Chai Tea Sunday (8 page)

“
Karibu
, Miss Nicole!” Mama Bu's plump neighbour squealed when she saw me. Barika greeted me with a big smile and a handshake so firm she crushed my hand. She pulled me in and squeezed me until I struggled for breath. “We sure have been waiting for you! Welcome to Ngong.”

“Thank you. It's a pleasure to meet you,” I replied, trying to remove myself from her overbearing embrace as tactfully as I could. Barika dropped the hug, but quickly grasped my hand and pumped it firmly in her own.

“I am Barika, Bu's neighbour — and her very good friend. We've been like family for many years and anyone staying with Kiano and Bu is family of mine.” Barika opened the door and waved us inside. “Please, won't you come in for some chai so we can talk and get to know one another?”

“We have only got a bit of time, Barika,” Mama Bu warned. Then, turning to me, she said, “Barika is one of my closest friends but, like I said, the woman is a talker. If she had her way, we would stay here until nightfall, drinking chai and talking about everything under the sun.” I chuckled softly as Barika waved her hands in protest and my host mother deepened her grin. It was clear to me that the two women were more like sisters than just friends.

“Sit, sit, Miss Nicole.” Barika pointed to the couches before bouncing from the living room to get us our tea. She called out from the kitchen, “So, tell me, Nicole, do you
like
Africa?”

“Well, from what I've seen so far, I like it very much. But I've only been here for about twelve hours, although I did read a lot about Ngong before I came. It sounds like a great place.”

“You will see it all today, Nicky,” Mama Bu said. “We will walk through town and I will show you where everything is. We will hit the market and I will show you where you can find the internet spot.”

“You have internet here? I didn't realize I'd be able to access it so easily,” I said, relieved. I thought there would be internet in Nairobi, but not Ngong.

“Yes, chicka, we have got the internet right in Ngong. Are you surprised? All of us can connect to the rest of the world from our very own town. And you can too.”

“Is it expensive here?”

“About one shilling per minute, dolly,” Mama Bu replied. I did the quick math in my head and realized it would cost about sixty Canadian cents per hour. I suddenly felt closer to home.

“And what about the orphanage? Will you go there today?” Barika called out from the kitchen.

“No, not today, Barika. I told Jebet we would be by on Monday. She did not want us stopping in on the weekend,” Mama Bu answered.

Barika's reply came at lightning speed, only this time in complete Swahili,
“Bu, umeambia Nicole kuhusu Jebet? Yeye ni mkali na Nicole anahitaji kujua.”
There was an edge to Barika's voice as she spoke.

Surprised by Barika's sudden clipped tone, I wondered what she was saying about Jebet. And why she had mentioned my name —
twice
. I considered asking Bu about it, but didn't want to seem rude.

“She is asking about Jebet, the
mkuu
, or orphanage director,” Mama Bu explained, patting my knee. It was as though she could read my mind. “Jebet is . . . hmm . . . not the nicest person in the world. Barika thinks you deserve to know that before you meet her.”

“Is Jebet really that bad?” I asked, a pit growing in my stomach.

“Others think so, such as Barika. I am more understanding. I believe that, somewhere deep inside of her, Jebet still has a nice heart. But she has gone through . . .
uchungu . . .
and it has changed her
.
She has always been a fairly strict
mkuu
but, lately, well, it almost seems like she has become a different person.” I could tell Mama Bu didn't want me to judge Jebet prior to meeting her, but that she was concerned enough to say a few words of warning.

“In English,
uchungu
means grief . . . or pain,” Barika explained, carrying in a thermos of chai and three mugs that were as large as the ones we had used the night before. “But I don't think that matters. We've all gone through hardship here in Kenya. Who is Jebet to stick the children at the orphanage just because she has gone through some sorrow? If she wants to see pain, she should visit the slums.”

“She is
from
the slums, Barika. You know that. And she has been back many, many times. The children in her orphanage are from the slums. And she is the only one taking them in.” Mama Bu shook her head, clearly frustrated with Barika. I sensed that it was not the first time the two friends had discussed Jebet.

Mama Bu continued, “I am not saying Jebet is an angel. She is far from it. And I agree that she should not be so hard on the children. But you know she is not the same woman who started at the orphanage so many years ago. She has been through much. It is not her fault.”

“Not her fault, Bu? Hmmph.” Barika crossed her chubby arms and turned up her nose.

“Let us just say that we need to give her a break,” Mama Bu answered, responding to Barika. It was obvious that Mama Bu wanted to say more about Jebet but felt it wasn't her place. She knew more, that much was clear, but I was unsure if she was keeping quiet because I was there or because she didn't want Barika to know. Perhaps it was both.

“But she hurts the children?” I asked, my eyes going from Mama Bu to Barika, in search of an answer. “She uses a stick on them?” I was sickened by the thought.

“Not really, dolly. At least, she does not
really
hurt them,” Mama Bu said gently. “Here in Kenya, sticking is an accepted way of discipline. I know in your country people frown on it, but here it is okay. Jebet has her stick, and uses it when one of the children misbehaves.”

“The girl's shocked already. Hmmph. Didn't those orientation books you read tell you about all of
this
?” Barika asked, taking a long slurpy sip of her tea. When not talking, Barika gulped at her tea and then licked her lips like a lion finishing up his prey.

“No, I haven't heard or read anything about it,” I replied honestly.

“Sticking doesn't just happen at orphanages. It happens everywhere 'round here. And to lots of people. Rather than go to the police, citizens take matters into their own hands, and give beatings when someone crosses them.”

“But why does it happen so much? Can't the police stop it?” I asked, suddenly nervous about what I might see while in Africa.

“It's called
mob justice
, chicka. And, no, the police can't stop it. Or they don't, anyway. They are
corrupt
. Our government too. All people care about 'round here is getting money. So the police don't do what's right — they do what pays. Even when people are guilty of doing something wrong, the police won't do anything if they are bribed.” Barika almost looked pleased with the fact that she was clearly shocking me with her speech.

“Surely they can't all be like that,” I searched Mama Bu and Barika's eyes. “
Can
they?”

“The police and government don't help like they do where you're from. It's not the same here, Nicole. You asked about the police? They've got hungry children to feed. They will do whatever they need to for more shillings.” Barika shook her head, still slurping. “The problem is, sometimes the beatings are deserved . . . and sometimes they are not. You just never know. And it's sad, because we've seen it
a lot
. And we've got lots of friends who have been beaten. Some to a pulp, and others to death.”

Horrified, I sucked in air.

Barika continued, “Just last month, our friend Milka, she lives up north, well, her son died from a beating. He was accused of stealing. Milka swears he didn't do it. I believe her, but, either way, Milka's son is now dead because of it.”

I looked at Mama Bu in shock. All she did was shake her head, saying softly, “Unfortunately, Nicky, what Barika is saying is true. Violence is a part of Kenya. I am sorry to say that the beatings do happen often.”

Barika interjected, “Sometimes they get way out of hand, like in the case of poor Milka's son, but there's nothing you can do to stop it. And if you see one while you're here, which you might, Nicole, you can't be offended. And you can't try to stop it, or you will get hurt. You just need to put your head down and keep walking. You have to mind your own business.”

“I knew there was crime here, but I had no idea Kenya was so violent. This all sounds so awful.”

Barika was about to jump back into the conversation but was cut off by a ringing phone. Surprised, I watched as she retrieved a cell phone from her kitchen. “
Mambo? Hujambo! Sijambo!
” Barika paused, listening to the person on the phone. She tsked lightly before replying at a clipped speed in Swahili.

“I am not sure who she is speaking to, but she has told them to come over for a visit. It sounds like they will be here soon,” Mama Bu said, translating for me.

“You have cell phones?” I asked, clearly surprised.

“Yes, dolly. We have all got them. They are not really that expensive here. We can pick one up for you when we get to town, if you would like one too?”

“Definitely! I had no idea I'd be able to have a phone,” I replied excitedly. While the news of having the internet so close made me feel instantly more connected to home, hearing that I could buy a cell phone made me feel almost like I was still there.

“It is a plan, then. I know the best place to pick one up.”

Barika continued chattering in the kitchen, prattling into her cell phone at lightning speed. Mama Bu stood and walked to the kitchen to motion to Barika that we were leaving.

“One minute, Bu.” Barika raised her index finger, telling us to wait.

Mama Bu shook her head and whispered loudly to her friend, “Thank you for the chai, but we must carry on. We will come again soon for a longer visit. You finish talking to whoever you are talking to and we will see ourselves out.”

I stood and waved to Barika. Still holding her phone, she took three giant steps towards me and embraced me with the same strength she had delivered with my welcome hug.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Barika,” I said, my words muffled in the woman's shoulder. She was much bigger than I was, and about six inches taller.

Barika released me, raising her index finger one more time before saying suddenly into the phone, “
Kwaheri
.” Goodbye.

“You didn't have to get off for us, Barika,” I said. I knew Mama Bu thought we could take advantage of her being on the phone and exit quietly and quickly.

“Nonsense. I was being rude.” Barika waved her hands in the air. “Plus, I wanted to say that I didn't mean to scare you about Kenya. Here in Ngong, the beatings don't happen very much. It's not like Nairobi. And we've got a beautiful countryside. Despite the hardships, God is good to us here in Africa. We have lots that we are proud of, and so much for you to see and experience that is great. I have no doubt you will love it here.”

I nodded, showing that I understood what Barika was telling me.

“It's just that in this country it's about survival,” Barika continued. “People do what they need to to stay alive. Sometimes that means beatings. Other times it means doing what is needed to make sure you live. You'll see what I mean when you get to the slums with Mama Bu.”

“We need to go, dolly,” Mama Bu said, cutting Barika off. “The market has been open for quite some time now. I want to get there before it is too busy, so you can take it all in.”

“Okay, okay Bu . . . I get it. I will see you both later.” Barika gave me one final bear hug, and waved from the door step until we could no longer see her.

The smell of garbage smoke had strengthened since we had left Mama Bu's house earlier that morning. I sneezed.

The ditches along both sides of the road were filled with unburned garbage; the rotting piles were everywhere and contributed to the stink of the land. “Why don't they burn that too, Mama Bu?”

“We can only do so much, dolly.”

As we walked, I watched all of the people we passed. We hadn't seen any other people when we first left Mama Bu's house, but the road had become busier, with many Kenyans bustling about. People in bright colours passed us, or strolled behind us as we trekked towards town.

Mama Bu called out and greeted many of them, shaking hands and even hugging some as they passed. They spoke in quick Swahili, which Mama Bu always translated for me. Many of them promised to visit, while others told her to stop by as soon as she could. Every one of them eyed me, even after Mama Bu introduced me, and I became very aware of how much my whiteness stuck out.

Children were walking everywhere, many of them without adults. All of them were oblivious to the sharp rocks and dirt underneath their bare feet —
none
of them wore shoes. “
Mzungu! Mzungu!
” they called loudly, pointing directly at me. They wouldn't stop staring.