"We Love You So So Much"

Four days on a beach in Mombasa leads back to Njabini and Flying Kites.  Only this time, we’re prepared for the Gimwa, our home away from home.  We’re not surprised when it takes two hours to check in, or when the shower drips on our head in the middle of the night while using the toilet.  The very damp towels we’re supposed to use to dry off no longer annoy us and we anticipate the cacophony of early morning roosters and wild dogs.  We even look forward to the curdled skin floating on the chai tea in the café; we know the line dancing music videos that repeat on the one snowy Gimwa television channel, and we’ve come to terms with the fact that Ruth and Mary, the Gimwa servers, aren’t at all happy to see us. 

But the children are.  And that’s all that matters.  They clamor for our attention as soon as we arrive back on site.  Some remember us, some don’t, but they love us just the same.  Before long, we’re trading stories about the mountain, playing nail salon or kicking soccer goals in tribute to the ongoing World Cup.  Ah, welcome back!

There’s a different vibe on this visit.  All of the Kilimanjaro climbers have gone home, a number of volunteers have completed their stays, and Kites founders Leila and Justine have made their way back to Newport.  Even the in-country directors are off-site, pushing forward with a local program called Oasis in Nairobi to unite the surrounding orphanages in practice and standards.  I imagine this is what regular days feel like at Flying Kites.  Lazy, organized, quiet.  The eighteen boarders have all of our attention today—Sunday.  They come out to greet us one by one—Rahab, Moses, James, John, Mary, Benson, Joseph, Sara, Lucy, Lucy Obama, Miriam, Hannah, Ann, Alex, Isaac, Daniel, Rose, and the newest alum, Eve*.

In the month since we’ve been away, a lot has happened.  Eve is now in temporary Kites custody.  The chief of Njabini stepped in on her behalf; her family didn’t put up a fight.  It took a little getting used to, seeing Eve in clean jeans and a baby blue fleece.  No more filthy school uniform, no more cowering in corners along the main Njabini road.  Her smile spoke volumes but it was plain to see that life, albeit a past life, had taken its toll.  In the period of an hour, Eve could go through any range of emotions, usually unprovoked.  She might be happy and giddy, then argumentative and belligerent.  She pushes and she yells.  Then, she cries.  There’s a lot of distrust in Eve’s eyes, but she’s figuring out how to get along with the others.  You can see that she wants to learn; her English is fantastic.  Thinking about how little language she had when we met her in Njabini speaks to her desire to fit in, to learn, and to grow.  I shudder to think of what would’ve happened to Eve had Darryl and I not come to Kenya.  It gets me every time.

As we’re laying on blankets in the sun after lunch Ann, a stunning beauty of eleven years old who has been braiding my hair turns to me and says:

“What did you do to your legs?”

I look down at my legs, unsure of Ann’s meaning.

“My legs?  Why?”

“They don’t look like regular mzungu (white person) legs.”

Bashfully, she gestures to the fair-skinned Bethany.  Then, her gaze turns to Darryl.  I laugh.  

“I went in the sun and I got a tan at the beach.”

“Oh,” she says but she looks confused. 

“What’s tan?” she asks.

I realize she’s never seen a beach and I feel guilty.

When she sees me writing the conversation down, she asks if I’m writing what she said to remember her.  Yes, I say.  I want to remember you forever.  Slowly, she takes my pen and asks to write in my book.  Then, she proceeds to write the rest of our conversation.

“What’s your favorite colour?”

“My favorite colour is red,” I reply.

“What’s your favorite color, Ann?”

“I said magenta,” she writes.

“I want to remember you forever, too.”

I turn away because there are tears in my eyes and I don’t want to have to explain.

Seeing Ann write in my notebook prompts Lucy Obama to beg a turn with my pen.  Daniel has my camera, Eve has my sunglasses, Alex has my sneakers, and now Lucy has my notebook.  It’s hard to keep track.  After scribbling behind the shield of her elbow, Lucy’s head pops back up.

“I wrote you a letter, do you want to hear it?”

“Yes, of course, Lucy Obama!”

She reads:

“Dear Marie and Aunty (I assume this is Darryl)

My name is Lucy.  I live in Flying Kites.  I love you so much.

Baboons.  Warthogs.  Giraffes. 

Dik dik.  Cheetah.  Elephant.  Impala.  Zebras.”

Huh?  Confused, I take my book back.  Lucy is giggling uncontrollably.  She has written on a page opposite my safari notes.  She’s copied all the animals, and all my notes, into her “letter.”  Then, she grabs the book back.  “I love you,” she writes again.  As Rahab takes a turn in my notebook, Daniel shows me the 100 photographs he’s taken during our writing session.  Daniel might have a career as a photographer; his montage of a Flying Kites Sunday evokes the freedom and playfulness of being a kid.  So many years past my own childhood, it was wonderful to see myself through childhood’s lens.  Especially the lens of these children: the beautiful children of Flying Kites.

Rabab keeps it simple.

“Rahab

My name is Rahab.

I am seven years old.

Bye.”

I don’t want to leave. 

We may have been prepared for the Gimwa, but saying goodbye to these sweet, little faces isn’t something I’m ready to face.  “It’s so sad, when everyone leaves,” says Ann, eyes turned toward the ground.  Rose is hysterical, Daniel won’t meet my eye; Eve is visibly upset.  The children who have spent more time at Kites seem used to the transition, but it doesn’t make it easier on Darryl and me.  “We love you so so much, we love you so so much!” sing their little voices in song as we pull away in the Flying Kites vehicle. 

I only hope they know how much we love them in return.

*Name has been changed.

Eve*

Darryl met her on the corner of Flying Kites Road while I was exchanging dollars into shillings at the local bank.  She was dressed in a red and white checked skirt and navy blue sweater – a school uniform – but said that she couldn’t afford her dues.  Instead, she strolled the streets.  Many of the townsfolk hissed at her, or conversely, they paid her no mind.  Darryl polished her nails – small, skinny fingers – while she leaned against a dilapidated building next to a bike.  Her smile was transfixing and mischievous; her skin was perfection.  Eve*.

As we made our way up the winding, muddy, mile-long road toward Flying Kites Leadership Academy, Darryl’s little friend followed.  Together, they talked in the same way that Leila, Justine, and I chatted ahead of them.  Or so it seemed.  As we entered Flying Kites, a massive campus of lush, green land, laundry lines, classrooms, and the shrieks of happy children, Eve demurred.

Flying Kites is a place that helps the most needy children in the Njabini community.  Most are orphans, though in a few rare cases, Kites requests custody of a child on the basis of abuse.  Two of the children, siblings, were taken from a mother that tried to boil them alive.  Yes, it gets that bad.  Darryl and I were lucky enough to spend time at the center before our Kilimanjaro climb, a climb that celebrated the very children rocking and rolling around us.  Over a hundred little faces met me on arrival.  My breath caught, my eyes welled; Flying Kites exudes a special feeling.  The place is a heaven (and a haven) for the many that pass through its gates and it translates.  Immediately.

“Auntie, Auntie,” scream these tiny, virtual strangers.  Here, in Kenya, elders are “Auntie” and “Uncle,” making it hard to resist the heartstring pull of such sweet, vibrant kids, regardless of the snot dripping from their noses, or the crust caught in the corners of their eyes.  Every one of them wants (and warrants) my attention.  “Auntie, watch me!” says Sylvester, as he throws a Frisbee.  “Auntie, watch me!” says Rahab, as she jumps rope.  “Auntie, read me a story,” says Lucy Obama – a self-designated moniker that evolved when a second Lucy entered the facility.

Willis is hiding behind a volunteer’s leg; Miriam is playing with the new kitten, Matilda; Moses is in back with a cage of bunnies.  They beg me to take their photo; they giggle uncontrollably when they see their own image.  Like monkeys, they crawl and climb all over me.  They hug, and they kiss; affection is in abundance.  Sarah and John have recently joined the crew.  They are reticent and quiet, and unlike the others, they don’t seek out attention.  When I hear the circumstances that preceded the arrivals of the others, it’s easy to see just how Flying Kites puts lives back together again.  Sarah and John will be wreaking havoc in no time, I’m sure…

A steady stream of volunteers passes through the home to help Sarah, Brian, and Frannie – celebrities in their own right – keep Kites ticking.  There’s the 40-something breast cancer survivor traveling alone for the first time, the Backstreet Boy-esque duo who brought their own Peter Luger sauce and circuit training ropes for backyard exercise, the 16-year old student who came armed with a duffle-bag full of kid-sized Crocs, and the quick-tongued Newport-based college senior who was leaving as we arrived.  In that short, three days of time, I saw how the characteristics of the volunteers, vastly different in every way, matched the spirit of the children. 

On the Day of the African Child, a national holiday that commemorates the Soweto riots of 1970’s, a feast for the leaders of the Njabini community takes place at Kites.  Of course, the generator blows when the reggae band plugs in, but the candlelight sets a lovelier mood.  The kids are on fire, dancing and singing to local gospel sensation Jimmie Gait, conga lines form, the goat sacrifice (that took place on the property earlier in the day) was well received, and one by one, the kids are carried off to bed, happy, fully and entirely spent.  Except for Eve.  She didn’t attend the feast. 

Eve qualifies as an abuse case.  Nobody can accurately determine her age.  Darryl, a social worker, pegs it at around 11.  Eve thinks she was born in 2002.  Recently married off, Eve’s screams during sex with her husband prompted him to give her back to her family.  This, in turn, caused great shame.  Her parents beat her to within an inch of her life on her return prompting her aunt to take her in.  But when a Kites volunteer gave Eve’s aunt food stamps to help care for her, her family took her back to profit.  More beatings.  Plus regular rapes by her neighbor.  Add to that, Eve has epilepsy, which further stigmatizes her.  On the day we left for Kilimanjaro, Eve was again wandering the streets in her school uniform.

Today, Eve showed up at Kites.  Beaten.  Broken.  Again.  They have a custody hearing tomorrow morning.  God, I hope they win. 

*Name has been changed.

A Njabini Sunrise

We’re here!  Africa.  Well, Kenya to start. 

At first glance, it reminds me of India: abject poverty, haphazardly placed bundled garbage, potholes, unrecycled plastic, roaming goats, cows, and donkeys, shoeless children.  All that’s missing are the monkeys…  Here, the skin of the people is about four shades darker, and there is – at least from what I’ve seen – less of a sense of humor.  India’s people, no matter their plight, are always smiling.  In Kenya, it’s tough to crack that initial grin.  There’s a level of quiet, of reserve, of indifference, that almost makes you feel like you’re invisible, as Darryl so aptly put it.  She’s right.  Nobody sees me yet.  Even when I smile.

Out of the city, similar to most third world highways, chaos rules.  Diesel fumes run noxious; horn honking creates cacophonous melody.  Buses, mass transport, and motorcycles are piled high and full.  So many people moving from place to place.  Robert, our driver who moonlights as a Kilimanjaro guide, is a jovial guy who tells us about his country.  The Westlands of Nairobi is an enclave of the wealthy; con men run deep – especially ones in good suits; English is Kenya’s predominant language; 95% of people summit Kilimanjaro on 6-night hikes (whew…).  He’s lovely and informative, and likes us off the bat.  He gives us hope that his is the spirit of the people we’ve come to find.  Robert smiles back.  Every time. 

As city bleeds into country, we climb to Njabini’s elevation of 8,500 feet.  Located in the Great Rift Valley, Njabini is where Flying Kites’ Leadership Academy is located and we can’t wait to arrive.  Darryl, Flying Kites and I are long, and fast friends.  I’ve been waiting to enter their world in the same gracious, welcome way they entered (and changed) mine.  We will volunteer our time at their children’s home; we will climb Kilimanjaro for their cause.  En route, we pass gorgeous, tall pine forests and bushy, flat-topped acacia trees; perched, menacing vultures keep one eye open to dinner possibilities in villages of one story-dilapidated accommodations that line the roads.  Everyone is on the streets – walking, chatting, working – children are all dressed in school uniforms.  Njabini is different than Nairobi; I’ve started to see the color of this land.  

We’re staying at the Gimwa Hotel, a spare guesthouse in Njabini’s small village.  Our bathrooms (a luxury to begin with) look like I would imagine a Riker’s island set-up might look.  The insects are enormous, my dinner was chopped meat and cabbage, and the air smells like burning wood.  No matter, though.  I’m in Africa.  “Jambo” is the word for hello in Kenya, and in Njabini, I plan to use it loosely and with genuine feeling.  Too bad that Mary and Ruth, the girls who man the Gimwa café, don’t care to respond to our Jambos.

I want to be Oprah; I want to be Madonna.  I want schoolchildren of all ages to celebrate me in robe and song.  I want to be crushed by the love of the African people.  Isn’t that how it’s supposed to happen?  I think that’s how everyone pictures Africa, but there’s a slower arc to the “mazungu” (white person) embrace.  

On Day Two, I watched my first African sunrise.  Before I left New York someone told me to cherish every sunrise.  And at 5 AM, the roosters, donkeys, and rabid dogs reminded me that my first opportunity beckoned.  The remnants of jetlag hadn’t quite left my sleepy frame, but awake and half-alert, I bundled up and crept outside for a peek.  A murky blue start to my first Kenyan morning, and though the vision wasn’t as grand as I had expected, the gesture wasn’t lost on me.  In that moment, thinking about where I was, and what I was about to experience, unbeknownst to me, I smiled.  And the equally sleepy, bundled Njabini woman coming out of her hut behind the Gimwa looked up and met my eye.  

Then, she smiled back.