Two weeks ago, I was invited to dinner at the home of one of my field officers, Charles Magige. Charles is one of my best officers. He works hard and he's always on time (a very rare and treasured attribute here). Though he never finished secondary school, he has learned leadership quickly.
We had a meeting with our health reps where we talked about several of the initiatives we've got running. It was a good meeting. We debriefed and talked about how the meeting went. Then Nelly, Pius (another rock-star field officer), Charles and I walked to his home. That is 'nyumbani' because he has enough land to have a farm, not 'numba' which is a house without land (like what most Americans live in). I have been told that it is a part of Kenyan manliness to own land; you are not a man unless you own land.
We walked past fields of sprouting maize. Most of it near Charles' is Nuru maize. It's easy to see by the clean rows, clear of weeds compared to the random scattering that happens normally.
We approached his shamba (farm) and I saw his house. It was typical Kurian home. There were two mud-walled, tin-roofed western-inspired homes and two round huts with thatched roofs. These buildings made up three sides of a center dirt courtyard. The fourth side was a wall of wood: planks and sticks nailed together.
I entered and greeted his second wife and his children. Polygamy is condoned here, but divorce isn't. His first wife had left him after stealing his life savings (120,000 KES; ~$1,500. A farmer on one acre can earn about 40,000 KES per year). So he couldn't live life alone, and couldn't divorce her, so he took a 'second' wife.
We waited in his living room (the western tin-roofed building) and the three others talked in Swahili. Every once in a while I caught something or had something translated. The conversation was mostly on farming matters. The recent shortage of good grazing land, ways to fight witchweed, stories about planting tobacco. Charles came in and served us sodas, a very valuable luxury (sodas cost about 45 KES; the four that he served were about equal to a day's wages).
Then Charles' wife came in. She carried a platter about the size of a large pizza tin (mmmm...pizza...), but instead of pizza, it carried a pile of sticky rice six inches high. Following that was a plate of something deep yellow and irregularly shaped. I later found out after tasting it that it was 'local eggs', which are far tastier though smaller than eggs in the US. There was also beef in a bit of stew that tasted wonderfully. And if that wasn't enough for the four of us, there was chai (which is just Kenyan tea with lots of milk and sugar). When the food came, the conversation stopped.
This was my first meal at someone's home, so I paid very close attention to the others. Eating in a foreign culture is always a tricky business. Did they slurp the tea, or drink it quietly? Slurped it; I began slurping. How did they sit? Hunch over; hold the bowl. How did they use their spoons? Is that lip smacking I hear? Then commence lip smacking!
Oh no! I ate too fast and finished my first plate slighty before the others. That meant more food. "Nimesheba" (I am satisfied) only slightly reduced the amount I was compelled to take for seconds. And then, when I couldn't eat any more, 'sweet bananas' were brought out. The banans here are a breed that is about six inches long, and sweeter and smoother than US bananas. I asked Nelly, "How do you say I'm very full!" "Nimesheba sana!" I cried, but to no avail. More bananas. More chai. Still soda to finish! Ay!
We finally finished and set our bowls down. I was full. I neither waste words nor fill easily, so when I way I was full, I mean it. I have no way to estimate how big a sacrifice this was to honor me, his guest, but that was a luxurious meal even by my standards. We stood up to leave, and Charles said "Wait! We must pray!" He gathered all his family in the living room, and Pius prayed for a good few minutes. We greeted everyone and I began to walk home.
Charles wanted to walk with me. The walk took about 45 minutes through a beautiful countryside. I was walking slow (i.e. a normal American pace) and he asked, “Are you tired?”
“No, but I am just having trouble carrying all this food up the hill!” I said, pointing to my distended belly.
“What food?” he asked.
I replied, “All the rice you just fed me.”
He looked confused, “Rice is not food.”
I looked confused, “What is food? What am I full of? Isn’t that food?”
“No,” he replied, in a tone as if he were explaining something very simple, “Food is ugali, not rice.”
Ugali is a paste made from maize that is the local staple. We had always known that “A meal’s not a meal without it!” But they meant that literally!
As I was nearing home (nyumba), Charles told me, "I was very feared today." "Why Charles?" I asked. He replied, "I had never controlled a meeting before."
It never occurred to me. I've been in some sort of leadership position for about as long as I can remember. But this 38 year old man had never had the chance to lead before today.
"You did a very good job! Kazi Nzuri!" I assured him and pondered that the rest of the way home.
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