Chai Tea Sunday (16 page)

Nadia closed in on us, starting a group hug, and the three of us sat together, hugging. After a moment, Ita joined us. Then Esther, followed by John. Runo and Shani. Maalik and his sister, Machelle. Macie and Paulo. Barongo, Hiuhu, Akello and Jomo. We all sat together, hugging as a group, and making each other feel safe.

When Gracie finally raised her head, she cautiously looked at me, and I saw a single welt along one cheek where Jebet had hit her. The line of raw skin dotted her cheek and stuck out in high contrast to her smooth, black skin. The edges were starting to puff up and I knew it would be a bruise within a few days.

I asked Esther to run and get Gracie some new clothes. With the other children also feeling better, I asked them to go outside to play. When it was just Gracie and me, I caressed her unharmed cheek with my hand.

“We're going to get you cleaned up now, Gracie. Okay?” I said gently. “It's okay that you had an accident. We all have accidents. I'll get you cleaned up and you will be good as new.”

I didn't know how much Gracie understood, but I hoped she knew what I was telling her. I paused then, before gently removing her pee-soaked pants. When I took off Gracie's top, I found another stick gash across her back and a lighter pink mark on her shoulder where I had seen Jebet hit her.

I felt as if my heart had folded in on itself, and I gulped back the threatening tears that were sitting in my throat. I did not want Gracie to see me cry.

I folded up Gracie's soiled clothes and helped her into the new pants Esther had found for us. Taking the two girls by the hands, I led them into the kitchen in hopes of finding Johanna. I crossed my fingers that we wouldn't run into Jebet — both for Gracie's sake and her own. I was so angry that I didn't know what I would do to Jebet if I saw her at that moment.

Standing in the kitchen was Johanna, boiling that night's vegetables and beans in the ceramic
jiko
. Johanna looked up when we entered the room, her smile fading once she saw the welts on Gracie's body and face.

Johanna crossed the room and took the little girl into her arms. I couldn't understand the Swahili words that Johanna was saying, but I knew from the look on Gracie's face that the comforting hums coming from Johanna's mouth were making Gracie feel better.

“Run along, now, Esther,” I said. “Thank you for getting Gracie some new clothes. Johanna and I will take care of her from here.” I watched the little girl run from the kitchen, the broken door slamming behind her as she went. Turning to Johanna, I said, “Do you have a first aid kit? We should get those wounds cleaned up to prevent infection.”

Johanna looked puzzled, so I found new words. “Bandages? Ointment? Gauze? We need to get her cuts cleaned.” I pointed to the wounds on Gracie's body.

“We no got one,” Johanna answered, shaking her head and looking very sad. “Old volunteer gave lots, but Jebet sold everything we got for money. She kept money for her.”

Somehow, my blood began to boil even hotter. When I found Gracie, I thought I couldn't have been angrier. But less than twenty minutes after that, I had proven myself wrong. “Do you have soap, Johanna? We need to at least clean her cuts.”

“
Eeh, eeh
. . . yes, yes . . . we do. I get it.” Johanna picked Gracie up and retrieved some soap from a cupboard that had lost its door. She gingerly placed the girl on the counter beside the sink and proceeded to expertly clean out Gracie's wounds with the soap, along with some of the water the boys and I had carried less than an hour before.

As we worked, Johanna and I took turns singing to Gracie — Johanna in Swahili, and I in English. When I recognized the tune of one of Johanna's songs, I joined in, but in English.

“
Baa baa mbuzi una uzi
. . . .” Johanna sang, her voice sweet and strong. And me, singing, “
Baa baa black sheep have you any wool
. . . .”

By the time we were finished cleaning Gracie up, she was smiling and asking if she could go and find the other children. I took it as a good sign.

When she left, I picked up Gracie's dirty clothes and started washing them in the sink, careful to not use very much water. “Do you want to know what happened?” I asked Johanna.

“No. I already know,” Johanna replied, in a sad and defeated way. “It happen more times. More and more. Jebet use stick on chil'n when they done bad. She mean, mean lady.”

“Johanna, why didn't you tell me sooner?” I asked gently. I was upset that she hadn't mentioned it in our many conversations that week, but I didn't want to push her. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

Johanna slowly nodded, looking skeptical. “But if I say something, Jebet kick me out. I nowhere to go.”

“I won't let that happen, Johanna. I'll make sure you always have somewhere safe to be.” I looked directly into Johanna's eyes. “But we
have
to stop Jebet. This is crazy. We can't let her do this to the kids.” My voice, now loud and clear, surprised even myself.

“
Shhh
. Jebet upstairs. We no talk now. We talk later.” Johanna turned to the
jiko
and kept stirring. When I didn't respond, but also didn't leave, Johanna stopped stirring and came closer to me, whispering, “I no like it either. I want to stop it. I trust you, so I tell you some stuff. But not when Jebet home. We talk later. You should go. I'll watch out for the chil'n and I watch Gracie. ”

When she finished speaking to me, Johanna picked up the long wooden spoon to continue stirring, only this time she didn't turn back around to talk to me. I was afraid to go, but afraid to stay. So I stalled, and waited a full minute for Johanna to say something more.

When she didn't, I took it as a sign that it was truly time for me to go. I could only trust that Johanna would stick to her word about watching out for the children and keeping an eye on Gracie.

By Saturday night, I was beside myself. I hadn't seen Mama Bu in almost a week. In my brief encounters with Kiano, he had told me that she was still tending to her very sick niece and didn't know when she would be back.

With Mama Bu gone, and Kiano and Petar often at work and school, I had come home from the orphanage to an empty house and was left on my own to make my own meals. For the most part, it had been a lot of granola bars, fresh fruit and bread. I could tell by how my pants were hanging on my waist that I had already lost weight.

On Sunday, I rose early and was relieved to hear dishes clinking in the kitchen; it meant Mama Bu had come home. I needed to see her. I scrambled to get ready as quickly as I could, throwing on the first outfit I found, and raced to the kitchen.

When Mama Bu saw my frantic face, she put her arms around me and asked what was wrong. I started to tell her, but Kiano and Petar joined us in the kitchen and asked what we were making them for breakfast.

Instinctively I knew not to continue talking about the orphanage in front of them, and Mama Bu whispered that I could tell her everything over chai after church. As they did each week, Kiano and Peter would be going to his sister's house, and we'd have all afternoon to talk about what was going on at the orphanage.

Once we had finished breakfast, we walked the same fifty-minute hike to church. I had thought the land couldn't be any drier than on our walk the previous week, yet, shockingly, everything seemed even more dehydrated and dusty than it had before. If the crops weren't already dead, they would be soon, leaving nothing to eat.

All through the morning, I tried hard to listen to Wambua's message, but I absorbed nothing of the two-hour service. I could think of nothing other than Gracie and all of the other vulnerable children in Jebet's reach. My mind raced with what I would say to Mama Bu and what we could do to help.

After our lunch, Kiano and Petar left for Lucy's house, and Mama Bu and I settled into her couches with our steaming mugs of chai. “Now,
rafiki
, what on earth could be the matter? Tell me everything you need to,” she instructed, blowing on her tea. I could see genuine concern in her eyes, along with fatigue and exhaustion. I suspected it had been an equally long week for her.

I took a big breath and dove into the details. I recounted all that had happened during my first week at the orphanage, including the teachers' strike and me needing to take over for Hasina. I knew my story was coming out in nippy, stream-of-consciousness bursts, but I couldn't seem to tell Mama Bu quickly enough.

My host mother listened and nodded throughout my rambling chatter, telling me often to slow down so that she could understand my English.

When I was finished, Mama Bu set her mug down and pressed her fingers into her temples. In the slow and accented voice that I had so quickly come to love, she explained that she hadn't realized it had gotten so bad at the orphanage. “I am so very saddened to hear all of this. Jebet is not a warm person, or at least she has not been for a long time. And she has always been very strict with the children.” Mama Bu looked at the ceiling. Studied it, and paused. She closed her eyes, squeezed them shut.

“In recent years, Jebet has disciplined in a way that some people might have questioned, but never with the force you are describing. That is not discipline, it is violence. I have not helped at the orphanage in a long while as the chores seemed to have been in control since Johanna started working there as the house help. It seems that might have been a mistake on my part.”

“You couldn't have known, Mama Bu. Johanna seemed to imply that it has only gotten really bad recently. She said that it has just started happening more and more.” Mama Bu nodded. I searched her face, trying to read it. “Why is she like this, Mama Bu? When we were speaking about it at Barika's house, I got the sense that you knew Jebet's story. You said she hasn't always been that way, and I sensed something changed her. What did you mean?”

Mama Bu paused again, taking three long sips of her tea. She sank deeper into the couch, closing her eyes again. When she opened them, her eyes looked sad, as though they were somewhere far away. Gently, she began. . . .

Sometime around 1966, Jebet was born to an Ethiopian farmer named Antony and his wife, Susan. Although Jebet did not have any memories of the two bountiful years that followed her birth, she certainly remembered the vivid tales her
mama
and
baba
would tell her about how much rain fell after her arrival — and about how well their crops did. The family not only had enough food to eat themselves, but also copious amounts to sell to others and, as such, were considered wealthy — at least by Ethiopian standards.

Baba Antony believed that Jebet was his miracle baby who brought the prosperous rains to his farm within the first moments of her life. They believed this because, on the night Jebet was conceived, a rainmaker had visited their farm to pray with them; there had been a wicked drought and Baba Antony thought a rainmaker might be able to help.

That night, after the rainmaker left, and deep in the dark of their bedroom, Mama Susan swore that she felt herself become pregnant. And it was at that precise moment the rain started to fall over Baba Antony's crops, ensuring harvest viability and security from famine. The drought was over.

For the two years that followed, the rains came frequently and often. As Jebet grew, so did the success of Baba Antony's crops. It seemed that every time Jebet reached a milestone throughout her first years of life — sitting, crawling, walking — much rain would bless the earth and Baba Antony's farm. The plants arched towards the sky, opening themselves up to drink, and the growth that followed put abundant food on tables throughout the land.

When Jebet turned two and a half, her sister, Rita, was born — along with one of the most horrific droughts in recent world history. Later coined the 1968–1974 Sahel Drought, the deadly absence of rain was utterly destructive. During the six years it lasted, nearly a quarter of a million people perished and over five million were displaced — and the agricultural bases of five countries, including Ethiopia, crumbled.

Baba Antony did everything he could to protect his farm but, without rain, there was no food or money. When his final hope dried up with his last few crops, he packed up his family and fled for Kenya in search of a better life. He had heard that the drought hadn't impacted Kenyan agriculture in the same way as it had in Ethiopia, and Baba Antony had hopes for establishing another farm with the agricultural richness he once had.

When he failed to find agriculture prosperity, the family was forced into the slums of Rongai, where they lived in a dilapidated shack that had been left barely standing when its former family was wiped out by what was later assumed to be the
AIDS
virus. Rita and Jebet shared the one-room home with their parents and were forced to go days at a time with nothing to eat or drink.

Angry for his farm loss and the demoralizing way his family was living, Baba Antony needed someone to blame. Given the strong belief he had in his rainmaking miracle baby, Jebet, he became equally convinced that Rita was the second-born curse and was to be blamed for the poverty and famine that had fallen upon his family. Baba Antony, who was once known for his loving fatherly ways and how frequently he whisked Jebet up to give her adoring hugs and kisses, turned into a cold and harsh father, ultimately becoming both callous and unforgiving. He blamed Rita for all that had happened and also turned on Jebet for not being able to do anything to bring more rain and change the drought.

After one year in the Rongai slums, Baba Antony abandoned Mama Susan and his two daughters. Late in the night, when his daughters were fast asleep and holding the hands of his wife, he slinked out of the broken shack in the wee hours of the morning and was never heard from again.

With no father in the family, Mama Susan took on the role of both parents. She fought hard and was ultimately able to convince an orphanage to take her on as the house help. She and her two daughters moved into the orphanage where they were given food and shelter in exchange for Mama Susan scrubbing toilets, polishing floors, cleaning dishes, cooking food and making beds — thirteen hours a day, seven days a week.

Given the amount of time Mama Susan had to spend cooking and cleaning, the two daughters did not get to spend a lot of time with their mother, but they occasionally saw her during meal times or when they passed each other in the hall. But her daughters were warm, fed and educated.

Jebet thrived when it came to academics and was quickly identified as being extremely bright. A South African volunteer who had visited the orphanage took a great liking to Jebet and sponsored her to go to a private boarding school. Thrilled with the news, Jebet asked when she and Rita would be leaving and was heartbroken to learn that there was only money for one sibling. Rita would be staying at the orphanage school while Jebet went on to study.

Although she hated to be away from her mama and sister, Jebet studied hard with the intention of returning to the orphanage to get a good job. She knew that once she had a proper salary to rely on, she could take care of her mama and Rita and they would finally have the freedom they deserved. Her mama would no longer be forced to cook or clean and, instead, would have the financial security to do something that interested her. Rita could then take her turn at school.

Four years later, Jebet received the twenty-four credits she needed to graduate from high school and she returned to the orphanage. The former
mkuu
was leaving, and Jebet gladly accepted the job.

She built a home for her mama and sister on the orphanage land and the three of them worked together to rescue children from the slums and take care of them when they needed it. Many of the children had been left on their own after both parents had died; others were abandoned by parents who couldn't care for them. Whatever their circumstance, Jebet, Rita and Mama Susan worked together to ensure as many children as possible were safe, full and happy.

The years went by, some tougher than others, and Jebet continued to run a successful orphanage that housed many children. She loved her work and was happy to be able to save children in need; it fulfilled her greatly to be able to rescue the kids from the same slums that had devastated her family with its famine and dirty water.

There were never enough beds or medical supplies, but Jebet did what she could, and sourced as many volunteers to help as possible. While the majority of them came and went, a constant contributor was Mama Bu, whom she had met through a mutual friend — Moses — at the market one Saturday in April. Mama Bu loved to surround herself with the laughter and smiles of toddlers and young children. Admittedly, Jebet grew fond of having Mama Bu's company at the orphanage. The two would often spend their afternoons chatting over chai on the covered wooden porch when the majority of the children were in school.

One November, Jebet, Rita and Mama Susan made plans to visit Mama Susan's sister, Maria, and her husband, Frank, who lived about four hours away. Maria and Frank had lived on a farm next door to Jebet's family when they were in Ethiopia, but they had been separated when they all fled to escape the Sahel Drought.

While Jebet's family had ultimately ended up in Ngong, Maria and Frank had built a small home for themselves in a tiny town called Eldoret. Although they greatly missed Susan and her family, they didn't get to see each other often. Jebet, Rita and Mama Susan had obligations to the orphanage and couldn't often leave the children for long periods of time. Maria was unable to travel after she had lost the use of her legs in a farm accident that happened in her mid-thirties. But after sensing Jebet and her family needed a break, three Australian orphanage volunteers graciously offered to stay with the children over the holidays so that Jebet, Rita and Mama Susan could go and visit Maria and Frank in Eldoret.