A Lesson

Wednesday while Leonard and I were discussing the sibling workshop, he received a call. It is typical for him, and for all Kenyans for that matter, to answer their phones regardless of time or place. So I did not pay too much attention until I looked up from my notes to see a surprised look on his face. He informed me that he had just received news that Samini Omar, a boy Kupenda sponsors had passed away. He was deaf, but did not have any other medical complications as far as any one knew. A boy nearly my age, gone for no apparent reason. I was shocked – How does one respond to such news?

The next day I went to Samini Charo’s home with Leonard and Reverend Mangi to offer condolences and support. A large number of people had already gathered at the family’s home and the looked quizzically at us as we arrived. I am sure the last thing they expected was to see a muzungu. The women were grouped around the mother, sitting on thin woven mats made of palm branches in the shade of the mud house and coconut trees. Just a few feet from the house there was a group of young men digging the boy’s grave from the red Kenyan soil. They dug for the whole time I was there, alternating. Hacking at the soil with a machete and then digging it out with shovels. There was another group of older men sitting as well who sat on rickety wooden stools, talking.

I was seated near Leonard and Reverand Mangi with the group of older men, on a chair made of sticks - the only chair in sight. I listened as Leonard talked with the boy’s father. Occasionally Leonard would explain to me what was going on, but for the most part I was completely clueless. Helpless in the face of the family’s grief. There was nothing I could do. None of the people there spoke English, so I was isolated by language. I had to rely on a the few scraps of information that Leonard related to me. What I learned was even more saddening than I expected. It turns out the boy was also born with a heart condition that he was treated for as a boy. He was given some medication, and had improved to the point where he seemed fine. So he stopped taking his medication and his parents never mentioned the problem to Kupenda or any of the boy’s teachers. I later spoke with Madame Karo about it, and she said that in the four years she taught him, neither he nor his parents discussed any heart problems.

At one point during the discussion, Leonard and Reverand Mangi got up to discuss something away from the group of men we were sitting with. One of them busied himself with weaving a basket, and another prepared the leaves for him to weave together. I watched him for a while, glancing at the women who sat grouped together. One was having her hair braided by another, several of them were caring for their young children, and the others were sitting with the mother passing around a small purple book.

I went to go join the women. I found a space on one of the woven mats and motioned to the women nearest to me asking if I could sit there. So I sat there, and the women around me laughed a little at my uncertainty. It felt strange to laugh in such a context. Then, I made eye contact with the mother. The look in her eyes was curious and inviting, so I went over to her and greeted her. She offered me a place on the mat next to her. Through a mixture of broken Swahili and motions I managed to introduce myself, and she introduced her self to me. She pointed out her daughters. When the small purple book came near to me I realized what it was – a small picture album with pictures of the boy. Maybe fifteen pictures. That is all they had left. The mother showed me all of them, pointing out the boy in each one. He seemed happy and healthy, just like all the others I see every day at Gede.

We did not try to talk too much; I just sat there with her. When another woman would come to greet the mother, all the women would begin to wail and the newcomer would echo her cries of pain. So different from an American condolence. There really are not words to describe that kind of grief. Only a wail of pain. I did not need to speak Swahili in order to comfort the mother. In fact no one hardly spoke at all to each other. We all were there just to be with the family, so they were not alone.
And the gravediggers kept digging. I could hear their shovels clang as they heaved the soil from the ground. A rich red, like no soil I have ever seen before coming to Africa.

Reverend Magi got up to say a few words, and though I could hardly understand a word he said, I echoed the ‘amens,’ and that was enough.

After Leonard spoke a bit we left the family, to go back down the bumpy dirt road to Malindi. Tomorrow I will head back down the same road to attend the boy’s funeral.