Chai Tea Sunday (23 page)

At first he seemed reluctant. I could see him briefly mulling over in his head the ethics of telling a volunteer something that should be between Jebet and him. But considering I represented the first possibility he'd had in months of actually getting his money, it didn't take him long to start talking. “For a long time, I got my money — every month, without it ever being late. It's another reason why I've been so lenient with Jebet.

“Seven months ago, the rent money didn't come. I gave Jebet the benefit of the doubt, assuming it was just a bit late, which would be understandable. But it never came. When I asked Jebet about it, she said the orphanage was having tough times. She said the woman who had donated the rent money each month had pulled out and that the orphanage was barely scraping by. Jebet didn't have enough for food or water or electricity, let alone rent money.”

Johanna stepped onto the porch, interrupting us. She put the chai directly between us on a little round table that was on its last legs. After she disappeared back into the house, Wekesa continued. “I told Jebet I could wait, as long as she paid it in full once she got a new donor.” Wekesa pointed to the sugar. Dumped it in his tea. “Month after month, Jebet begged me for more time. My patience has been wearing thin for a long time, but lately I've been really pissed off at her — sorry, pardon my manners and bad language, lady. I don't mean to be rude in front of you, but I've got no patience anymore, and sometimes it gets the best of me.”

“No problem, Wekesa. I've heard worse.” I smiled.

“Anyway, Jebet has been downright ignoring me lately. I've sent letters, called her phone . . . personally visited as much as I could. I live in Nairobi, so I don't get here often, but she's been ignoring every bit of communication I send her. And then, when I make the trip into Ngong, she's never here. This was going to be my last visit before I served her papers.”

I smiled again and sympathized with Wekesa's frustrations. Then, I added, “But I have to admit, I'm a bit relieved to hear it all, as well.”

“Come again?” Wekesa looked mildly confused and a bit angry to hear my words.

“Oh, no, no . . . that's not what I meant. Here, I'll explain,” I quickly filled Wekesa on what had been going on and he looked horrified as the story unfolded. I could tell he was a good man, his eyes full of worry and concern as I recounted the chronicle of injuries, neglect and abuse.

“It sounds like we've got bigger problems than some missing rent money,” Wekesa said, shaking his head. I refilled his teacup and passed him the sugar.

“That is true. But I think the missing rent money will end up helping us. Jebet can't just stop paying you. Surely we can use that against her.”

“But that doesn't help with the abuse, Nicky.”

“Sure it does! If Jebet doesn't have a rent donor and has no way to pay, she'll need to find another one.
I
can be that person. I'll donate the rent, but only on the condition that Jebet leaves. Then she can't hurt the kids anymore!” I silently counted the dollars in my bank account. It was going to be tight. Without an income, I didn't know if I would be able to pay the rent. But I knew I'd find the money — someway and somehow. No matter what.

“And if Jebet refuses?”

“She can't stay here if she can't pay you rent, Wekesa.”

“No, but what if she finds another donor who is willing to pay, even with her here? And if she goes, who will watch the children?
You
?”

“Yes . . . I'll do it,” I responded, a little too quickly and without thinking it through. My words tumbled out before the thought could register. Memories of my father telling me that I had no speed bumps from my brain to my mouth flooded my mind.

“You're going to permanently leave your country? Your
family
? And move here to look after an orphanage. You better think that one through, missy. I'm not so sure it's a good idea.”

“I know it would be a huge life change, and I promise to give all of that some more thought. For now, let's concentrate on how we can get Jebet out of here.” I reached into my pocket and grabbed my cell phone. “I know someone who can help us. Just give me a minute to call her.”

Frantically I dialed Mama Bu's cell phone number and asked that she come back to the orphanage as soon as she could.

“I am on my way,
rafiki
. I am actually very close. We are coming as quickly as we can. And I have Barika with me. And Kevin too.”

“How is he?”

“Much better. The medication seems to have finally kicked in for the sweet thing. He is a bit slow on his feet, but fine other than that. And his ankle looks much better. I wanted to bring him back to the orphanage so we could keep an eye on him.”

“Okay, good. Get here soon! I'm scared Jebet will wake up and come downstairs. I actually found out a lot while you were gone. Things that will help us. ”

“Me too, Nicky! I cannot wait to share. We will be there in two minutes.” Moments after Mama Bu hung up, I could see Barika and her barrelling towards us, with little Kevin limping behind. When they reached us, they told Kevin he could join his friends in the common room. I introduced Wekesa and explained what we had discovered.

“Lord have mercy!” Barika said, her cheeks becoming flushed. “I used to be a host mama to a lovely girl named Lesley — she's from Canada too — and she done a lot of good work while she was here. Really rallied the good people and got lots of donations and help for Kidaai, you know? Donations from both the outside, and from here.”

“How can she help, Barika?” Mama Bu asked, cutting her off.

“Right, well, I seem to recall the rent money came from someone on the inside. Mombasa, maybe? The donor lives here, I know for certain. I simply can't believe she would just stop giving the rent money. I met her once and she seemed to really care deeply for the kids of Kidaai. And she's wealthy too, so that wouldn't have been a problem.”

“Can you find out who she is? Would Lesley know?” I asked Barika.

“Can't see why she wouldn't. Lesley found her — she went out and appealed to the good people, asking for their help. Set up a whole bunch of stuff, my Lesley. She is a grand girl.”

“Okay, Barika. You can tell us all about Lesley later. You should try and reach her first,” Mama Bu cut in again, trying to bring focus to her chatterbox friend. “Can you call her?”

Barika shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “I got her number, but I can't call so far on my phone. Last few times we talked been on email.”

I grabbed my backpack and handed Barika my phone, explaining that I had included long distance to Canada as part of my plan so I could call my family. I told her she could call whoever she needed to if she thought it would help us.

“Well, I don't got Lesley's number memorized, silly thing. It's at home though. I could go get it?”

“Sure, take my phone and go and call Lesley. See what you can find out.” I gently pushed her forward.

As Barika left, Wekesa also rose from his chair, stating that it seemed as though we had everything covered. He gave us his contact details and asked that we call him once we had figured something out.

As he started to leave, I remembered the letters he mentioned sending to Jebet and I called out to him, asking for copies. I had no idea what we could or would do with them, but I thought there was a good chance they might help.

“Of course. I believe there are about twelve separate emails I sent Jebet,” Wekesa answered. “And I have all of her responses, as well, with all of her excuses as to why she couldn't pay.”

“Perfect,” I responded, growing more convinced by the minute that we'd have what we needed to take Jebet down. “Anything more?”

“Cell phone bills . . . with the number of times I called her. That should help too, yes? If we are building a case against her?”

I nodded, excitement growing.

“Great. I'll make copies of everything.” Wekesa tipped his hat, and turned, walking away from the orphanage.

With Wekesa and Barika both gone, Mama Bu, Johanna and I sat by ourselves on the porch. All of the kids were in the field, laughing as they always did and playing some of the games I had taught them. I crossed my fingers that the memory of their early morning wake-up call had been forgotten.

Johanna excused herself and said she had to tend to cleaning the windows before Jebet woke up. The last thing Jebet had said to her before passing out in her drunken stupor was that she expected the windows to be squeaky clean and free of “paw prints from the animals who lived there.”

When she left, Mama Bu poured me another cup of chai and asked how I was doing. I sighed.

“I'm okay, I guess. I'm sad and frustrated about all that has been going on here in the last little while, but hopeful we can figure something out to get Jebet out of here. The whole situation is just so heartbreaking.”

Mama Bu nodded her head, closing her eyes as she sipped through the steam of her tea. “I do not like what Jebet has been doing to the children either,
rafiki
.” Then, as if she was murmuring just to herself, Mama Bu continued, “And it is also so hard to see a friend change so much. To be so different. And to impact her life, and others, with violence and drinking.”

I sipped at my own tea, lost in thought about how complex and difficult the entire situation was. “I know, Mama Bu. I can't imagine how hard it would be to see a friend of yours go through so much tragedy, and then become such a different person. I sympathize with Jebet's story — I really do — but I also can't ignore what she is doing to the children.”

“I know, Nicky. That part makes me very upset as well.”

“And that whole thing is really depressing too. Without Jebet saying this, it's like she's using what happened to her as an excuse for being so atrocious to the rest of the world. Like she's entitled to being mean to others, just because of what happened to her. Who gets to do
that
? We've all experienced pain. It doesn't give any of us the right to treat other human beings with anything less than what they deserve.”

“I agree.”

“It just makes me feel so disappointed in humankind. Like it's a spiralling prophesy of evil . . . if something bad happens to you, you then become evil yourself?”

“Not everyone is like that,” Mama Bu said, looking straight at me. “Look around you, and know there is strength closer to you than you realize. Not everyone suffers through pain and hardship only to fall apart afterwards. The truly strong at heart bounce back.”

I stared at her, taking in what she was saying.

“Remember Wambua's message? Remember the woman from his story? The one who was raped and became pregnant? Draw from
her
strength, not Jebet's weakness. You need to remember that good people with strong hearts bounce back, no matter what they have gone through. Not everyone collapses when life lets them down. Many rise up in the time of challenge, and they are stronger as a result.”

Mama Bu took my hand and squeezed it tight.

“As for Jebet, Nicky, I do not excuse what she has done to the children either. But separate from that, she has still shown good in her own way. Taken people in when they needed it the most.”

As if on cue, Johanna came to the porch and collected our empty chai mugs. “Just gonna go wash these up, if you finished?” Johanna smiled, rubbing her growing belly, and returned to the kitchen.

“Johanna . . . ?” I asked Mama Bu.

“Yes, Johanna. As Wambua told us at church that day, Johanna had been abandoned by all of her friends and family when she found out she was pregnant. She had nowhere to go, and no one to take her in. She had no food to nourish herself or her growing baby. And it was Jebet who offered her the shelter she needed. The security she deserved. And, in her own way, love.”

I looked down at my tea, realizing what Mama Bu was saying. “Everything about this . . . it's just so very sad,” I said. Mama Bu squeezed my hand again.

“It is, indeed, Nicky.”

The two of us sat in silence for a long time. We became lost in our own thoughts and the complexity of the situation around us.

After several minutes, I gently broached the subject of staying in Kenya. Despite my overly quick response to Wekesa's sarcastic question, the notion of staying permanently had continually creeped into my mind. “You know, Wekesa asked me who would look after the children if Jebet ends up leaving.”

“Yes, we will definitely need to figure that out. There are a few different people who could do it, which is a good thing.”

“I was thinking that maybe
I
could do it? What do you think, Mama Bu?” Aside from my family, there was nothing I needed to return to at home. Maggie was never home, off on her own worldwide adventures, and I could go home to visit my parents. My job teaching third-graders seemed mundane compared to the type of teaching I would be doing in Kenya and how rewarding it would be. My mind raced with inspired thoughts of all that I would do in the classroom, and I became increasingly invigorated by the thought of turning the orphanage into a cozy, happy home for the kids I had grown to love.

“Nicky, I do not know about that. You do not want to move here from your home. Your family is there. And Eric too.”

“Eric is my past. It would be good for us to have continued separation. And my parents can visit me here. Or I could go home for a vacation every once in a while. Plus, there's always the phone . . . and email . . . and Skype. It's so easy to stay in touch now!”

“Have you spoken with Eric again?”

I shook my head and responded softly, “Eric and I are legally separated. It's best that we not communicate. Our life together ended a long time ago and there's no point trying to pretend it's any other way.”

“Are you sure about that, Nicky?”