night, tossing and turning in your bed. Kiano and Petar sleep right through everything, but I have
mama
ears. I hear your tears. I see your pain. What is the matter, dolly? Do you want to talk about it with Mama Bu?”

I looked at the woman I had grown so fond of, wondering how she could know all the pain I had kept inside since arriving in Kenya. With all of her wisdom and warmth, she was very special, and I suddenly couldn't keep the story inside any longer.

Like lava erupting from a volcano, my words poured out. Without conscious thought of what I was even saying, the story of Eric and the loss of our daughter came bursting out.

I had tried to bury my feelings by escaping to a new life, but even
that
couldn't silence me. Just as I had done immediately after we lost Ella, I had an innate need to talk about her and all that Eric and I had been through.

Through it all, Mama Bu sat patiently, absorbing every word that I said while she listened. She nodded her head in sympathy throughout my story and I could tell by her warm eyes that her own heart was clenched with pain as she learned what had really happened to me.

As I continued the story, Mama Bu moved closer. When I described Ella to her, she squeezed my knee and handed me the tea cloth she had resting on her shoulder. I wiped away my tears, and passed it back when she shed her own.

“Eric and I tried to make it work, but somehow we never found our way. I still love him with all of my heart, but I feel as though he left me when Ella died. No matter how hard I tried, and no matter what I did, I just couldn't seem to bring him back to me. He's gone. Like Ella.” I sobbed into Mama Bu's arms, which she opened fully to me.

“
Rafiki
, losing a child affects
mamas
and
babas
in different ways. It happens far too often here as well, and I have seen many marriages fall apart after a couple goes through something so devastating. We all know that men and women are completely different. It is only natural that you and Eric responded in your own way.”

I sniffled, then blew my nose into the tea cloth.

“In marriage,
rafiki
, two become one by turning to each other. In grief though, particularly with the loss of a child, the
mama
and
baba
often turn away from each other, and become even more alone. It should never, ever happen, but sometimes, like all things in life, it does.”

“But why didn't Eric want to protect me and take care of me the way he should? The way he always has? Why did it feel like he didn't love me?”

“I do not know, child. Maybe the grief was too much for him to be able to cope with. Maybe it took everything in him to just exist. You both went through the absolute hardest kind of sadness — the kind that reaches down to the bottom of your soul. But it hit you in different ways. And you reacted in different ways.”

“He pretended like Ella just didn't exist. He erased her from his mind. Do you know he went back to
work
? Two
days
after she died?”

“I suspect Eric was trying to flee his pain. Men . . . they go through grief like they are in a cocoon . . . they wrap themselves in it as they try to deal with the suffering. They want no part of the world that is making them feel so sad. Unfortunately, this all happens at the exact same time the
mama
desperately needs her husband for her support. I am so very sorry to hear what happened to you and Eric, but unfortunately it is not surprising.”

As I listened to Mama Bu's explanation, it dawned on me that I had done the same thing as Eric. Ultimately, when things got
really
bad and our marriage fell apart, I ran. I fled my pain, and the only world I knew. I needed to get away from everything, but instead of burying myself in work, like Eric did, I went to Africa.

I sniffled into the tea cloth, now drenched in our shared tears. After such a long time facing internal grief, feelings of relief pulsed through my heart as I listened to Mama Bu. She was kind and thoughtful — and so in tune with what Eric and I had been through.

“You know these men, Nicky, they talk only for practical reasons. Even in everyday life, they only want to talk about something so they can come to a solution, and then just move on. But us women? We want to talk about all that happened to us . . . and usually over and over until we have over-evaluated and over-analyzed every last detail.”

“Yes,” I agreed, laughing. “Eric used to always accuse me of ‘analysis paralysis.' He said I could talk about any detail until I forgot what I was talking about. But Eric? He never wanted to talk about
anything
. Sometimes, he wouldn't even want to tell me about how his day at work was.”

“Hmmph. Kiano too! And he always approaches any situation with his head. Our men, they think on
facts
and seem to talk
only
to find a solution.” Mama Bu's voice turned gentle. “But with the loss of a child, there is not a solution. So they do not talk. They just try to avoid the situation.”

I nodded, remembering, as though it had just happened yesterday.

“And this reaction of theirs does not mix with the fact that women . . . well, we just want to talk about
everything
that has happened. Finding a solution is not why we talk . . . we just want to know that someone is listening. And usually we want that person to be our husband. We approach loss — especially big loss — with our hearts. We need to discuss. We need to ponder.
Babas
. . .
they need to move on.”

“Like Eric did.”

“Yes, like Eric did.”

“I guess I understand what you are saying. But why couldn't he heal? Why couldn't he take the time to be in his damn cocoon and then come back to me?”

“Everyone's time is different, Nicky. Maybe he still will.”

“No. It's really over.
We're
over. We're separated now, Eric and I. There's no turning back. Too much has changed. We've gone through too much.”

“Maybe you are right. Maybe.”

“So how do
I
get through this? How do I stop hurting?” I asked Mama Bu, craving more words from her. Each one seemed to be lifting the teeniest, tiniest piece of the world off my shoulders.

“I do not know that you ever will. But I can promise you that it
will
get easier,” Mama Bu replied, lifting my chin. “But you need to know that for you,
rafiki
, your way of dealing with Ella's death was the right way. For
you
. Whatever you did, and whatever you need to do now, well, that is okay too. You have got to cope
your
way. Dealing with something this big takes you one step from survival and you have got to do what you can to not shut down. And my belief is that ignoring something big like this that happened — by shutting the door in its face — well, it just ends up darkening each day you have got to live. But by
talking
about it, and living
through
it, will help you to step out of death's nasty shadow.”

“I know. I agree. And I'm trying! Really, I am. But I just miss Ella so much — and I only knew her for less than a day,” I cried.

“No, child, you knew her for a lifetime. And you knew her well for the nine months that you carried her. The nine months that God gives to us is a gift to a
mama
and her child. God brought you together in the most intimate form. You felt her kicks, her movements, her presence. You felt
her
. And you loved her. You will always love Ella.” Mama Bu squeezed her cheeks with the palms of her hands. “Bless your soul, child, you will never lose her, no matter how much you talk or do not talk about her. We do not lose the people we love, even to death. The presence you felt for nine months — and the glorious day she was here on earth — well, those moments will continue to participate in every action you take and every thought you make for the rest of your
life
. Ella has left a mark on your soul and there is
no one
and
nothing
that can take that from you.”

I smiled through tears at my host mother, thankful to be sitting with her in that moment. She seemed to have a gift for making me feel better. A way of encouraging me to think beyond only my view. Her words gave me perspective, particularly coming from someone who hadn't gone through it directly with me, but who had experienced more than her fair share of tough times and grief. “Thanks, Mama Bu. You've made me feel so much better.”