When I got to school the next morning, ten of the children were waiting outside the door, clearly anxious to get in and start the day. Their faces lit up when they saw me walking towards the school and I waved animatedly at them as I got closer. I smiled as I realized just how happy I was to see them again. I laughed outwardly as I watched some of the older kids jump up and down, clapping their hands and calling out my name. Two of the younger students ran to greet me, each of them taking a hand as they pulled me towards the school. I had never experienced such a sense of eagerness to learn, nor had I ever seen children respond to a teacher in such an energetic way. I wondered if it was the learning and studies they craved, or simply the attention.
Either way, we filled the next two days with more group lessons, and I was overjoyed to realize how quickly the children absorbed everything that was put in front of them, whether direction came from me or another student. We fell quickly into a routine and by the end of our third day together it felt as though I had known them forever.
On Friday, I decided to kick the morning off with a music lesson. I knew how much rhythm and beats meant to the Kenyan culture and I was hopeful that a cadenced (and bilingual!) music lesson imitating a storm would, somehow, miraculously help to bring the rainfall that we were still so desperately in need of. The students told me that the skies had provided nothing but overbearingly hot sunshine for weeks, and the crops had grown increasingly barren.
I asked the students to help me move the desks, and then we sat in a crammed circle in the middle of the classroom. I told the children we were going to try to bring rain to the land by creating the sound of a storm on the wooden floor.
“So, what do you think comes before the rain?” I asked.
“Sunshine!” Samuel shouted out. I reminded the class that they needed to raise their hands before answering a question.
“Yes, you are right, Samuel. But something happens after the sunshine, and before the rain, to tell us a storm is coming. Does anyone know?”
Silence.
“How about the wind?” I asked the class. “It usually starts to pick up right before a storm.” I showed the students how we could imitate the sound of wind by making circular motions on the floor. The kids smiled and laughed at the noise, realizing that thirty-six people rubbing a wooden floor actually created a pretty loud sound. One that really did resemble the wind.
“Then what follows the wind? I’m sure you know this one,” I asked the class.
“Rain!” The outburst led to another reminder to raise their hands.
“That’s right. The storm is on its way, and light rain is about to start.” I pointed to one half of the circle and told them to keep making the sound of wind with their circular motions. Then, I instructed the other half of the class to hit their fingertips softly on the floor to elicit light rain — followed by striking it a little harder as the rain drops grew larger.
I motioned for the wind to build up, and the reverberations grew stronger. The wind and the rain overlapped, and I was impressed at just how much it sounded like a real storm.
“The rain is coming down harder! The raindrops are big, and it’s coming down in buckets now,” I shouted over the noise. I showed the children how to hit their fingers together on each hand to make it seem as though the rain was coming down louder, more quickly.
And, then, finally, we moved to pounding the palms of our hands together very quickly, the sound inside the classroom now deafening. The children seemed mesmerized at the loud, realistic sounds they were creating. It was as if they were all impressed by the show they were watching and didn’t realize they were each contributing to its impact.
Just as I was about to reverse the order of the sounds to show the storm passing, Jebet walked into the classroom. She was using her stick as a walking stick, but raised it as she shouted, “What is this?! Do you call this learning? You are making a mockery of my school! Enough! Get up! Get up!”
The sounds of the storm instantly came to a halt as the children scurried from the circle and back to their seats. Because we had moved the desks to the sides of the room, there wasn’t room for all of them and they were literally sitting on top of one another. Yet, despite how jam-packed they were, they each sat perfectly still, with their hands folded neatly in their laps. They all looked down.
“School is done, you hear! No more shenanigans today, do you hear me? Back to chores,” Jebet bellowed. The deafening sounds of our hard rain and wind didn’t compete with her ear-piercing volume. “The house needs to be cleaned from top to bottom. And you!” Jebet pointed to John and Ita, sitting side by side in the corner. “You two boys need to go and get the water. Now, move!”
Before I could say anything, the children fled the classroom and disappeared into the house. John and Ita remained behind, but started to walk away once the cranky orphanage director threw some shillings at them. I motioned for them to wait for one moment.
“Jebet? Why did you interrupt our lesson? I was teaching them some music. If you would like to speak with me about my methods, I would be happy to have that conversation with you. But, please, don’t take it out on the children.”
“Nonsense!” Jebet retorted, her nostrils flaring once again. “Work needs to be done. School comes second. Your self-made noises mean nothing compared to survival, which means getting the water and cleaning the kitchen. The house help can’t do it all by herself, you hear? It’s a large orphanage.”
“I’m sorry, but I must have misunderstood something. I thought that you wanted me to spend the weekdays with the children teaching them school lessons?”
“Not when work needs to be done first! School comes second! We’re out of government water and need some more, and that comes first. Don’t you know that? Are you a fool? Now go back to Bu’s house and don’t come back until Monday!”
Confused, I watched Jebet turn and use her walking stick like a cane as she returned to the orphanage. John and Ita were still waiting, and listening. Once Jebet left, they shrugged their shoulders and started walking.
“May I come with you? Perhaps I can help,” I said to the boys, not really sure what to do next. My plans for the day had collapsed with the irritating voice of Jebet’s barked commands.
“If you want come, it okay,” Ita said, smiling at me. He revealed a wide smile with two holes in the front, where his baby teeth had once been. “Stay here first. We get the bucket.”
The boys ran into the house and returned holding an oversized water jug that reminded me of the containers we had used when my father decided he wanted to try camping. I remembered him retrieving the water from the closest tap and, even as a strong man, struggling to walk it back to our site. How were two little boys going to manage it?
I fell into stride beside the two boys who walked the path like they could do it in their sleep. When we exited the orphanage grounds, we turned right and climbed down a dusty hill so steep I had to dig my feet into the earth to prevent myself from slipping. All I could think about was how we’d manage to get the water jug back up when we could barely get down the hill without the water.
Through somewhat choppy English, I learned that the boys often walked to the private store in search of water. Once per week, the government opened up the pipelines into the homes of Africa to provide a rationed supply. The tanks were filled to the top but, once a home’s water allotment was gone, it was gone.
Given the number of kids needing water at the orphanage, the reservoir never lasted a week and often ran out after four days. In constant need of extra, Jebet forced the kids to fetch more water so they had enough for dishes.
The walk to get water took only about fifteen minutes and I was happily surprised to have arrived at our destination so quickly. During our short walk, my mind had filled with images I had seen on World Vision commercials, where children and women were expected to walk for miles in search of water.
John took my hand and led me to a hose hooked up to two big tanks. We filled the jug, and then gave the money to a scrawny man who had been keeping a close watch over us. He smiled before pocketing the money, revealing a big grin with no teeth.
“Now that we got the water, we go back, Mwalimu Nicky. But this part of the walk much harder. But don’t worry. We carry the water for you.” My heart hurt. They were seven years old.
“No, no, I will help you too. We’ll share.” I smiled at him, taking the filled jug.
During the uphill walk back, the World Vision images returned when the fifteen-minute walk turned into an hour and a half of lugging. I insisted on spending the majority of our travel time carrying the jug on my back; I didn’t have the heart to watch two small children struggle with a task that I didn’t think they should be doing in the first place. The canteen weighed more than either one of them.
“It’s okay, Mwalimu Nicky. We do it like this . . .” The boys showed me their innovative solution of each taking the jug with their inside hand, while using their outside hands to push against the other’s shoulder so they wouldn’t collapse into one another. I had to admit, it was pretty smart of them.
When they couldn’t carry it for one more step, I attached the thick carrying straps to the jug, and another on my forehead; the heavy canteen hung behind me and rested on my back.
I learned some time later that I was giving a piggyback to fifty-five-pounds of water. I grew increasingly angry with each step I took; it infuriated me to know that Jebet would expect two small children to carry such weight. Foot by foot, step by step, I became a sweaty, dusty ball of rage. By the time we reached the orphanage, my damp clothes were stuck to my aching everything and I was ready to tackle Jebet.
I dropped the water jug off in the kitchen and went to find the orphanage director; I was determined to find another solution to kids carrying such weighty water.
When I finally found Jebet in the common room, she was hovering over Gracie. Although Jebet’s hunched back covered a lot of my view, I could see that Gracie was bundled in a ball on the floor and could hear that she was sobbing in a way that sounded more like a cat’s wail than a crying little girl.
I took a step towards Gracie just as Jebet delivered a blow to the little girl’s shoulder. She used the stick she had been carrying earlier that day.
“No!” I cried, now running towards them. I instinctively jumped on Jebet and tried to grab the stick from her grasp. “Please, stop! Right now. Please! Jebet, what could Gracie have done to deserve this?”
“I said to leave!” Jebet shouted, spitting through her teeth. “What part did you not understand when I said do not come back until Monday? Get out! Get out!”
“Jebet, I won’t. I can’t leave while you’re hurting Gracie like this. She’s just a little girl. Please, Jebet. Put the stick down. Tell me what she did to make you so angry.” Afraid of Jebet hitting the little girl again, I held onto the stick with all of my might and looked Jebet straight in the eyes.
Realizing freedom from Jebet’s stick, Gracie fled to a corner beside one of the couches. She stayed cowered in the corner, tears and thick snot running down her face and onto her chin. She continued to wail, although it was slowly turning into more of an agonized whimper. None of the onlooking children went to help or comfort Gracie, and I recognized fear in all of their eyes as they stood still as stones and watched what was happening.
“That imbecile pissed her pants. I won’t have it! She needs to learn to keep her legs shut or to piss in the squat, and not in her pants. Now we’ve got to wash her clothes, even though we have no extra water to wash clothes.”
“We have some water, Jebet. I just carried it back,” I explained to the fuming director, trying to calm her down and, most important, keep her away from Gracie. I had no idea what to do next and my wobbly legs matched Gracie’s trembling body. It dawned on me that Jebet still held the stick and there was the chance she could turn it on me. From what I had seen, the woman was capable of anything.
“It doesn’t matter. That girl is five years old. It’s time for her to stop pissing in her pants. If she wants to learn the hard way, she’s going to learn the hard way. Hmmph.”
“It was an accident, Jebet. Gracie wouldn’t have done it on purpose. I will clean her up and wash all of her clothes. Please, why don’t you go and get the water I just carried back, for whatever you needed it for. I’ll stay here and get Gracie all cleaned up.”
Jebet snorted, and raised her stick in Gracie’s direction, as if trying to threaten her. Then Jebet backed out of the room.
Once she was gone, I ran to Gracie’s side and lifted her shaking frame out of the corner. She collapsed into my arms and I folded her into me, giving her a hug.
I was unconcerned that her soggy, stained pants were leaving marks on my own clothes. Every part of me needed to give the little girl comfort and love. I wanted to hug her harder, but I didn’t know where she had been hit or if she was bruised. I didn’t want to hurt her more.
“It’s okay, Gracie. Shhh, shhh. It’s okay, honey. It’s okay,” I whispered quietly into her ear. Her trembling wouldn’t stop, so I continued to rub her back and kept trying to calm her with my voice and words.
As I comforted Gracie, I sensed the other children were still behind me, watching and afraid. An occasional sniffle and whimper came from the group, but other than that, complete silence. I turned and motioned for the kids to join me. They all sat at my feet as I hugged Gracie, rocking her back and forth.
Nadia closed in on us, starting a group hug, and the three of us sat together, hugging. After a moment, Ita joined us. Then Esther, followed by John. Runo and Shani. Maalik and his sister, Machelle. Macie and Paulo. Barongo, Hiuhu, Akello and Jomo. We all sat together, hugging as a group, and making each other feel safe.
When Gracie finally raised her head, she cautiously looked at me, and I saw a single welt along one cheek where Jebet had hit her. The line of raw skin dotted her cheek and stuck out in high contrast to her smooth, black skin. The edges were starting to puff up and I knew it would be a bruise within a few days.
I asked Esther to run and get Gracie some new clothes. With the other children also feeling better, I asked them to go outside to play. When it was just Gracie and me, I caressed her unharmed cheek with my hand.
“We’re going to get you cleaned up now, Gracie. Okay?” I said gently. “It’s okay that you had an accident. We all have accidents. I’ll get you cleaned up and you will be good as new.”
I didn’t know how much Gracie understood, but I hoped she knew what I was telling her. I paused then, before gently removing her pee-soaked pants. When I took off Gracie’s top, I found another stick gash across her back and a lighter pink mark on her shoulder where I had seen Jebet hit her.
I felt as if my heart had folded in on itself, and I gulped back the threatening tears that were sitting in my throat. I did not want Gracie to see me cry.
I folded up Gracie’s soiled clothes and helped her into the new pants Esther had found for us. Taking the two girls by the hands, I led them into the kitchen in hopes of finding Johanna. I crossed my fingers that we wouldn’t run into Jebet — both for Gracie’s sake and her own. I was so angry that I didn’t know what I would do to Jebet if I saw her at that moment.
Standing in the kitchen was Johanna, boiling that night’s vegetables and beans in the ceramic jiko. Johanna looked up when we entered the room, her smile fading once she saw the welts on Gracie’s body and face.
Johanna crossed the room and took the little girl into her arms. I couldn’t understand the Swahili words that Johanna was saying, but I knew from the look on Gracie’s face that the comforting hums coming from Johanna’s mouth were making Gracie feel better.
“Run along, now, Esther,” I said. “Thank you for getting Gracie some new clothes. Johanna and I will take care of her from here.” I watched the little girl run from the kitchen, the broken door slamming behind her as she went. Turning to Johanna, I said, “Do you have a first aid kit? We should get those wounds cleaned up to prevent infection.”
Johanna looked puzzled, so I found new words. “Bandages? Ointment? Gauze? We need to get her cuts cleaned.” I pointed to the wounds on Gracie’s body.
“We no got one,” Johanna answered, shaking her head and looking very sad. “Old volunteer gave lots, but Jebet sold everything we got for money. She kept money for her.”
Somehow, my blood began to boil even hotter. When I found Gracie, I thought I couldn’t have been angrier. But less than twenty minutes after that, I had proven myself wrong. “Do you have soap, Johanna? We need to at least clean her cuts.”
“Eeh, eeh . . . yes, yes . . . we do. I get it.” Johanna picked Gracie up and retrieved some soap from a cupboard that had lost its door. She gingerly placed the girl on the counter beside the sink and proceeded to expertly clean out Gracie’s wounds with the soap, along with some of the water the boys and I had carried less than an hour before.
As we worked, Johanna and I took turns singing to Gracie — Johanna in Swahili, and I in English. When I recognized the tune of one of Johanna’s songs, I joined in, but in English.
“Baa baa mbuzi una uzi. . . .” Johanna sang, her voice sweet and strong. And me, singing, “Baa baa black sheep have you any wool. . . .”
By the time we were finished cleaning Gracie up, she was smiling and asking if she could go and find the other children. I took it as a good sign.
When she left, I picked up Gracie’s dirty clothes and started washing them in the sink, careful to not use very much water. “Do you want to know what happened?” I asked Johanna.
“No. I already know,” Johanna replied, in a sad and defeated way. “It happen more times. More and more. Jebet use stick on chil’n when they done bad. She mean, mean lady.”
“Johanna, why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I asked gently. I was upset that she hadn’t mentioned it in our many conversations that week, but I didn’t want to push her. “You know you can talk to me, right?”
Johanna slowly nodded, looking skeptical. “But if I say something, Jebet kick me out. I nowhere to go.”
“I won’t let that happen, Johanna. I’ll make sure you always have somewhere safe to be.” I looked directly into Johanna’s eyes. “But we have to stop Jebet. This is crazy. We can’t let her do this to the kids.” My voice, now loud and clear, surprised even myself.
“Shhh. Jebet upstairs. We no talk now. We talk later.” Johanna turned to the jiko and kept stirring. When I didn’t respond, but also didn’t leave, Johanna stopped stirring and came closer to me, whispering, “I no like it either. I want to stop it. I trust you, so I tell you some stuff. But not when Jebet home. We talk later. You should go. I’ll watch out for the chil’n and I watch Gracie. ”
When she finished speaking to me, Johanna picked up the long wooden spoon to continue stirring, only this time she didn’t turn back around to talk to me. I was afraid to go, but afraid to stay. So I stalled, and waited a full minute for Johanna to say something more.
When she didn’t, I took it as a sign that it was truly time for me to go. I could only trust that Johanna would stick to her word about watching out for the children and keeping an eye on Gracie.