Chai Tea Sunday (21 page)

On our walk home, Mama Bu and I took the kids to a store. I told both of them they could get whatever they wanted. Kevin requested juice, and Rhoda chocolate. Nothing more, they said, and I could tell they didn't want to be greedy. It just made me want to give them more, so I ignored them. I bought them both juice and chocolate, along with some nuts, and I knew they were happy.

When we arrived at Kidaai, we took the two children to their beds and tried to make them as comfortable as possible. They were still far from better and the medicine they had been given at the hospital was starting to kick in, making them drowsy. All I wanted them to do was sleep so they could get better faster.

I tucked both kids into their lower bunks and sang to them until they fell asleep. Despite the warmth outside, the orphanage was drafty. Both children shivered, clinging to the only sheets that I could find.

I kept the medicine we had purchased at the local chemist tucked in my backpack. I didn't trust Jebet to give it to them; I planned to stay until later that afternoon so I could give Kevin and Rhoda their next dose. If I left the medicine at the orphanage, it would be sold by dinner.

Jebet hadn't returned and Johanna was busy completing the list of tasks Jebet had left for her, anxious to have them done by the time the orphanage director returned. The kids had been left to care for themselves all morning.

I joined Mama Bu and some of the kids in the common room and we played a few of the tattered board games that had been left by previous volunteers. I knew the only reason Jebet hadn't sold them was because she could get nothing for them; the board games were all completely falling apart and many of the pieces were missing.

So, the only games we could play with the broken and missing pieces were ones that we made up rules for. They definitely weren't very fun by North American standards but, not surprisingly, the kids of Kidaai seemed to love them, clapping their hands and asking to play again.

An hour later, I took all of the children outside and Mama Bu helped Johanna make dinner. We played all of the kids' favourite games, including Duck Duck Goose and Red Rover.

From a distance, I saw Jebet trudging towards the orphanage. I felt every muscle in my body clench. I ran inside to warn Johanna and Mama Bu that Jebet had returned.

When Jebet walked into the kitchen, the explosion of Swahili was too much for me to fully absorb. Johanna slinked to the back of the kitchen, keeping to herself and chopping carrots, but Mama Bu and Jebet went nose to nose, battling about how Jebet had sold the children's medicine and first-aid supplies and put the children's lives at risk. I could follow only a handful of Jebet and Mama Bu's heated words, but their volume and hand gestures would have told a two-year-old how upset each of them was.

Jebet seethed. Mama Bu hissed. Jebet scowled, and Mama Bu raged. Then, Jebet spit at our feet, followed by Mama Bu storming out of the kitchen and slamming the door behind her.

The orphanage director turned and barrelled straight at me; she threatened me with a motion that implied slitting my throat, and it was then that I knew, without a doubt, that Jebet was crazy.

Before leaving for the day I sneaked upstairs to give Kevin and Rhoda their next dose of medicine. They were both still groggy from the medication the hospital had given them and they needed help sitting up. Like little birds waiting for the worm, they opened their mouths and swallowed what I gave them. Kevin was still battling a fever, so I removed his blanket to let the heat escape.

When I went downstairs, Mama Bu was just finishing serving the children their dinner. “Come on, Nicky. We must go. The dark is coming.”

With the sun threatening to be gone entirely by seven o'clock, we sprinted home as fast as we could, and were just sitting down to dinner when my cell phone rang. “Nicky? It Johanna. Kevin taken turn for worse. He bad. Real bad. Got a bad fever. Much, much worse than today. You come back? You help him?”

My heart sank. I needed to help, but knew what Mama Bu and Kiano were going to say about walking back to the orphanage in the dark.

“Can you put cold cloths on him? Try to break the fever?” I asked Johanna, hopeful that I could help over the phone.

“It no working. Tried that for last hour. He real, real bad, Nicky.”

“Where is Jebet?”

“In her room. She gave me phone to call, but then went back to her room. She watching
TV
in her room,” Johanna said. I scoffed out loud, not surprised to hear that Jebet had a
TV
in her room but the kids didn't have medicine.

“Okay, Johanna. Give me fifteen minutes and I'll be there,” I said. I ended the call, and turned to find Mama Bu, Kiano and Petar all staring at me.

“You are not going anywhere,” Kiano said, shaking his head.

“But Kevin is
really
sick and they can't help him. Johanna doesn't know what to do and Jebet isn't helping. Kevin needs us and I'm really worried about him. He seemed hot when I left, but now Johanna says his fever is worse. I don't really think we have a choice.”

My host father shook his head and crossed his arms. He looked pretty set in his ways. “You are not going anywhere, Nicky. It is my job to protect
you
and I say you need to stay here, so that you can stay safe.”

Mama Bu gave me a look, telling me she understood. I knew she would fix it.

“Kiano,” she started, gently putting her arm on his back. “I know this is not good. But that little boy needs us. He has got no one. I know going to the orphanage has risks, but leaving that little boy all night by himself with that fever . . . well, I think that is a bigger risk. We cannot do it,” Mama Bu pleaded. I watched as Kiano started to soften, his arms slowly coming uncrossed.

“You are not going anywhere without me,” Kiano said, grabbing his sweater. “And you best get ready to run fast, because we are headed into danger.”

Mama Bu and I nodded in silence, fully aware of what we were about to walk into. All of the nighttime crime stories that I had heard since arriving in Africa filled my mind. I shuddered, fear ripping its way down my spine, yet I knew I had no choice but to ignore it. We needed to move forward, one foot after the other across the violent land of Kenya, so that we could try to help Kevin.

We collected our things and told Petar to stay close to his cell phone; he needed to send the night guard if we needed him. Even if he got a single ring from one of our phones, Petar was to take the shillings Kiano had stashed behind the bathroom pipe to pay the guard and send him in the direction of the orphanage.

The three of us sprinted to the orphanage as fast as we could. I was out of breath and hurting when we got there, but happy that we had made it safely.

Kiano waited on the couch in the common room while Mama Bu and I rushed to Kevin's side. He was curled up in the same bed I had left him in, both sweating and shivering, and cowered in a fetal position. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he begged for his
mama
.

We didn't have a thermometer, but I guessed his temperature near 104 degrees. I lifted the sheet off Kevin and gasped at the size his foot had swollen to. It was puffy and pink and taut to the touch. White pus dribbled from the place the nurses had cut him open earlier that day and I knew the infection had become very serious.

Without needing to talk it over, Mama Bu and I instantly came to the same conclusion — we needed to get Kevin to the hospital immediately, and no one — not even Kiano — would stop us. We gently lifted the fragile boy up to prepare him to go.

Standing across from each other, Mama Bu and I locked arms and Ita helped to lift Kevin into our human seat, guiding his arms around our necks for support. We shimmied together down the stairs, our movements in sync, until we reached Kiano in the common room. He knew instantly what we were doing and was smart enough to not protest but simply help. Kiano took Kevin easily into his arms, like a father cradling a newborn baby, and we continued to the hospital as fast as we could go.

Jebet had stayed in her room the entire time, either stupidly ignorant to what was going on or selfishly pretending not to know. Either way, we didn't need her butting in. I was happy she had stayed where she was.

At the hospital, a new nurse we hadn't seen before abruptly took over. Taking one look at Kevin's ankle, she recut it and injected iodine to get the infection out. The pus drained once again.

I could see the pain in Kevin's eyes and he was pushed into pure panic. He grabbed onto my neck with a grip that was so tight I thought death was knocking. “
Mimi tu taka mamangu . . . mimi tu taka mamangu
,” he cried to me. I just want my mommy.

My heart broke as I thought of the kind and affectionate mother who had been taken from Kevin two years earlier by the
AIDS
virus. Mama Bu had told me all about her one evening, speaking tenderly about what a sweet and loving
mama
she had been to her only child, always doting on Kevin and making sure he was well taken care of. It should have been
her
helping Kevin through his pain, not me. But an unsympathetic virus had taken her far too early. It wasn't fair.

With lots of consoling, hugging and kissing his forehead and cheeks, Mama Bu and I were finally able to get Kevin to start to calm down and begin breathing normally again. The nurse bandaged his foot, which was already less swollen.

“There is
no
way I am leaving this child with Jebet tonight,” Mama Bu said, when we were once again kicked out of the hospital bed Kevin had been occupying. “We will take him home with us tonight so we can keep an eye on him and make sure he is okay.”

The trip home took longer than we were planning, with Kiano carrying Kevin through the dark the majority of the way. Kiano moved swiftly, but was cautious to keep Kevin comfortable and not hurt him further.

Five minutes from home, we neared a gang of six men standing on the side of the road. I almost didn't see them — they were dressed from head to toe in black — but I sensed we were approaching danger when Mama Bu grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight.

Kiano crossed the road to the other side, opposite of where the gang was standing. Mama Bu and I directly followed suit, looking down and refusing to meet the gaze of any one of the gang members.

“We are not causing any trouble,” Kiano said in confident Swahili. “We have a very sick child and are returning from the hospital. We have no money and nothing to give. Please, let us pass.”

The gang eyed us up and down and I sensed they were assessing Kiano's story for truth. They cared mostly about the money and whether or not he was being honest about it. I stuck my hand in my coat pocket and felt the extra shillings I had brought with me, in case we needed them. My mind raced, struggling with whether or not I should hand it over. I had no idea what the men would do if they found it without me willingly handing it over — but, worse, I didn't know how the gang would react if I confessed to having money after Kiano told them we had nothing to give.

The tallest of the men took a step forward. Then, a second man. Finally, a third. They began to surround us. Mama Bu squeezed my hand harder and I closed my eyes and wished for it all to be a nightmare.

“Please, we have nothing to give you. We have done nothing but help a sick child. Look into my eyes and know that I am speaking the truth,” Kiano begged, adjusting Kevin's limp body in his arms. Miraculously, he stayed asleep.

With one fist closed around the shillings, I had my other on the cell phone in my pocket — and was about to hit send — when Kiano looked at me. He slightly shook his head. I knew instantly he was telling me to wait on calling Petar.

The men encircled, their drifting gazes moving up and down our bodies. The first man stepped forward and scoffed, in English, “Fine. Go home. We don't need trouble tonight anyway.”

I let out breath I didn't know I had been holding and scurried behind Kiano and Mama Bu to race home. We reached the house breathless and filled with relief.

Mama Bu quickly opened the door and ushered Kiano to the biggest couch. He gently laid the little boy down. The medicine he had been given at the hospital had knocked him out completely.

“I'll sleep on the other couch,” I said quickly, wanting to make sure Kevin was okay. “You know, in case he wakes up and needs someone.”

“You can if you would like, Nicky,” Mama Bu said gently, “But I do not think it will matter. Kevin's pretty sleepy from the anti-infection medication he is taking. He will not wake up before morning.”

“Well, if it's all the same, I'd like to sleep out here. Just in case. I have to give Kevin his meds at 2
A.M
. anyway.”

“Up to you,
rafiki
. I will be in my room in case you need me. Just holler and I will come.”

“Good night, Mama Bu. Thanks for all of your help today, and for coming with me to the orphanage and the hospital. I would have been pretty scared without you and Kiano there.” I smiled appreciatively at my host mother.