What Tears Us Apart

Chapter 6



December 11, 2007, Kibera—Leda

HER THIRD DAY in Kibera, Leda woke with a smile curved like a fortune cookie. The blanket Ita had given to her was clutched in her fingers; she wriggled her toes into it. She could already hear them, the children, outside in the orphanage clanking pots and chattering. On the other side of the wall of her little room, she could hear people shuffling past in the alley, a rise and fall of greetings and “good mornings” Leda was surprised to find comforting rather than scary in their proximity.

The buoyancy she felt in her heart didn’t hold for her body, however. Even with the foam beneath her, Leda’s body felt as rigid as her metal bed. For a moment, as she stretched her aching limbs, Leda imagined what she normally awoke to—gentle light through the curtains in Topanga, Amadeus licking her fingers, the first glimpse of her things lined up neatly, then the expanse of the scruffy mountains, the quiet ritual of her morning tea.

But not this morning. Leda opened her eyes. She surveyed the sheet-metal door, its dented ripples and patchwork surface of dirt and paint and rust. She flipped over and looked at the ceiling, which was much the same. A two-foot space surrounded the metal table, her bed, on all sides like a moat. The far wall was the one that connected with the outside world, an effect more like a folding screen than a real barrier. Nothing at all like her house in Topanga, blanketed by trees, or her childhood home facing the sea. She tried to think of the word that would best describe those houses. Not isolated as much as—

Insulated. That was the word.

That was her comfort zone—being alone. But now, as she pictured the Topanga house she loved, the house that had seemed wild and warm compared to mother’s ice-cold mansion, now it too seemed sterile.

Leda turned onto her side again, facing the interior of the orphanage. She replayed scenes from the day before. First, cringing at how she popped out in her blue pajamas when everyone was ready for the day. Then her abashed realization that they probably didn’t own pajamas. Did she look ridiculous or pretentious? Ita had laughed, though not meanly. His eyes never looked meanly at anyone. Stern, maybe, with the children, and with that nasty gangbanger Chege. But even with him, Ita showed a generosity of spirit that surprised her. After growing up with Estella, who emanated distaste, an annoyance, at her presence, Leda found Ita’s kindness unsettling. But warming.

When they’d ventured out into Kibera together, she’d studied him from behind, marveling at how he moved with ease, with purpose, winding through the slum. He was a better guide than Samuel, telling her little flecks of gossip about the neighbors, connecting different locations to stories about the boys. Ntimi wanted to get his haircut here. I had to explain it was only for women. He still wanted to go. Ntimi likes to be around ladies.

She was saddened by Michael’s story, of how the orphanage came to be. All the boys have stories like that, she reminded herself.

Ita’s eyes as he told the story—they filled with a love so pure and rich, Leda had almost felt jealous.

Then she remembered the dark alley. The part of the day she’d been thinking about ever since. Leda closed her eyes to picture it better—how she squeezed past the old man into the darkness, how she lost her footing, bumping into Ita, and them squeezing up against the wall together.

How his eyes filled with desire, with wonder, with appreciation. Leda couldn’t believe how he left his emotions free to jump off his face like that, but she loved it. She’d heard his breath quicken, felt his body stiffen, sensed that he was breathing her in like a sudden perfume, memorizing her for later. And then they’d said it, at the same time, in harmony like an impromptu song...

You never know.

They’d come so close to kissing, Leda could still taste it. She’d felt the hotness of his breath, his hands rising to her sides, seen the tuck of his chin, the flutter of his eyelids.

She got up off the table. No pajamas today. She put on the brown pants from the day before—she’d noticed everyone repeated clothing—but dug a bit for the teal blouse with the ruffled collar, the one that brought out her eyes.

After she swiped her face clean and brushed her hair into a ponytail, Leda went back into the bag for some lip gloss and perfume. Just a light spritz, she thought. Not too much.

With a smile and a near twirl, she stepped from her slippers into sandals. It wasn’t until she put her hand out to the door latch, catching a glimpse of herself in the small mirror, that she remembered something else. Something that Chege said. American rich lady, out to have a little fun.

Leda’s hand recoiled. And hadn’t he looked at Ita when he said it, like it had been Ita who had advertised her that way?

Leda wiped the gloss off her lips.

I’m here for the children, she thought as she swapped the sandals for sneakers. She debated the blouse, hovering over the suitcase, until she caught herself with a this is ridiculous, and stepped outside.

And there they were, waiting.

“Good morning, Leda,” Ita said with a gentlemanly nod of his head.

She started forward, drawn to him, already feeling more relaxed.

“Sleepyhead!” Ntimi shouted with his Cheshire cat grin, his big square teeth ready to chomp on life. He pointed at his head and giggled, thinking the wordplay hilarious.

Leda faltered in her path, self-conscious. Lazy rich lady sleeps through breakfast.

But Ita chuckled and swatted Ntimi on the head, and his laugh was kind. It rolled across the distance to Leda and snagged when he caught her eye.

Ntimi waved Leda closer, impatiently. He had little Walter in his lap, pinning him down—the toddler with the potbelly and enchanting giggle.

Michael’s smile had already faded, the gentle stare resumed. The other two, Thomas and Peter, started in on the bread and Michael, catching it in his peripheral vision, smacked their hands.

Leda smiled. She snuggled in next to Ntimi and rinsed her hands in the bowl of water.

“Where’s Jomo?” she asked, but nobody answered.

Leda ran her eyes over the perimeter of the orphanage. The wood for the bunk beds was there, waiting. The cans of paint were stacked along the walls, too. Leda smiled, remembering how excited the boys were to hear of the plans.

There. Leda spotted Jomo—well, his feet, anyway—peeking out under the sheet in the same little spot he’d hid in before. As if he could feel her watching, the sheet moved aside a tiny crack, and the sunlight found a crescent of Jomo’s face. Leda smiled. Jomo’s glance dove straight down. But Leda kept her eyes on him, let him feel the smile linger. Sure enough, he looked back up and saw her still looking. He tried hard as he could to stop it, but the corners of his lips curled ever so slightly. Then the sheet swung closed.

Like a ghost, Leda thought, his presence wispy and fleeting. A ghost of what? Of the child he could have been?

She chewed on her bread and tried to follow the chatter of the boys. She didn’t get a chance to slurp down much of her tea before the boys were up and scurrying off, Ita on their heels, doling out hurry-ups.

Leda scolded herself for sleeping in. She’d have to get up earlier to maximize her time with them before school.

Mary came out to round up the dishes. “Good morning,” she said quietly. Mary didn’t speak English, so her efforts were all the more touching.

“Good morning, Mary. Thank you for breakfast.”

“So,” Ita said, returning, and Leda’s stomach fluttered. “Today I thought Mary could show you the housework.”

Leda’s stomach sank. But she scolded herself again. About time she made herself useful. Ita probably thought she didn’t know how to clean.

“Of course—” she said, but Ita interrupted with a smile.

“So I can finish the paperwork piling up, and later I can take you to the clinic. Would you like to go with me?”

“Can’t wait,” Leda said. Was it her imagination or did Mary chuckle?

Ita shut himself in his office and left Leda to star with Mary in a comedy skit. The older woman rambled off explanations to which Leda smiled and nodded and said, “I’m sorry I don’t understand a word,” to which Mary smiled and nodded and in Swahili said, Leda imagined, “I’m sorry I don’t understand a word.” Mainly Mary pointed at pots and rags and Leda had no idea if she wanted them cleaned, carried or filled with something.

But by the end of three hours, Leda knew many things. For one, she knew the cooking never stopped. Ever. The breakfast pot got washed and put back on the stove to boil water for washing, then for the lunch stew. After that would come dinner, plus more boiled water for tea. Leda wondered where the water came from. It would be an awful lot of water to carry.

Now, Leda knew that the house had four very important jugs that must always have water in them. Two waist-high jugs in the bathroom area contained water for bucket baths and flushing. In the kitchen, the one on the left was for general cooking and washing. The one on the right was smaller, and Mary made a big fuss over this one. “You, you, you,” she kept saying and pointing at Leda. After a rousing game of charades and bubbling noises, Leda figured out that one was boiled water for the tourist. One peek inside at the swirling sediment and Leda made a mental note to buy more bottled water when she went out with Ita.

Pantomime can’t help but make for laughter, and it wasn’t long before Leda and Mary were fast friends. Mary got into it and it became a game. Leda even mimed her life back in America, drawing air pictures of the mountains and the ocean and the way Amadeus greeted her at the door. Mary watched Leda with amusement and Leda loved to watch her, too, so strong and capable, so sure. This was Leda’s favorite trait to discover in people, ease and calm, and was delighted to study it up close in Mary. Estella was a bundle of nervous tension, anxiety and impatience. Being around her mother was like tiptoeing through a cactus field.

Mary’s fingers wrapped around ladles or cups or piled up the logs for the fire with force and grace. If Leda’s fingers were too slow or the logs were crossed wrong, Mary rearranged them with a “tsk” and preciseness that Leda adored. This is how we wash the boys’ clothes, make them look smart and clean, her strong hands said. This is how we keep the men fed and happy, her smile said. “Ita,” Mary said, and she straightened up her back, pretended to sit up straight in a chair. She spread out imaginary items—a cup of tea to the right, four stacks of paper lined up, just so. She jabbed at an imaginary calculator with a serious look carved into her face. She tapped a pretend pencil against her forehead.

Their combined laughter continued until Ita stuck his head out the door and called, “What’s so funny?” making them laugh all the harder.

A moment later, Ita stepped out of the office entirely. He looked at the two of them with a fresh smile and a warmth Leda was starting to crave like kids crave summer. “Ready?”

The slum outside burst at Leda with clashing colors and sounds and smells. Ita took off at a brisk pace, and Leda scurried to keep up. The paths between houses were so narrow they barely fit two people, especially being divided down the middle by a ditch of wastewater. At times, Leda could stretch out her arms and touch both sides. In other spots, the path was soaked in slime and turned to slippery, splattering mud.

Everywhere, beneath the houses and the stalls and the latrines, was the same red dirt mixed and packed together with every kind of trash: broken glass, plastic bags, rags of clothing, empty lighters, soiled cardboard, food wrappers and bits of wood and metal.

Leda discreetly peeked into some of the homes that were open. Most of them looked to be one room, no more than eight feet by eight feet, filled to the brim with teakettles and buckets and clothes, plus people who jumped when they caught Leda looking. A dozen people slept in one house, it appeared.

Intermittently, the narrow pathways opened up and a tiny store—a duka, Leda reminded herself—would appear. Soft drinks, candy, cigarettes, cooking oil—all were displayed on a stand like a desk.

When they made it out onto a main road, wooden vendor booths lined the street as far as Leda could see, often two deep. Before them, on the ground, other vendors laid out their wares. Vegetables, clothing, electronics, phone cards, hair products, lotion, fried sweets—the assortment was mind-boggling. After a bit, the booths gave way to giant garbage piles that industrious children, goats and chickens hunted through.

Past the landfill came more mud houses. “We have to stop,” Ita said suddenly, waiting for Leda to come up beside him.

“Hodi!” Ita called out before a door.

There was a pause, and then a woman’s voice called back, “Karibu.”

When the woman came to the door, she had a weary smile for Ita, but then she saw Leda next to him.

Ita spoke soothingly in Swahili, gesturing to Leda, his smile on overdrive. Finally the woman looked at Leda and smiled obligingly as she welcomed them inside, but Leda could tell that she was weighed down with troubles.

Inside, at the corners of the small room, Leda could see the stick frame for the mud structure, but most of the walls were covered with newspaper pages, photos and a poster for Raila Odinga. On one side was a low wooden bed frame, with rags balled up for cushioning. There was a mat on the dirt floor with a small stove atop it and a few cooking utensils. The woman removed her sandals and stepped onto the mat to pick up an ancient teakettle.

Leda looked down and saw her filthy tennis shoes standing on what was effectively the woman’s kitchen table.

“Pole,” Leda apologized quickly and jumped off the mat. She started to sweat as she stood nervously, unsure what to do with herself taking up all that space in the tiny room. The woman poured tea for Leda, and Leda was touched by her kindness. Even though the tea was hot, the scent of cardamom and cinnamon helped combat the smell of raw sewage in the air.

Ita and the woman continued to speak, seemingly oblivious to both the stifling heat and Leda’s awkward hovering. Leda tried not to stare, but she saw the pain on Ita’s face as the woman spoke in low rushed words. She didn’t have to understand the woman to feel her anguish.

Ita listened far more than he spoke, and by the end he took the woman’s hands in his. They stayed like this for a quiet moment that made Leda’s heart ache, and then it was over.

The woman retracted her hands and stood. She smiled weakly at Leda. “Karibu,” she said.

Leda nodded, wishing she could do something for this woman, but not knowing what.

As the woman took the teacups from them, Ita removed some money from his pocket. He pressed it into her hands even as she shook her head.

Should she offer the same? Leda wondered. Would this woman rather accept money from someone she thought could afford it? Leda fumbled with her money belt, tucked inside her waistband, but Ita was already leaving through the door and the woman looked at Leda’s hands strangely. Leda felt her cheeks burn. She wanted to explain, but knew it would come out garbled and wrong.

Instead she hung her head, thanked the woman for the tea, and followed Ita outside where he waited in the path.

“Is she okay?” she asked, when obviously the woman wasn’t okay. “Can I help her?”

Ita looked into Leda’s face, his expression reminding her of a character in a silent movie. She thought she saw approval and judgment, sadness and hope, travel across his face in overlapping succession. Finally he sighed.

“She will be okay. She is a good, strong woman.”

He turned but when he saw that Leda wasn’t going to follow, he added, “Her husband has gone.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“She doesn’t know. Drinking, maybe. Another woman. Maybe dead. We shall see.”

Ita turned and continued down the wide road, people filling in the space behind him.

Leda watched for a moment, considering each person streaming past her. All different heights, all slender. And all of them concentrating, their faces set in lines, lost in their thoughts. She saw the same tiredness she’d seen in the woman’s eyes. Not anger, Leda thought, not bitterness. Just exhaustion.

She remembered how Ita had grasped the woman’s hands as she spoke. Why weren’t they angry? Why weren’t they bitter? How could they have been through so much, every day, and still smile? Looking around, she saw tired people, yes, but also much happiness amidst the flurry of activity.

Both sides of the path ahead were lined with people selling their wares—cinnamon-sugar mandazi frying in a dented bowl over a wood fire, a tray lined with wilted greens and dusty fruit. A Mariah Carey song belted from an unseen boom box, presumably nearby the skinny old man sitting next to a tray of CDs. All around her, people greeted and joked loudly with one another. As she caught up with Ita, two young kids bounded up to him with their mother and right away everyone was laughing heartily, Ita the loudest. He introduced her and the mother gave her a wide smile.

Leda thought of her brief night and morning in Nairobi at the hotel. There, the staff had smiled too grandly, too big, at the tourists. In Kibera, it was different. Here they didn’t have to pretend.

Leda appreciated that. She smiled back, bent down to greet the children before they were off again on their way.

The more she tried to keep track of where they were going, the more the winding structures blurred before her. Leda stopped short before a concrete wall plastered with political posters. She leaned in to study them.

In the one on the right, Kibaki, the current president, stood in a suit and tie against a vibrant blue background. Kibaki Tena, the slogan read. Leda took out her pocket translator book. Kibaki again.

The one next to it was a man against a white background, pointing off to the right and above. Pamoja tusonge. Together. Mbele. Leda flipped to M, as Ita came up beside her. Mbele. Forward.

“Raila Odinga,” Ita said, “The savior of Kibera.”

Leda looked at Ita’s face, for the voice was a tone she hadn’t heard from him yet. Half sarcasm, half hope.

“The same age-old battle between old and new?” Leda said, thinking of the upcoming elections in the U.S., Barack Obama the new cool kid on the block.

“The new man promises, while the old man sweeps broken promises under the rug.” Ita’s smile was nowhere to be seen.

“Which one will you vote for?”

He looked around. “I am Kikuyu,” he said softly, and tugged at her elbow as if they should go.

Leda struggled to remember what Samuel and the guidebooks had said about Kikuyus, the leading tribe. They’d been persecuted and now ruled.

“Kibaki is Kikuyu.”

“Let’s go, Leda,” he said and moved on without her.

But that’s not all, Leda thought. Mungiki, the gangsters, they were Kikuyu, their secret rituals based on Kikuyu rites.

Leda envisioned Chege outside the orphanage door with his crew, his long dreadlocks falling down his back, his skin and teeth marred from drug use, and the men who followed his command, their dreads spikier and shorter, but with shifty yellowed eyes to match. What had Chege said? What if us Kikuyu brothers don’t need your help?

The elections would happen while she was there, just before Christmas. Up until this point, Leda had thought of that as a bonus. Exciting—to be a part of history. She’d been waiting to ask Ita about politics.

But his reaction made her remember something else—something a favorite professor had once said. Nothing is more dangerous than promises. And elections are full of big promises.

* * *

Ita didn’t turn back to speak to her again until they reached the clinic. But as soon as they got close, Leda saw him slip into a new skin. His shoulders lifted, his step stiffened. They walked past a sluggish line waiting out front, four people wide and maybe twenty deep. As they passed, many of them called out to Ita. He smiled, but far more seriously than usual. His professional smile, Leda decided. The front of the line was a check-in table where a young Kenyan man and woman sat, performing quick checkups with stethoscopes and tongue depressors. The woman smiled widely when she spotted Ita, and the young man nodded respectfully.

While they exchanged pleasantries, an older couple appeared. These two were European, Dutch maybe, Leda guessed, looking over the man with frizzy blond hair and sunburned skin—the type just simply not engineered for hot weather. His eyes were piercing blue but emanated warmth. When he greeted Ita, the radiating warmth increased tenfold. He waved at Leda, then suddenly became frazzled, looking down frantically for his stethoscope and finding it around his neck. Leda couldn’t help but laugh. She liked him immediately. The woman greeted her stiffly and scolded Ita for not coming around often enough. But Leda could tell from the glint in her eye she was very fond of Ita, too.

“Mariska,” Ita cooed and gave the woman a hug.

“Where you been, old friend?” the man asked Ita with a grin. He looked at Leda. “Is this the volunteer?”

Ita smiled proudly. “This is Leda.” He turned to Leda and said, “This is Martin. He helped place the advertisement. His idea.”

“Though I must say you improved on it. Did you screen photos, you dog?” The man punched Ita’s shoulder playfully and grinned at Leda. “What a beauty you are, my dear. American, is that right?”

“From California,” she said.

“Welcome.” Martin took Ita eagerly by the shoulder. “Come. We’ve made some upgrades this season I think you’ll appreciate.” To Leda he added, “Brain works of this brilliant young man here.” He patted Ita’s shoulder and the affection bathed Leda, too, as she followed them into the clinic.

“The feeding room,” Ita said with a grin.

Martin laughed. “Turns out you were right.”

Leda looked at the room to which they gestured and saw a table where young volunteers were handing out juice and small meals.

Martin continued, “Ita spotted a problem with our system. Raising all those boys, he knew a meal solves as many aches as antibiotics. We used to have fights here, after people walked all day only to wait in a long line. Now people know if they wait quietly, they will get their turn. Plus some chapati and lemonade.”

“Of course,” Mariska said, pointing at the swollen line, “word is getting out.”

They continued and Leda’s tour showed an ingenious use of the small space. There was an IV station, a mini operating room for sutures and a curtained space for female issues.

“And is this an NGO?” Leda asked Martin. “Is it—”

“Free? Yes, all free. Donations from a variety of sources, but Mariska and I, we pretty much run our own ship here. I’m a doctor in Amsterdam, but twice a year we set up out here and try to help how we can.” Martin turned to Ita. “And when we’re lucky, we have Ita to help us. Brilliant doctor this man will be one day.”

Ita looked away. Leda tried to discern if it was shyness or something more like frustration.

As they continued, Ita asked detailed questions about patients’ diagnoses, new medications. Other things, procedures, he asked about, Leda couldn’t follow but was impressed by the lingo.

When they reached a small room in the back, Martin waved Ita inside. “I brought them for you, hoping you’d stop by.”

There wasn’t room enough for more than the two men, but from the doorway, Leda saw Martin produce a stack of magazines. She craned her neck, trying to see what they were.

“Medical journals,” Mariska said at her side. “Ita has a mind like a computer. I dare say he could pass his exams today, if such a thing was possible.”

Leda relished the excitement she saw on Ita’s face. And she loved the mentor role Martin took with him.

“Ita found us, but Martin recognized the skill in him immediately. I protested, but it wasn’t long before Ita was helping with sutures, minor surgeries, diagnoses. Martin is right. It is what he was born to do.” Leda got chills at the statement, watching the man in question pour hungrily over the journals. “Makes you think about the world, doesn’t it?” Mariska said softly.

Leda was forced to look at her, with the underlined question mark hanging between them. “What do you mean?” Leda said, gazing into the woman’s wide face, pink in the heat.

“Makes you think what a person like Ita could have done with money and privilege.”

Leda flinched.

Ita looked up and saw the two women in the doorway. He flipped shut the journal and hugged the heavy stack to his chest. He smiled at Leda, making her stomach flutter. “Ready to go home?”

* * *

On the walk back to the orphanage, Leda’s mind went into hyperdrive. She watched Ita, the journals clutched under both arms, a swagger in his brisk step.

What a person like Ita could have done with money and privilege.

Probably Mariska had no idea just how privileged Leda was, but the comment stuck in her heart like a fishing lure. What had Leda done with the money she was so lucky to have? She’d squandered it, really, desperately seeking a calling. But here was Ita, born to save people, to save lives, thousands maybe, over a lifetime. Leda started to roll an idea around in her mind. When she asked Ita how much university in Nairobi cost, the answer was shocking. All four years cost less than one year in the U.S.

A scholarship fund. Who was to say making a sound investment wasn’t as good as finding a calling?