As
we sit sipping our tea, I introduce myself and tell the old mzee I have come from the United States
to teach at a university nearby, I want to learn all I can about the Kenyan
people. As he listens to the translator, his eyes
light up.
I learn
the gentleman’s name is Ochieng Odinga. He is a Luo and with fierce pride, the mzee speaks of his tribe as a proud
people, fishermen, who did not have their land taken during the British rule as
many other tribes did. The Luos, he
continued, played an important part in the independence of Kenya.
He
tells me that he was born in a hut near Lake Victoria
on the outskirts of Kisumu—which was then just a village. He thinks he’s about 70 years, and has four wives
and 27 children—12 sons!
As
he talks, his face goes from the gentle look that first attracted me to one of
animation. He speaks quickly and with
many gestures—hands flying and eyes sparkling as he talks of his children.
I
glance at my watch. It’s nearly
lunchtime, and I remember that I had only a cup of tea earlier. I ask our translator if he has chips. Kenyan chips—better known as french fries to
Americans are what muzungus—white
foreigners—eat regularly at the
kiosks doting the countryside. Though thoroughly
unhealthy—they are cooked in hot grease—so are presumed “safe” for foreigners. (I
never had the courage to ask how long the oil was used before being thrown out!) But
even at 15 shillings, chips are too expensive for many Kenyans. When the food arrives, I enjoy watching Mr. Odinga
eat with gusto.
I’m just
about to suggest that I’ve taken too much of my friend’s time when he asks if
I’d like to visit his home. “Ndiyo, ndiyo!” I respond enthusiastically.
His home is about a kilometer from the
village. We walk on hardened red dirt
and mostly shaded paths. I feel like a
child following the Pied Piper as I walk behind him to his home. Along the way, children run out from their shambas to greet us yelling “muzungu, muzungu” as they reach out to
touch my hand. In rural areas, whites
are not often seen.
When
we arrive at his kiwanja, his plot of
land, his wives come out to greet me. I
have no doubt that through the infamous Kenyan-grapevine his family knew of my
impending arrival. The wives appear to be lined up according to
age—which seems to be from about 25 to 65.
The ages of the children vary accordingly. Mr. Odinga proudly tells me that five of his
sons live in nearby Kisumu where they work.
After the introductions, done amazingly well without a translator, one
of his wives leaves and goes inside a hut.
When she returns, she offers me a bottle of soda. I bow in respect saying “Asante sana”. Hospitality is not undermined by
poverty.
Mr.
Odinga takes me into his garden—tended by his wives. The produce includes most everything I saw
earlier at the market. Chickens run
around cackling as the youngest children follow me closely. I ask if I can take their pictures. They are excited and quickly line up. Why don’t I take a single picture of each
person I suggest? They love that
idea.
As I
prepare to leave, my new friend accompanies me back to the village—this time
with several of his children.
As
we near my car, I turn to him and ask, “Kumbatia?” I want to hug this dear, gracious man, but
don’t want to offend him with my forwardness.
He smiles his toothless smile and puts his arms out. I assure him that I will return in a week or
two with his pictures.
I
pay the askari and get into my car.. As I drive away I look in my rearview mirror
and see my new friend and his family standing in the dust of my car.
What
a privilege to have had this intimate experience with the mzee. Besides hearing his life story, his soul has touched
me. I doubt that this old man can read
or write, yet even in his life of poverty—lacking most all in life that I find
essential—he is a man of great pride and dignity. His picture below, minus his jacket, speaks to me of age and wisdom and character. I love looking at this man who allowed me to intrude into his world.
No comments:
Post a Comment