Time to Go Home

“It’s time to go home”, she told me. “You’ve had enough, you’ve done what you could and you need to return.” Inside I knew she was right, but I did not want to admit it. 

After all, three weeks in rural Kenya, and what was there not to like. The hospitality and the warmth of the people, surely I could handle a lot more of that. And what about those cups of sweet tea with milk, warm sodas with biscuits, and sukumu wiki with chicken drenched with sauce, far better than brand Swiss Chalet?

The second word Kenyans learn in their beautiful Swahili language is “karibu”. One hears it all the time - “welcome”.  The first word being “asante” - “thanks”.  Such a thankful people with open hearts. And then there’s “sawa sawa” meaning OK or “that’s all right” or any other phrase that means “you’re spot on”. Kenyans know how to make one feel like royalty.

Living in Kenya for one year of my life, on and off over the past 13 years has been a delight. In 2004 I was part of a research project that would change the course of my life. With the assistance of the Commonwealth Secretariat, I travelled to 50 primary and secondary schools as well as one teacher training institution in a project that focussed on the effects of the HIV/Aids pandemic on Kenya’s public school system. 

My base was in Garissa, North East Province where I had the privilege of teaching students and mentoring teachers at the Garissa Boys HS. 

While there I visited the Dadaab Camps for Refugees and to the far west of Kenya in several of Kakamega’s rural schools. These were both one week assignments and out of these intense experiences came a strong desire to do something to alleviate the pain. But whose pain was it? Mine or theirs?

Pain has many expressions created by neurological and emotional stressors. The pain of loss is very real and it tends to break one’s heart. Anger can be an emotional reaction to the realities of injustice and prejudice, causing pain to one’s conscience. Spending days and weeks with people who suffer in some capacity is a stress that weighs on the soul. 

The pain of sensing another’s loss of dignity can be internalized to such an extent as to create a crisis of faith in oneself to even make a difference. In fact, it is impossible for a caring human being to witness people in trauma and crisis and not being affected personally. Pain in small increments adds up, one image and sound bite at a time. 

The question is, “how long can one survive until emotional overload or the beginnings of post traumatic stress disorder PTSD occurs?”

Signs of acute poverty, poor nutrition and hunger, lack of access to justice and health care bombard the senses. Culture shock followed by anger and compounded by a sense of guilt leads to one question, “why me?” 

How is it that I escape the inequalities of geography when there are 1.2 million orphaned youth under the age of 19 years living in Kenya. Poverty in rural Kenya is "in your face", where the standard of living is low, where tropical diseases are rampant, where HIV/Aids prevails and the life span is too often cut short. 

Inequalities of human existence abound. There is no social assistance and free education does not exist. The poor do not have options; yet, Kenya boasts 5 star hotels, shopping malls and grocery outlets equal to anywhere in the world. The wealthy drive Land Rovers and Toyota Land Cruisers to their private clubs and send their children abroad for their education. The divide between rich and poor is enormous.

I love Kenya. In many ways it feels like my second home. I have seen the beauty and pathos of this country. Strong friendships have developed over the years and I truly hope there is never a day I shall count as my last in that beautiful country. 

But…there is always a breaking point. Back in February 2004 I met a young 17 year old who had recently attended school for the first time. Each day he brought a plastic bag to school that contained all his belongings. This, as he did not know where he would be sleeping that night.

I was finished…destroyed. I had to find a quiet place and there I wept and my heart was broken. In time I felt a comforting hand on my shoulder and a voice from a dear friend saying, “it’s OK, it happens to all of us.”

Africa wears you down. Little by little it chips away at the inner fortress of personal pride and prejudice. But in its place there is a wholeness and healing that comes when the heart is softened and opened to a new perspective. The key is not too much, just a "chip" at a time.

So when she said, “I can see it in your eyes, it’s time”, I knew what my dear friend meant. She had witnessed my pain and it was her way of saying I had had enough. 

Leaving Kenya is always hard. Home is a place of refuge, where they always take you in. Home is for strengthening, rebuilding and renewing one’s passion in life.

I shall return to Kenya soon, God willing.

Dedicated to Patricia Makori, CES Kenya Associate whose words "it's time to go home" are never forgotten.