Saturday Morning Reflections

I was sitting on Mary's couch, recovering from a late night of games, filling my stomach with eggy bread and chai. Floss and I met Kevin in Satellite, an area in Nairobi. I had stayed at Mary's place the first two nights I came to Kenya. She was a young 19-year-old who loved hosting newcomers and making her famous popcorn. She had open beds and we decided to crash. 

We played cards and compared musical tastes. It was one of the few times where my age was glaringly obvious. Most volunteers fell between the age of 18 and 22. They decided to take a gap year from university and travel. Sometimes it felt strange to be surrounded by people born in 1994, who didn't understand my pop culture references, or looked at me funny when I start singing along to the TLC being played on the matatu. 

Last night was one of those night. Two eighteen year olds were coming into their phase of musical discovery: "Screw pop music and Top 40s!"

" Lets listen to the classics, man."

" Have you heard of Van Morrison!"

"Dude, Stairway To Heaven is legendary."

" What about Pink Floyd?" 

The race of band naming lasted for about an hour, each music expert trying to outdo the other. I listened. And waited. I remembered that time. 

The morning was one of my last here in Kenya. My plane back to California was only three days away. I thought about the past week--how I felt I was becoming more of a teacher and less of a guest, how the students began to understand my routines and listen to my instructions, how the teachers became less shy with their sticks, chasing laughing children across the field as they jokingly whacked them for being late to class. I was becoming a part of it. 

Floss and I had an established routine during lunch break. We'd eat our leftovers with Principal Resper or in the classroom, then we'd lie down (taking our cue from the other teachers) and let the kids gather. They played with our hair or tickled our necks, sometimes we'd write letters on each others backs. It was relaxing and sweet and great.

There was one girl in kindergarten. She wore a white winter hat, woven with cotton, complete with a twisted string tied underneath her chin. She had big eyes that always shyly stared. One day I called to her with a coaxing smile, "kuja hapa". Recognition flashed across her face and she wearily walked towards me. I scooped her up and plopped her on my lap. She didn't say a word, just played with her yellow ducky water bottle and the long green string attached. And that became our afternoon. 

She'd find me every lunch, running with a smile  and sitting quietly on my lap. Each day she got more and more comfortable--one day playing with my water bottle, another day stroking my cheek. Sometimes she'd play with my hair along with the other girls. But it was my favorite part of the day. Me and my silent friend. 

It was going to be hard to say goodbye. I sat and waited for my friends at Mary's to get ready. But it was Saturday and a day of adventure was ahead.