to go. He leaned forward. He raised both hands, palm out, the way Kenyans do when they are trying to make a point.
“And the children go there for free,” he said. “Nobody pays any money to go.”
My mouth opened. I was too shocked to breathe.
“And that is not all,” my uncle said. “There is something even better.”
Better? How could any of this become better? The question was no longer whether Mully Children’s Family was reality or fiction. My uncle’s compassion convinced me the place was real. But now I wondered if this place would become real for me. I wondered if this might be the way for me to become a doctor. I was never going to be able to pay for it on my own. But perhaps this man might be interested in helping me. Perhaps he would be able to—
“I have spoken to Mr. Mulli,” he said. He shrugged his shoulders the way humble people do when they want to ensure that what they are doing is not because of themselves. “I have made some enquiries.”
I heard the pulse in my ears. I took in a breath. That impossible distance between me being a hungry girl in a hut and me serving as a doctor to the poor suddenly did not seem very great at all. In fact, it seemed like the impossible had become nothing. I gazed into my uncle’s compassionate eyes.
“I asked Mr. Mulli if the two of you could come to his home. If he would be willing to take you in as his children. To give you a future. A hope. A love that would fill your hearts with the love only a father can give. And you know what he said?”
I had done nothing to earn this. I had nothing to offer Mr. Mulli. And the strange thing was, he seemed to be okay with that.
“Charles Mulli said yes.”
My eyes lit up. Zemira was the first to jump. She had strong legs. She jumped well. We cheered as we wrapped our arms around our uncle and hugged him. Really hugged him. We squeezed him so hard.
My grandparents hugged all of us. It felt good to smile again.
“We leave tomorrow,” my uncle said.
So quick. I turned to my grandparents. Their assurance spoke from their hearts through their eyes.
“So I will let you pack and have supper. I will come to get you early in the morning. Is that all right?”
As a matter of fact, it was.
Everything was becoming all right.
He smiled like it was no big deal. He was about to leave for the door when I stopped him.
“Uncle Raza?” I asked. He turned. Everything about him resonated with me. Yes, I was going to get a new father. But I had him as an uncle. And when someone loves you who is not your parent or your grandparent, you feel a different kind of comfort, a different kind of connection that comes when someone doesn’t have to go out of their way to help you but does.
“Thank you,” I said. Zemira nodded in agreement. If I was shy, she was even shyer.
He shrugged his shoulders. I think he winked. “That is not a problem.”
“I really love you,” I said.
In that brief moment, I knew I had touched him. “I love you too.” Then he smiled. “Sleep well!”
He left. I watched him walk down the path until he was out of sight. A quiet man. Doing anything he could to serve those around him. I closed the door. We began to get our things together.
Suddenly, I felt that a whole new future lay ahead of me.
CHAPTER
seven
Packing when you are rich takes a long while. Packing when you are poor takes only a moment. All of my possessions fit in one bag, and a small one at that. I tossed in my only extra shirt, and a skirt, a pair of shorts, and old flip-flops that I kept only in case I lost my other pair. I could not really imagine wearing the old ones, though. I would sooner have gone barefoot. Nothing I owned was of much value to me. You cannot become attached to what you do not have.
We sat down. Grandfather prayed. He thanked God for the time he and Grandmother could share with us. He asked God to guide us as we moved on from here. I remember him thanking God for the food we were going to receive at MCF—something he himself was not able to provide, at least not to the extent he would have wanted. His faith was a mystery to me. He trusted God. Did not question Him. Did not become angry with Him. Somehow, he believed God was in control. In the midst of his rank poverty, he was a wealthy man of faith.
I saw relief and sadness in my grandparents’ faces. On the one hand, they knew that Zemira and I had a chance at having a future—something they felt a burden to provide yet had no chance of fulfilling. On the other hand, they would not see us nearly as often, and we felt the hurt that separation invariably brings. Umer in Nyanza Province is a long way from Ndalani. It’s even longer for people who have to pay what they cannot afford in order to travel there. I did not expect to see them except perhaps once a year at Christmas. I admired them for being happy for us to have what they never did.
As I went to bed that night I prayed to God. I was taught how to pray when I was younger, but I never did so with passion. I prayed because I was supposed to, because that is what good people do. I felt the passion in my grandparents whenever they prayed, and I wanted that too. That evening my prayer felt different.
Thank You, God, for this opportunity to go to Mully Children’s Family. I do not understand why things have happened the way they have. But I trust You that somehow You have a good purpose for everything that has happened. I am so happy that I get to go … But, God, I am afraid. I am a shy girl. I am so quiet. I do not speak much, and this might make it difficult for me. Please help me to do well at Mully Children’s Family. To study hard so that I can be used by You to help people get well. Help me to make friends. Help me, Lord. I am so grateful. Yet I feel so nervous. You are with me. You are with me.
You are with me.
• • •
Even when I thought the bus was as full as it could be, we would stop yet again and still more people would get on. I sat crammed between Uncle Raza and Zemira in a seat made for two. The bus bounced so hard when we hit major potholes that it sounded like the bottom had fallen out altogether. Zemira and I giggled every time we jolted in our seats.
I watched as the forests gave way to crowded streets. Whenever we slowed down or stopped, street vendors hurried up to the vehicle and tapped on the windows with their fruits and vegetables. We changed buses in the crowded station in Nairobi. I saw many buses and matatus coming and going in every direction. A matatu is a passenger van designed for about 8 to 12 people, but often the matatus were crammed with up to double the allowable passengers. It was not uncommon to see people standing on the back bumper as it drove down the road; however safe or unsafe that might have been, it looked like a lot of fun.
The whole bus station in Nairobi was complete chaos. Buses and matatus everywhere. Crowds pushing in every direction. How anyone could find their way around or make sense of the maze was a mystery to me. And yet somehow it all seemed to work together as if it had been planned that way. We boarded a bus headed from Nairobi south to the town of Sophia. We made one last change there, this time from a bus to an overcrowded matatu.
The winding and bumpy country road from Sophia to Ndalani felt different from the other roads. The hustle and bustle stopped. Everything became quieter. It felt as if I could breathe in a way you could not in other places I had known. It was as if the land allowed you to let go of your burdens, and you could just be free and take in the environment for all it offered. I saw people carrying water in jugs on their heads. A young boy corralled his small herd of sheep and one cow from the middle of the road off to the side to let us through. He waved as we passed, a bright smile on his face. A woman in a long red skirt and a white shirt, wearing a bright head covering of many colours, worked in a field planting her crop. Everything around me felt peaceful and relaxed. I wished I could relax, too. Instead I felt a combination of excitement and apprehension over my new future. My new life.
My