DAY THREE

I sleep a shallow, half-sleep and am shaken awake by the still unfamiliar sounds of chattering monkeys.  The bathroom light I left on makes the room visible – walls painted a soft pink and except for a cross over my bed they are bare of any paintings or pictures.  I hear footsteps outside and know it is Kucca the cook, pulled from his bed at 4am.  He is affectionately called Kucca for grandfather.   Yesterday, I caught a glimpse of the small shed he lives in on the compound.  His clothes were drying on a line.  Not many.  Just the white shirt he wears everyday and pants.  His wife and family live in a small village about 50 miles from here and he is able to go home to visit whenever Sr. Freda doesn’t have a large group of visitors to feed and house.  Last night as he served dinner he gave me a big toothy smile.  “Karibu,” he said as I entered the dining room where a large round table was set for eight of us.  “Chai?” he asked quietly.  Everyone drinks chai all day with lots of condensed milk.  I refuse and Kucca looks at me as if I’m too finicky and uptight to eat breakfast with strangers.  To be honest, I think so too.  When he notices my silence he reassures me he understands privacy.  Although, from what I can see, there seems to be very little privacy in a house where people come and go all the time.

I have come  here to be inspired and Kucca inspires me.  He seems to enjoy his role as cook for Sr. Freda.  No matter how much chaos exists in his life, cooking seems to lift him above the hardships.  He may live in a makeshift house without running water and sit by candlelight when he is home, but he feels important for he has meaningful work.  I see his devotion to Sr. Freda in the easy way they have with one another.    Sr. Freda inspires everyone.   Her commitment to education and healing has marked her out as someone chosen by God.  You can see it in her eyes when she talks about her work.

Now I’m too awake to go back to sleep and slip my jacket over my nightgown to sit outside.  The dawn is cutting through the palm trees, casting a pink light on the grass.  The six or seven dogs run though the grounds chasing monkeys away, although it seems the monkeys just scoot higher in the trees and screech at the dogs.  I can’t get over the brightness of the sky, even without the moon, the stars nudge the darkness aside, casting shadows on the grass.  My fatigue feels haphazard now, as if the sinking, dull, heavy feeling I had when I crawled into bed was slowly fading.  Sr. Freda suggested this be a day of rest for me after my long trip and I’m most grateful to have it.

My eyes search the other side of the walled compound and see a looming home with scaffolding and ladders.  I heard it was owned by a very wealthy man and he was remodeling it for his many wives.  On the other side is another modern home, but the rest of the area, from what I’ve been able to see so far, is surrounded by  houses, church’s of many different denominations with small gardens and statues, some even have little parks for the children to play and endless fields of maize.

I dress in the same thing I wore yesterday.  There is no time to primp and I try to apply lipstick in a mirror that is good for plucking chin hairs but not much more.  I have only four different outfits to wear and I’m already tired of them.  I slouch against the doorway, watching the sky fade from grey to blue and take in deep breaths, forcing myself to let go of my oneness.   Meeting and talking to people early in the morning is not on my list of favorite things to do and I wait until 7:55 before walking to the big house.

“Hoodi,” I call out and knock at the door.  “Habari,” answers Kucca. I’m discovering you can never spend too much time on greetings.  “Habari gani?”  I attempt to ask what’s new and Kucca laughs, knowing I don’t understand his reply.

After breakfast of hot rice cereal, scrambled eggs, toast and jam, Sister Freda leaves her other guests and walks me to the library where there is books about Kenya and a room full of exotic plants.  She takes my hand as we sit on the sofa and speaks of love.  “This is your home now.  Kenya is your other home and I am your friend for life.  We are friends.”  She smiles and looks up at the ceiling.  “I prayed to God to meet someone from Italy and God has sent me you.”  Of course I’m not from Italy, but coming from the “Little Italy of Cicero,” will have to do.

Reaching into her pocket, (a magic pocket, I soon realize for she is always pulling little gifts from it) she puts a beaded bracelet made by the village women on my wrist. I am awed by her generous spirit and loving heart.  I’m so much slower in trusting and getting close to people.  She lends me a book about the history of Kenya and a small African violet to take to my cabin.

In the afternoon a great storm develops. From far off I hear a terrible grumbling.  It grows louder as it gets nearer, as if a train is trying to chase me down.  The air vibrates with electricity while the grasses seem to stand on end as do the hair on my arms.  The sharp smell of ozone fills the air and a blackness begins to creep across the sky like a spreading ink stain while a wind begins to  bend the trees.  I scramble for shelter in my small cabin.   The wind howls, the louvered windows rattle, looking like teeth about to fall out and the rain pours down looking like a sheet of silver.   I  wonder if I should make a run to the big house.  How is one to know what to do, really?  Everyone has gone on about their business and I am quite alone, and while just moments before I was enjoying prowling about unaccompanied by anyone, I now wish for company.

There are two rooms in the cabin.  A bedroom and a sitting room with a couch that looks like I could sink down into it and never be found.  A lamp blinks on and off and then stays off.  It is  night outside.  I start having doubts about my safety  and to relax I keep repeating what Sister Freda told me on my first night.  “Rain in Kenya is good luck…rain is good luck..in Kenya rain…In Kenya…

As soon as it began the storm is over.  The air is clear and spicy with the earths fungi and fallen debris.

I walk out of the compound to the main road.  It is already dry, as if the rain had never fallen.  A herd of cows pass me in the rutted road followed by a barefoot young girl, prodding them with her stick.  She waves to me and shouts, “Jambo,” the greeting given to people presumed not to understand Swahili.   I follow her for awhile and ask her questions about her life.  She laughs when I say she seems to enjoy walking along with the cows, and tells me, “Yes.  It’s easier with the cows.  I get to come this way to town.   Most of the time I barely see a town for I spend many hours a day walking through the countryside to get water.”

Her story about having to walk hours to get water is a common one for girls here.  After walking with her for awhile, her mother turned up.  She was a tough old woman who only grunted a hello to me, hurrying her daughter off.  I walked a bit longer, but soon became fatigued.  I was still recovering from my trip and turned back, thinking of the couch in the small cabin and feeling brave enough to let myself sink down into its deep cushions.