CHAPTER
two
The bright sun shone in my eyes as the bus approached Nairobi. The big city. The famous capital of Kenya. Normally I would have squinted. Normally I would put my hand at my forehead to block out the rays. But this was my first time to Nairobi and I did not want to miss anything. More importantly, my sisters and I were coming to live with our father and his new wife.
And we were so curious what our new life would be like.
It had been three years since my mother’s passing. Father had remarried and was now in a position to care for us. I so wanted to see him again. We all did. And our new mother, too. I felt nervous about meeting her. I wondered if she would like us. Wondered if we were going to be happy together. I wondered what it would feel like to be loved by a mother again. And to be hugged again.
Sometimes it’s the smallest things in life that leave the greatest impressions.
My grandparents had done their best. Even though they had nothing, they gave everything. And while we all knew there was no future in living with them, I somehow had the feeling that their involvement in my life was not yet done.
The bus bumped as the driver tried to find a path down the pothole-filled road. Other passengers became annoyed. Me, I loved it. My sisters and I laughed each time there was a big jolt. Then it suddenly became smoother. We still felt the occasional bumps, but fewer than before. I looked out the window and saw the paved street. It was the first time I had seen something other than mud or gravel for a road.
It had been such a hot ride that when the drizzle started, the cool air that wafted through the windows was a welcomed change. We turned down another street into the city. I saw crowds of people walking, crammed together on either side of the street. I had never seen so many people in all my life.
I saw children on the street. Poor children. Dirty clothes. Alone. I found this strange. Where were their parents? And why were they dressed in such dirty clothes?
At every intersection, people ran out to the bus, offering us food. Mangos. Bananas. Passionfruit. There was a lot to eat. If you had money.
The bus reached the station. Normally, I would have been in awe at the crowds of people. Normally, I would have watched in silence, trying to absorb my new surroundings. Instead, I looked through the maze of people, searching for someone in particular. Interesting how with all the many, many people on our planet, our eyes know exactly when we see the person who ignites our heart. And for me, this was my father. I picked him out of the crowd. And in that moment, all the other people disappeared.
As our eyes connected we became full of life. We smiled. Our hearts lit up. I saw genuine, unmanufactured, joy rise within him. I felt the same in my heart. Seeing him set the world right. Gave me peace. The connection of father and daughter pulled us together where we belonged. We waved at him and hurried out of our seats and off the bus.
He hugged all three of us at the same time. I felt the reassurance that came with his arms squeezing us together. I wanted this moment to last forever. To feel the comfort that came with his love and security. The thrill of being together again made me feel like myself again. Wherever we happened to be—whether in our village, here in Nairobi, or anywhere else in the world—when we were with him, we were home.
He took us to his house—our house—and I felt the rush of nervousness and excitement that comes with experiencing something new. The house looked to be one room larger than the one in our village. I would have spent more time thinking about what that meant, but my heart and mind became consumed with wondering what I would experience inside its walls. Would she love us? Would I feel different around this mother compared with my first mother? Would I feel the same connection? Was that even possible?
Father opened the door. I walked in. I saw our new mother.
Our eyes connected. Yes? No? What did she think of us? In an instant light that had reflected off her eyes made its way into my eyes, where my mind began processing how to interpret how she felt towards me. But there are things that travel faster than light. Truth, for example. And quicker than an instant, I knew what she thought of me. And by the time my mind converted the glimmer in her eye to a feeling, my heart had already long since figured it out. I saw through the windows of her eyes into her soul.
And she was simply wonderful.
She smiled. No words were necessary. A genuine grin that made me feel warm all over. I heard the sound of her voice. It was more than just words. Words just carry meaning. But the tone of her voice revealed her compassionate, caring heart. She walked towards us. I was glad she made the effort to close the distance between us. I was too amazed—or afraid—to bridge the gap myself. She felt like the sun when it warms you up. She asked us how we were. We all said fine. She crouched down beside us so she could be level with us. That meant a lot. It’s the small things that give you the biggest insight into a person. We were still children, and looking at an adult was a long way up. She reached out her arms. And then, she did it.
She hugged us.
A lot of me was worried about making the right impression. Was I the kind of child that someone other than my mother would love? Would she love me for who I was, or would I have to act a different sort of way to gain her love?
The hug she gave me told me that I did not need to worry about anything. And I admired her for loving children who were not hers by birth.
She rose to her feet and began to talk. She talked with lots of hand gestures. My sisters and I exchanged glances. We found that funny. She talked about how excited she was to see us. How much she had been looking forward to having us live with them. She talked a lot. That was fine by me. Whenever someone else was willing to do the talking, I felt at home.
I heard a noise beside me. I turned and saw a square object in the corner. It was like a picture, only the picture moved and had voices coming from it. I looked closer, wondering if perhaps there was something behind it to make it do that. I asked my father what it was. He explained it was a television. News was on.
He took us to our bedroom. All three of us would sleep in this room. I stopped in the doorway. Confused. I saw no sheet on the ground. Were the walls here so good that rain never came in? Is this why we would sleep directly on the ground? I looked around the room.
I saw beds.
Three of them.
He flicked a switch. The room suddenly became full of light. I wasn’t sure which surprised me more, seeing light from electricity or seeing a bed to sleep in.
“These are for us?” I asked.
My dad crouched down beside me. He spoke into my ear. “These are for you. What do you think?”
The three of us children each put a hand on a bed, like touching them would ensure that our eyes were not imagining something too good to be real.
“I get to have my own bed?” Zemira asked.
“Yes!” my dad said.
She bent down and looked underneath her bed.
“Does anyone sleep under here?”
We all laughed. “No,” my father said. “Only you on top of the bed.”
My mother smiled in the doorway. I felt the thrill of being together. Like a whole new life lay before us.
• • •
That evening as we went to sleep, Father talked with us. I watched his face as he spoke. Now that all the excitement of arriving was over, I had a chance to really look at him, and he seemed tired. I wondered if he had to work longer hours to pay for all of us to be here with him. School was going to be expensive, and I wasn’t sure if he had the money to pay for it.
He kissed us goodnight and tucked us in. He turned off the light. But the moon shone enough to illuminate the room. I looked over at Leah.
“We are in