Chai Tea Sunday (24 page)

I nodded.

“We will focus on getting Jebet out of here first. Then we can talk about you staying in Kenya. Golly knows I would love to have you here permanently, but you have got to be certain that it is what you want.”

I smiled at my host mother, who gave my knee a big squeeze. “I'd love to be here permanently too, Mama Bu. You and the kids have made this place feel like home to me. I really do — feel at home, that is. And at peace . . . finally. For the first time in a very long while, I feel like I'm where I should be. I don't want to give that up.”

“Then maybe you don't have to, Nicky. Maybe you don't have to.”

An hour later, while Jebet was still passed out, Barika came running through the field, calling out, “Bu! Bu! Nicky! Bu! I got so much to tell you girls!”

“We do not want the children to hear you, Barika. Stop yelling so much. Come and sit with us and tell us everything,” Mama Bu called back, shushing her with her gestures and telling her to join us on the porch.

By the time Barika came back, we had helped Johanna finish all of the cleaning that needed to be done and the three of us were sitting on the porch, waiting for Jebet to wake up. There was no way Mama Bu or I would leave Johanna and the kids with a hungover monster.

Before even taking her seat, Barika launched into what had happened since she left us. “I got a hold of Lesley right away. She was at work, but I had her cell number so she answered on the second ring. She's great, doing well as she always does, but that's a whole other story. . . .” Barika spoke with her hands flailing.

“Yes, please get to the point, Barika.” Mama Bu shook her head.

“I told Lesley all that has been going on 'round here. She is devastated, needless to say. She worked so hard to give Kidaai so much and it all seems to be destroyed now. She asked about the
CD
player she bought the kids. Is it still here?”

I shook my head, disappointed to hear about the missing
CD
player. It would have been amazing to share music with the kids.

“I noticed a
CD
player in Jebet's room when I checked on her this morning,” Mama Bu said. “My guess is that she stole it for her room.”

“Tsk tsk. And what about the chickens?” Barika asked. “Lesley said she put in a chicken coop so the kids could have eggs.”

“She ate them chickens,” Johanna responded quietly. “Said the kids don't need no eggs. Then she tore the coop down and used it for firewood.”

“Eck —
disgusting
! What an ogre. And I suppose she sold the chicken vaccinations too, yes?” Barika asked.

“I don't know what she did with vaccinations,” Johanna replied, shaking her head. Her innocence and gentle nature made me love her even more.

“Here's where it gets good,” Barika continued. “I was right about Lesley setting up the rent donor before she left. A lovely English woman named Gloria who lives in Mombasa. Leslie met her one day when Gloria was in Nairobi — I have no idea how they met — and Lesley got to telling Gloria about Kidaai. Gloria was so upset to hear of such poor children with nothing that she agreed to pay for the rent each month so Jebet could fund other things . . . like better food, books, desks and a swing set.”

We all looked around. No swing set was in the yard.

“So Lesley gave me Gloria's number — they still keep in touch on occasion. I gave Gloria a ring. Hope you don't mind, Nicky? I had to call three times, but I finally found out that Gloria has been sending Jebet the rent every month for over a
year
! Every
single
month.”

Bingo.

Silence took over as Barika paused her rolling update and we all took in the news. I was the first to voice what it meant — and what the others were thinking. “Well, that's it, then. Jebet is a thief.”

“Yes, it sounds like she is,” Mama Bu answered me. Slowly, she pondered the news. “But we need to be careful in our approach. It is not like where you are from, Nicky. One wrong move on our part and Jebet could be getting away with all of this. If she finds out we know about all of this, and she has lots of money saved up from Gloria, she could easily make the problem go away. And end up staying at Kidaai.”

“Gloria's pretty upset to hear about all of this,” Barika continued. “She seems like she is a part of the
really
rich folk, so I don't know how much the money part bothered her, but she kept saying that she felt like a fool. That Jebet took advantage of her. She kept saying that she wants to fix this. And that she
will
fix it.”

“Fantastic!”

“When I told Gloria all about what has been going on with the children at the orphanage, well, then the real sparks came. She hung up immediately, saying she'd call me back in ten minutes. Sure to her word, she called back almost ten minutes on the nose. She said she's got a social worker friend who works out of Nairobi. Gloria is sending her to help us. She said we can trust her, and that the social worker would never be paid off, but if Jebet tries it, Gloria will just pay more. She wants to be sure that Jebet pays for what she has done and is pushed out of the orphanage.”

“So what happens from here?” I asked.

“Paka, the social worker, just called me five minutes ago. She will be calling us back tomorrow — your phone, Nicky. She will meet us in person, but needs the details by tomorrow so she can build a case. We have to be fast, though, because Paka said she is moving to Boston next week, something about visiting her niece.”

We had twenty-four hours to build a case against Jebet. Twenty-four hours to collect the proof that Paka needed — or there was nothing she could do to help us.

“Okay, let's get to work. Let's start with the obvious,” I suggested. “I have my camera in my backpack. We'll take pictures of the welts on Ita's back and his fat lip too. We can even take pictures of the cuts and gashes on Rhoda and Kevin. We don't have proof that Jebet sold the medicine that would have prevented them from getting sick, but I'm sure it helps show how hurt the children in her charge are getting.”

“And we have Wekesa's emails, of course. And Jebet's responses saying that she does not have the rent to give him,” Mama Bu added.

“Plus, Gloria said she's got all kinds of emails to Jebet about the rent money, as well as bank slips proving she sent it,” Barika chimed in. “And why stop there? Let's go upstairs and take a picture of Jebet passed out on her bed.”

“You don't have to, Barika.” The deep, raspy voice came from behind us on the porch. We all turned to find Jebet, dishevelled and hung over. “I'm already up.”

It was clear that Jebet had been standing behind us long enough to know some of what was going on, but we didn't know exactly what she had heard.

When Jebet crossed her arms and scrunched her face up like an angry black pug, we suspected she knew enough.

Mama Bu spoke first, gently, but confidently, “Jebet, we care about you. We do not want to see you upset. Or hurt. But we also care about the children staying here and we need to protect them. I know it has been so tough on you, but please, think of what it has been like for the children lately. They are all very afraid right now and we need to give them security. We need to make them feel safe.”

Silence. I waited for Jebet's response, expecting her to fight back. To contort her voice into a shrill cadence of higher and higher notes as she kicked us out. To flare her nostrils into those perfect saucer shapes that looked like tunnels to her brain. To spit at us. Even hit. Instead, she said nothing. Did nothing.

Mama Bu continued, “What would your
mama
say, Jebet?”

Jebet just looked sad. “I got nowhere to go, Bu.” Jebet's voice was quick but honest. “This orphanage is the only place I know now.”

“We would find you a place to go, Jebet. You and I have been friends for a very long time and I will help you. This is not about anything but giving some safety and security back to the children. You have been watching over them for a really long time, and it is clear that it has been weighing on your shoulders lately. Sometimes . . . well, sometimes it is time to move on.” Mama Bu, with all of her empathetic wisdom, reached out to Jebet with her words. She stood up and placed a hand on her friend's back.

“No! I'm not
leaving
, Bu!” Jebet suddenly screamed. “I've got nowhere to go. I need to stay
here
. And you can't make me leave!”

“Actually, I think we can, Jebet. We want you to step down. To volunteer to leave. But if we have to, we will bring in the authorities to force you out. It has reached that point.” Mama Bu paused, briefly. “We found a social worker in Nairobi who will not be paid off. And we have got proof against you — pictures, letters, emails, testimonials from past volunteers. We will take videos if we need to.”

Johanna and I stayed silent, watching Mama Bu try to talk Jebet down from the ledge. Shockingly, Barika also stayed quiet.

“I don't know. . . .” Jebet's voice trailed off as she spoke, fear taking over. Jebet had no idea what life would be like outside of the orphanage and it was clear that she was panicked about how she would survive.

“Jebet, listen to me. We have got all the proof we need to make a case against you for stealing the rent money. We know Gloria has been giving you 50,000 shillings a month, and Wekesa has not seen any of it in seven months. Both of them will testify to the fact that you have been stealing. If you make us do this, Jebet, we will. And you know what will happen. They will take you to
jail
. None of us want that, Jebet. Please, work with us. Let us help you.”

“You're supposed to be my friend, Bu. . . .”

“I
am
your friend, Jebet. And I always will be. It is why I'm doing this. I want to protect both you and the children.”

“Just leave me be! I don't want to talk about this no more, you hear?” Jebet stood up angrily, wobbly from her post-binge shakes, and retreated back to her room. I took it as progress that she hadn't kicked us out.

“What do you think will happen, Mama Bu?” I asked gently after a few moments of silence. All of us were shaken from the clashed altercation.

“Jebet knows she has been backed into a corner. She has got no way out. We can work with her, or we can take her down — and she knows that. It is just a matter of time before she admits it.” Mama Bu sighed, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her eyes. It had been a long day, and it was only nine o'clock.

“You should all go about your day,” Mama Bu continued. “Get going to wherever you need to be, and I will stay here with Jebet. She needs to clear her head, first, and then I will talk to her some more. One on one. I think I can reach her. Make her realize what she needs to do.”

I stood, crossing the porch to give Mama Bu a hug, “Thank you for being so wonderful. You are always here for everyone, and we all love you for it.”

Johanna rose too and I could tell she was nervous about being in the house with Jebet. I asked her, “Why don't you come help me in the classroom today, Johanna? I could use the help and it will be good for the kids to have both of us there after such an awful start to their day today.”

Relief filled Johanna's face and she waddled with me to the classroom. I let her ring the bell.

At home that night, Mama Bu filled me in on what had happened with Jebet. There had been a lot of tears, cursing and pushing back, but in the end, Mama Bu had convinced Jebet that it was in everyone's best interest that she step down as orphanage director.

“Where will she go?” I asked Mama Bu. As much as I disliked Jebet, and hated her for what she had done to the children at Kidaai, I felt sorry for her, given what she had been through.

“That was part of how she finally agreed to go. Barika called Gloria back to let her know what was going on, and Gloria — bless her soul — knew of another family in Mombasa who is looking for someone to live with them and clean their house. I think it is more like a mansion, so Jebet will have her work cut out for her, but at least she will have a place to go and, most important, she will not be around any children.”

“The Mombasa family doesn't have any?”

“No, it is just a wealthy couple that lives in the mansion. They have no kids and Gloria told Jebet neither the husband or wife will stand for any antics. Jebet has only one chance with this family, and she knows it, so she better make it work.”

“And what about Johanna?” Our pregnant friend had grown increasingly weak as her baby bump had grown and I suspected she needed to be on bed rest until her baby was born. Without the orphanage, she had nowhere to live and no money to pay for food.

“Well,
rafiki
, that is where you come in. Kidaai no longer has an orphanage director, so if you were being serious about thinking you want to stay, well, the role is yours . . . if you want it. Normally the exiting director would be involved in choosing one, but since that is not a good idea in this case, we have more flexibility. I phoned Wekesa about an hour ago and he is fine with you taking over, if you want to stay. It would mean you would move in there permanently, and run the orphanage as you see fit. You could either keep your position as schoolteacher, or find someone new to take over that role.”

Silence. My mind raced.

“So, about Johanna . . . if you were the orphanage director, it would be entirely your call about what you wanted to do. If you decide you do not want to take on the role, we will need to find someone new to do it, and that person will ultimately decide if Johanna can stay or not.”

More silence. Then a wave of relief, excitement and belonging suddenly washed over me. It just felt right.

“I think I want to do it! I love those kids and know that I could run that orphanage in a way that gives them so much . . . safety, love, opportunity. I really want to make a difference in their lives.” My excitement continued to bubble as the realization of me staying in Kenya sank in. “Mama Bu! I think I want to stay! I want to find that feeling of being home again. Feel like I am once again truly a part of something. Be a part of their lives, in a bigger way. Build a home, for both them and me.”

“It does not pay much, Nicky.”

“Oh, I don't care about that. What do I need to spend money on? I'd just want to love those kids. To give them what has been stripped from them.”

“Well, then, it is settled.
Karibu, rafiki!
We are so happy to have you here permanently. Ngong is lucky to have you.”

“When will I start?”

“You can move into the orphanage tomorrow. Jebet is packing her things tonight and taking a
matatu
to Mombasa first thing in the morning. I was planning on moving in temporarily until we found a new orphanage director, but if it is going to be you, you might as well start right away!”

“Will the kids be okay with Jebet sleeping there tonight?” I asked, afraid of what Jebet might do given that she was leaving.

“Kiano will be staying there for the night. So he can keep watch over the children and make sure everything is okay. Just to be certain.” Mama Bu gave me a squeeze.

“And am I allowed to work here? What about visa issues?”

“I do not know about that, but we can go to Nairobi on Friday and figure it all out. Lucy's friend moved here from Canada to work permanently for a year or so, and she said it was easy to get. I do not think it will be a problem. We will figure it out, Nicky.”

“I can't
believe
this. I'm going to need to tell my parents. I'm sure they will be disappointed, but I know they'll also be happy that I'm happy.”

“I am sure they will be, Nicky. You deserve happiness. No matter where in the world it finds you.”

That night, I once again entered the insomniac battlefield, but this time it was excitement keeping me awake. My mind raced with ideas about what I would do in my new role at the orphanage. I wanted to raise money for more bunk beds — the kids were still sleeping three to a bed — and I would pour money into the classroom. With control of the entire orphanage, I could make sure the kids would get the education they needed to regain the start in life they had lost along with their parents.

Johanna would stay at Kidaai, of course, and I would force her to put her feet up and rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. When she had the baby, I would help her at night, with feedings and diaper changes. She could resume her role as house help when she was back on her feet, and I would ensure, somehow, that she would have a small salary for her work.

I considered going back home for a couple of weeks, to organize big fundraisers that would allow me to fix up the kitchen and buy the swing set that should have made an appearance so long ago. I would rebuild the chicken coops and ensure the kids had eggs to eat. And cows! I would get some cows so that the kids could have milk.

Nighttime would be a routine of teeth brushing — which meant I would need to buy each child a toothbrush, given they currently went without — and we would read stories and sing songs before bed. I would leave my bedroom door open at night as I slept, just in case the younger children wet the bed. They would come and get me, gently tugging on my arm and I would rise with them to clean their sheets. They wouldn't be teased in the morning.

If a child got sick, I would hold their hand to make them feel better. I would put cool cloths to their foreheads to beat a fever and make sure the proper drugs and Band-Aids were filled in the medical box for when they needed them.

I turned over in my bed and said a few silent words to Ella, thanking her for all that she had given me, even in the short time we had been together. In the nine months she had been a direct part of me, she had given me an unconditional motherly bond that I knew I would take forward. I would make her proud of the mother I was to become.

I would be the mother the kids of Kidaai needed. The mother I never got the chance to be.

As soon as I woke up the next morning, I organized my things and repacked my suitcases, which had never been fully emptied. I didn't want to wait one more minute; I was anxious to get to the orphanage so I could officially begin putting my plans in motion.

Saying goodbye to Kiano, Petar and Mama Bu was tough. I even cried, which was silly since I was just moving ten minutes up the road. But I had spent over two months with them, and it marked the end of my first Kenyan journey. They had been good to me and, above all, had helped me heal.

Kiano left for work, and Petar, school. Mama Bu said she would help me carry my things and get me settled into the orphanage. Jebet was catching a
matatu
to Mombasa at seven o'clock, and wouldn't be there when we arrived.

I couldn't wait to tell Johanna the good news; she could stay and enjoy the remainder of her pregnancy, ensuring the safe delivery of her baby. We could raise the baby together and I would ensure she always had a job, and a safe home, with lots to eat.

Mama Bu and I struggled to wheel my two stuffed suitcases down the red clay road. I carried my swollen duffle bag while she carried my backpack.

When the kids saw us, they came running to greet us. Ita instantly took my duffle bag from me to help, while others helped with the suitcases. We managed to get them up the peeling porch steps and through the front door, when Johanna greeted us, wobbly and swollen.

“Nicky? There someone here for you.”

I was confused and wondered if Wekesa had returned to speak with me about the rent details. “Who is it?” I asked, blowing a blonde strand of hair out of my eyes, which had fallen from my ponytail on the walk over.

“I don't know. He in the common room.”

More confused than ever, I walked to the common room to greet my visitor. “Hello?” I called out.

Then I saw him.

Eric.

He was perched on the edge of the fraying red couch, looking nervous and out of place. My heart constricted and I struggled to breathe.

“Hi, Nic.”

I tried to find words, but could only remain silent. I couldn't make sense of the situation. I was in shock that Eric was actually in front of me.

“Nic, I really need to talk to you. I've tried reaching you over and over, but you won't return my emails or phone calls. I didn't know what else to do, so I got the address to the orphanage from Maggie and caught the first flight I could to Nairobi.”

I stared at him. He stared back. Our eyes locked.

“Please, Nic. Just give me ten minutes. I came all this way. . . . I
really
need to talk to you. To tell you something I should have said a long time ago.”

Somewhat begrudgingly, and still very confused, I agreed to speak to Eric. “Let's go outside,” I suggested, fully aware that Mama Bu, Johanna and the children were still standing behind us. We made our way to the porch, and Eric took a seat, motioning for me to sit beside him.

“Thanks, but I'll stand,” I replied, not wanting to get too close to Eric. I was still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that he was even there. Seeing Eric again had shaken me to the core, and having him in front of me, actually
within
my African world, felt as incongruous as it was unsettling.

“Nicky . . . I actually don't even know where to start. I just spent my entire plane ride rehearsing exactly what I wanted to say and, somehow, I can't remember any of it. . . .”

I listened, waiting for him to continue. I had spent too many of my days in a one-sided conversation with Eric, talking at him and begging him to respond, only to find silence. If Eric had come all this way, he could do the talking. He
had
to do the talking.

Eric cleared his throat, then began. “I miss you so much, Nicky. More than words can ever describe . . . even though I'm going to try. Because it's important to me that you know how I feel, and I know now the only way you'll know what I'm really feeling is if I tell you.”

“Go on. I'm listening.”

“I . . . I have so much to tell you, and I know I should have told you long before now. I just . . . well, I couldn't for some reason. I was totally broken inside and hurting more than I ever thought possible. And to be honest, I didn't know how to fix it. Talking about what happened . . . even speaking to
you
about it . . . well, it just made it harder. It made it hurt even more, and I wanted to forget everything so I could move on.”

He paused, and I waited. I needed him to continue.

“But I couldn't move on. Once you left, I thought I could rid myself of all the memories, like I had tried to do for so many months. But they just wouldn't go. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I could barely work. I tried everything, but nothing helped. Nothing could make me forget you.” He paused, looking down. “Or Ella.”

“Because it doesn't work that way, Eric.”

“I know that now. Eventually I came to realize that. But it took a long time. Too much time, unfortunately.”

I nodded, thinking of all the time that had passed since our separation.

“I joined a bereavement group for dads,” Eric continued, sounding almost proud. “Dr. Covert recommended it, actually.”

“Oh really? I don't remember her mentioning that.”

“She didn't. At least not in front of you.” Eric looked down at his hands, linking his fingers together in a way that almost looked like he was praying. “About a month after you left for Africa, I had tried everything else I could think of to make me feel better, so I finally went back to see Dr. Covert for a one-to-one session. In the beginning, I think I subconsciously did it to feel closer to you, because I knew how important your sessions with her were. But then a strange thing happened and I realized that, somewhere along the way, talking through everything with Dr. Covert . . . well, it really helped me. Dr. Covert got me to see things in a way I had never considered. She pushed me to explore everything I was feeling and had been feeling all along. She got me to understand — and, more important, believe — that I needed to feel my emotions, and live through them, so I could move on. So I could find some sense of happiness again.”