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.