Читать книгу Hannah’s Hope - Paul H Boge - Страница 10

CHAPTER

three

It should not have been possible.

Many people had tried and failed. Yet my grandmother convinced the teacher to let us attend school without any money. In Kenya, all children are required to pay for school. On top of that, we have to pay for uniforms. We could not even feed ourselves, yet we were expected to climb out of poverty by obtaining an education we could not afford.

I was down to one meal a day. We all were. The word meal itself is a relative term. What is a meal exactly? Is it when you eat until you are full? Or could it also refer to the small portions of rice my grandmother sacrificed everything for? When we first came back to our grandparents I often wondered what it would be like to eat three times a day again like we did with our father. But the longer I stayed here, the more I found myself being grateful for the one meal we could have together. Even if it was so little. I had to learn to shift my expectations of life. No doubt I wanted three meals a day. I needed three meals a day. But life is what life is, and I found it was better to try to focus on what I did have than to focus on what was missing.

The hunger pangs left me debilitated. It was as if someone had sucked the energy from my veins. My stomach felt different pains at different times of the day. The hungrier I got, the worse I felt. I often wondered what I would do if Grandmother would not be able to provide. I could not come up with any solutions.

I often felt tired, weak. I would lie down on the mud floor in the afternoon, thinking how much I would love to play with the other children. But playing takes energy. And even at a young age I had to learn how to ration what little strength I had.

Leah found it even more difficult. I sensed something different in her. She walked slower than I did. We encouraged each other to lie down and would look into each other’s eyes, hoping to rest. Sleep is a great way to pass the time. Or to avoid it altogether.

We had no money. No chickens. No goods with which to barter. The sum total of everything we had was nothing. And yet Grandmother took us to the schoolyard. To the teacher. To hope for a miracle.

“God will provide,” she told me.

I wondered about that. Exactly how would the same God who allowed my parents to die provide for me to go to school? Grandmother had faithfully knelt down, even at her old age—I will never forget that picture of humility—and prayed to God for help.

The school here in the village looked different than schools we saw in Nairobi. City schools were made of bricks. Here, the walls were made of mud. The wooden desks looked older. The classrooms were small and cramped. None of this mattered to me, though. I would have gone to school in the open pouring rain if it meant I could have a chance at a better life.

In Nairobi, we sometimes managed to stay in school until the end of the first month. But when the teachers discovered we could not pay the fees, they would get rid of us. I wondered how long it would take them to figure that out here.

Grandmother walked ahead of us to the playground. She approached a teacher and began to speak with her. I was thankful she did not take us with her. This way, when the teacher found out we could not pay, it would be a simple shake of her head instead of escorting us out in full view of all the others.

I watched the children play hide-and-seek and especially football (what people in other parts of the world refer to as soccer). I wondered what it would feel like to run with all the others, to be with such a large group of children. I wondered what it would feel like to fit in.

Grandmother returned. I looked in her eyes for any hint of direction as to what would happen next.

“You can go to school,” she said in way that seemed she had known all along this would happen.

I stood still, as if I were a tree, unable to believe what I had just heard. It felt unique to experience shock over good news. Amazing news, actually.

Or was it?

Would this last? Did Grandmother pay her money? Would the money run out? I did not see any money change hands. I was sure of it. I swallowed. My stomach growled. I ignored the pain. I am not sure what surprised me more, that I was actually going to school or that my grandmother had been expecting this all along.

“Thank you,” I said. Leah and I hugged her.

“All right. All right,” she said. “Get going. She is waiting for you. And study hard.”

Leah and I stepped onto the school ground. It felt different, like we were trying to decide if we belonged or were only visitors.

The teacher called all the children into the classroom. We hurried to catch up. As we approached I saw the expression on the teacher’s face. Her smile, her eyes, her whole being—every part of her exuded such joy. In just that short instant, she put me at ease. Some people have that gift. She motioned with her hands for us to go inside.

Leah and I stopped at the doorway. I felt the gazes of the other children as we entered. I wondered what they were thinking. They all seemed so smart, so put together. Like they had been doing this for years.

I wished someone would say something. Their silence made my awkwardness ten times worse. We were only the centre of attention for a few seconds, but to me it felt like hours. I glanced up. I saw openings near the ceiling that let the warm air escape to keep the classroom cool. Part of me wished I could be as invisible as that air.

Two students sat at each desk. There were no empty desks, not entirely, so the teacher directed Leah and me to sit at different desks next to other students. It was an adjustment. I had assumed that my twin and I would sit together. It felt strange to be apart from her.

It was not until we walked on the concrete surface to our desks that it occurred to me why some of the children stared. It was not that we were new. Not because we were twins. (Most thought we were sisters a year apart, until we told them otherwise.) They stared at us because they felt sorry for us. We reminded them of where they once were. They stared because we did not have shoes.

Being without shoes at our huts did not bother us. No one else had shoes. Not the kids, anyway. It never occurred us that something might be wrong with going barefoot to school. We wanted shoes. Every child does. You could offer a poor African child any gift they want, suggesting a giraffe, an elephant, a zebra, the moon. Anything. Yet the answer would always come back the same—a pair of shoes.

I sat down at my desk, and Leah sat at hers. We glanced at each other for reassurance, the way sisters do when their bond connects them even if they are separated by distance. The teacher wrote on the chalkboard. Everyone focused their attention on what she taught. And Leah and I blended in, just like the way I wanted us to.

It was both fun and challenging to be in the classroom. I felt excited to learn. But I found it hard. Very, very hard. Many things I did not understand. When the morning finished, the teacher encouraged me, telling me I would get used to it, even if at first I felt in over my head. As I walked out, I knew something about being here resonated with me. I felt hope in learning, in pursuing an education, in believing my future could be different than my past.

At lunchtime we stepped outside into the bright sunshine. I blinked as my eyes adjusted. Some of the children ran to play football. I admired them running in the heat like that. Others sat under the shade of trees and played games while eating lunch.

Leah and I stood listening to our stomachs growl. I turned to the girl who sat next to me in school. She was kind. She was smart. She was short.

She had food.

She sat cross-legged on the ground, eating ugali, and she had lots of it. Ugali is white crushed corn. It is a famous Kenyan food. Everyone eats it.

I was too shy at first to ask her to share. I felt bad for hoping for some of her lunch when in fact it might well have been the only meal she would have that day. Or even the next.

I think she sensed I was going to ask her for something to eat. She turned to me.

“Could I have some of your lunch?” I asked, hoping she had the courage to turn me down if she did not have enough.

It felt like an eternity to hear her answer. I felt so vulnerable. Part of me felt it would be easier to go without food. But better to be humble and fed than proud and hungry.

She did not answer. Not with words. She smiled and handed us her ugali. I thanked her as I broke off a piece. I chewed the soft maize. I swallowed. I felt the calm that came with knowing my stomach was looked after. She invited us to join her. We did. We talked, laughed, and did the things children do when they don’t have to worry about their basic needs.

And it made me realize how powerful it is to simply reach out to someone and love them.

We ran home barefoot that afternoon, the skin on the bottom of our feet having long since become tough from grinding against the roads and hard surfaces. Now that we were with family, it felt natural to be without shoes.

“How was school?” Grandmother asked as we entered the door. I smelled a fire cooking. Two meals in one day.

Two.

“It was good,” I said.

“When do I get to go?” Zemira asked.

I bent down and gave her a tight squeeze. “You get to go to school when you are big,” I said.

She opened her mouth wide in shock. Then she said, “I am already big!”

“You are?”

“Yes, I am.”

“But are you really big?”

“Yes.”

“Too big for a hug?”

I tickled her. She wiggled in that way children do when they both love to be tickled yet at the same time try to get away.

“Let’s go play,” she said.

“In a minute,” Grandmother said. “Leah and Hannah, tell me more about school.”

Leah talked about the classes, about the students, about eating maize. She shared with her all the excitement of our first day.

Grandmother glanced at me. “Hannah?”

“It was good,” I said, smiling with my mouth but not with my eyes. Anyone can smile with their mouth. But only a joyful heart can smile through a person’s eyes. And she saw this.

“It was good?”

She tilted her head to let me know she could tell something was not right. She was too perceptive to let words get in the way of meaning. So she asked me more questions. I gave more answers. And with each reply I felt myself opening up to her. Part of me tried to forget what was bothering me. But Grandmother, in her calm way, kept talking with me. She understood me better than I understood myself.

“You can tell me,” she said. Leah and Zemira hurried outside. It was fun to see them play. Grandmother and I sat down outside our door on old wooden chairs. I felt the comfort people feel when you know the other person is patiently waiting for you to speak, giving you time to collect your thoughts. I looked out at Zemira and Leah. Then I turned to Grandmother. I had a hard time meeting her glance so I looked down at the ground at my bare feet.

“I feel bad,” I said. And the moment I said that, I felt bad for feeling bad.

“It is all right.”

“It is not all right. I …”

“Why do you feel bad, Hannah?”

I exhaled. “I feel bad because I don’t have what the other children have.” I then felt even worse, because Grandmother had just helped us get into school, and now here I was complaining.

She did not reply. Not right away. She nodded in a way that conveyed she understood. Her presence alone gave me the freedom to share.

“The other children have shoes, and we do not. And …” I wanted to continue. But it was as if there was a competing side to me that wanted to close up, to shut down and not let anyone in. “And when I see the other children, it …”

Don’t say it. Don’t trust anyone with your feelings. They are for you and you alone.

But I want to share. I need to share. Who else can I turn to? Who else can I talk to?

You don’t need to share. You are strong. You are capable. You do not need this.

But I feel all confused in my mind.

Do you see what your grandmother did? She gave you schooling. And now look at you.

“Yes?” Grandmother asked in a way to encourage me to continue.

Everything swirled around inside my mind.

Just keep everything to yourself. No one will understand if you try to explain.

I fought the negative voice in my head and shared my feelings. “When I see other children who are succeeding or who have shoes or who have food, I feel like I am not as good. That I have failed … That I don’t belong.”

I felt that comfort that came with speaking openly with her. Sometimes when you share your heart, you don’t need advice. You just need to feel you have been heard. This is how I felt with her.

“Be encouraged,” she said. “Even if others have more, don’t give up. Don’t ask ‘why do I not have that?’ Just thank God for everything He has given to us. He has a blessing for us. God has a purpose for everything, and one day He will really provide everything.”

I felt my heart change. Her words made sense. And from that moment, whenever we saw children with shoes and we still had to go around barefoot, we did not feel bad.

Not at all.

• • •

On Saturdays, Grandfather woke us up early in the morning to help on the farm, shamba in our language, Swahili. He worked hard and believed that teaching us to work would help us throughout our lives. We used a wooden tool with a small metal piece at the end called a jembe to till the ground by hand. If I thought time could stand still when students stared at me, it certainly stood still when we worked under the hot African sun.

In the evenings, Grandfather loved to tell us jokes. He told the best stories. We sat together in our tiny hut, laughing and laughing. Even though we lacked food, we carried on with life. None of us felt bad about not having much. We had each other. What else did we need? I do not recall even one time when any of us were angry.

Grandfather would also turn on the radio. We sang together. He clapped for me, telling me I was a great singer. In our little hut, I developed a love for music, under my grandparents’ watchful encouragement.

Those evening are great memories. I loved those times when my grandparents, my two sisters, and I spent time together. We had nothing, and yet we had everything. There was something so pure about not needing more things to be really content and happy. Had I known it then, I probably would have cherished them even more.

Perhaps it would have helped me more for what lay ahead.