Meeting the Mzee...

I love telling stories  --  here is one in two parts...

While living in Kenya, I’d often go to a nearby village to shop in their open market—picking up fresh fruits and veggies.  On one such day I parked where an askari was on duty—for just a few shillings my car will be protected.   

This small village seems to appear out of nowhere.  Shops line one side of a distance no longer than a city block.  An open grassy area is filled with entrepreneurs selling used clothing; red hot gekos roasting corn on the cob; and peanuts encased in small newspaper cones.

On the boarded walkway in front of the shops a young man sits at an ancient Singer treadle sewing machine.  Behind him are simply made men’s shirts and women’s dresses in colorful African cloth.  Next to him, an old man repairs shoes.  Inside the shops—no larger than 8 x 10 feet—one can purchase anything from shoe laces to loaves of bread to cans of motor oil.

I smile and wave a greeting at some children as I start down a hill behind the shops.  Over the years, erosion and hundreds of bare feet have formed irregular trails winding their way down to the open market below.  Rickety wooden tables hold tomatoes, sukumuwiki, bananas, potatoes, fish, eggs, and live chickens.   The market place gives my Kiswahili ample practice.  Beautiful white teeth stand out against a deep brown face as smiles compliment my attempts at learning new words.  As my load of produce grows, a young boy approaches to ask if he can help carry my purchases.  I happily give him my burdens and a few shillings for his work and ask him to take them to my car.  Without giving directions, he knows which vehicle is mine.

I’m about to ascend the uneven path up to the shops when I glance in the direction of laughing, playing children.  There, standing under an acacia tree, is an old man—small, with deep creases on his face that remind me of the footpaths that form the transportation system in Kenya.  He stands erect, almost regally poised, holding on to his staff—an old, smoothly worn tree limb. 

His dress is typical of a poor man in Kenya.  A suit jacket, threadbare and several sizes too large—probably purchased years before from a pile of used clothing.   His trousers drag the ground around his calloused feet.  He wears a white shirt—I’m always amazed at how whites stay white when wash water is often darker than strong tea.   His tie is a swirl of color, four inches at its widest, reminding me of years and fashions gone by.  Yet in all this, I see a man of great dignity. 

I enjoy making friends in my newly adopted country, so I walk over to him.  I lower my head and bow as I say, “Habari yako, mzee”--I want to greet him with the respect he deserves.  He returns my greeting, and his smile reveals the hole left from six teeth extracted from the mouth of Luo men during their initiation.

Once again, I try my limited Kiswahili.  “Mimi kamata enu picha?”   Kenyans love to have their pictures taken—with a promise they will receive a copy.  Photography is a hobby of the rich!

He looks confused until I show him my camera—obviously my Kiswahili needs more practice.  Also many rural Kenyans, especially the elderly, only speak their tribal tongue.  He smiles again and replies, “Ndiyo.”   I take several pictures and with each one he stands in his kingly, dignified way.  Within a few minutes, a small crowd has gathered—obviously a camera in a poor village draws a lot of attention.  I ask if anyone speaks English.   A gentleman steps forward and offers to help.

“Can you ask the mzee if I can buy him some chai?”  We proceed to a small building with a crude table set in the dirt—shaded overhead by a torn canvas.  My translator is also the shop owner.  He goes inside to get the chai, and when he returns, joins us.   

                                                 To be continued...