|
'Doc' |
Doc had two years’
notice of our coming. ‘Can you paint?’ he asked after one year. My lack
of electrical or plumbing skills was no barrier. Hurricane lamps and a
fascinating array of pipe work linked to a number of small tanks and an
occasional public supply provided some light and water. Standpipes
emerged from house-floor and compound-earth for the neighbouring shamba
(vegetable garden), for slat-floored washhouses, water closets, sinks, a
shower and even a bath. Yes, I could paint. ‘It is good that we have two
years to pray about what you can do. There will be mission outreach to
surrounding homes.’ This was planned for December 1995. So it was that
two green adventurers set out to spend ten months at Happy Home
Orphanage and Jehovah-Nissi Christian Fellowship Centre in late
September 1995. |
|
Our log book skates over
the precious early days in Nairobi with experienced whites from the
Mission Aviation Fellowship. Every sight through visitors’ eyes of mud
houses, thatched or iron-sheeted, sisalbounded plots, eucalyptus,
skeletal churches and proud name boards brought us nearer through the
sugar cane to Chemelil, where whiter smoke belched from the sugar
factory, whereas black smoke arose from patches being defoliated before
the panga-gangs moved in. Afternoon rain fell, from the Nandi hills to
the north. The pick-up threaded its way through increasingly unforgiving
holes, tractors pulling cane-loads and Isuzu midi-buses completing for
tarmac, before we turned onto the murram. Suddenly the Happy Home
signboard pointed down the slithery black mud of Awuki road, entirely
embosomed in sugar-cane plots now, the grass cut for the final stretch,
tall inner gates thrown open for ‘the visitors’. Even this first entry
brought tears and lumpy throats as Mama Doc and others moved slowly to
greet us. Younger figures divested us of hand luggage: the bigger cases,
rolls of wire and parcels of groceries were unpacked from the hired
pick-up. |
'St. Georges' |
Gently we were led into
the reception hall. A prayer of praise and thanksgiving went up, we
shook hands again and sat down. An interpreter helped with the
introductions. ‘Amosou e nying Yesu Kristo (I greet you in the name …)
My name is … And I am saved.’A bowl was brought as we sat in wooden easy
chairs bedecked with uncertain padding and throw. From a jug warm water
was poured upon our hands: we dried them on the towel over the slender
black arm holding the bowl. Sturdy stool-tables were drawn up: a choice
of tea-bags, Nescafé or cocoa, hot milk and water and a bowl of sugar
were placed alongside the bread and Blueband margarine, our first
lovingly given refreshment at Happy Home Orphanage. We were shown a few
of the more than forty rooms of which this unique wooden building is
composed, ushered into our quarters by the tall Edward, the
manager-cum-housekeeper and personal Jeeves to us Woosters. As Doc had
intimated, we occupied his own suite of rooms. A sink and new calor gas
stove had been added in a store-room where we often ate our own prepared
meals. Treats like ox-liver, sausages and fruit signalled that someone
had purchased food for the mzungu (white man). The office had files,
exercise books and pencils. Our beds were on either side of a passageway
to a bathroom, complete with basin and actual bath into which a sandy
stream sometimes came from a tap. |
|
There is no hurry about living
in an African compound. Movement is deliberate and steady, punctuated by smiles
which often disappeared when photos were taken. A white face in a group of black
ones looks strangely naked, emphasising pallor as every two-year old child
confirms by screaming at the ‘big white baby’ walking about. Babies start pale
but the Luo deep black skin soon asserts itself. The Sudanese Nilotic, now
lakeside, Luo are established north and south of the Winam gulf, Lake Victoria’s
north-eastern ear. We often met people whose real home, the parents’ or
grandparents’ dala (compound), was in Siaya district, South Nyanza, or somewhere
in between. With only a German Hallwag safari map it was difficult to imagine
places a full day or two’s journey off the main road to Kisumu, Kitale or Busia.
Our mental geographywas bounded by the Kanu plain below the Nanci hills to the
north,the foothills of former white highlands to the east, the Kericho hills to
the south and Lake Victoria at the head of Winam Gulf to the west. Such places
were reachable by public transport after a 3km walk to God Nyithindo (hill of
the children). I told Doc that I understood why Africans looked so serious
negotiating the rutted road while riding bicycles, for occasionally I took this
mode of transport to Tamu (21⁄2km) or Muhoroni (6km). But after rain the tyres
could be clogged to a standstill in a hundred metres. No wonder the more
numerous pedestrians could be seen carrying their flip-flop footwear. Down the
river Makindu, crossed by stepping stones, weaver-birds hung their nests over
the water, ‘gna-gna’ (ibis) called, frogs and crickets sang. Beyond Tamu
Elizabeth made contact with folk from Songhor where mzungo memorials decorated
the stone church. But she met only Luo, notably Habil (Abel) an elderly
Pentecostal farmer with several wives and an extensive establishment: she and he
separately prayed that God would be proclaimed on the hill known as Kitchener’s
(by whites) making the mzungo-built derelict house there new and beautiful. |
|
‘Are you alive?’ Doc sometimes
greeted us in the morning. We soon learnt the full greeting. ‘Oyawore!’ (lit.
The day is opened!) Ihdi nade?’ (How are you?) ‘Adhi maber’ (lit. I go good). A
pause. ‘Intie’ (you are here, then) ‘Antie’ (I am here) ‘Ingima?’ (Are you
alive?) ‘Angima’ (I am alive). Equipped with such expertise, we could greet our
neighbours, Josaphat and Joyce at Sinani (hard work) farm, Hezron beyond and
Irene at the corner of Awuki road whose family included the twins Apiyo (fast
one) and Odongo (slow one). ‘M’sawa’ (Hello) to children on the road elicited,
‘ber ahin’ (i.e. ‘maber ahinya’ – fine, very) as chewing a cane of sugar was
briefly interrupted. Names did prove difficult. Doc told the children they must
address us respectfully as Baba and Mama Tom (our eldest), or strictly, Wan and
Min Tom. To fine Biblical or Christian first names – Joshua, David, Dorcas –
were added names indicating time or style of birth: Ochieng (day-time), otieno (nighttime),
ouma (facing downwards), female versions beginning with a, such as ayoo (on the
pathway), anyango (mid-morning). Nicknames or abbreviations, thus yang for
anyango, confused for a time, but Pope or JP was clear enough for Pope John Paul
II. Luo heroes were commemorated, as in Tom Mboya the boy, and a fine wild fig
in Rosemary June garden was the Oginga Odinga tree, although it began as the
last English governor of Kenya. Beyond in the shamba were dug the Sopwith
fishponds, more than once as I learned from youthful gapers: water-tanks bore
the names of donor churches or schools, St George’s, Dean Close and Canford were
rooms, and the Libby Kitchen produced the delicacy of a ginger pudding for Doc,
Elizabeth’s special gift to a widower with memories of English cuisine. |
|
Rainwater Tanks |
‘Mother would like to give you a
hen.’ This gift marked the painting of a water tank or two. Although Phoebe,
‘Mama Doc’, spoke no English nor wrote any language, her gifts, skills and
authority were widely evident. The axiom ‘those who do not work do not eat’ was
writ large but the tempo always increased when Doc returned after meeting a
school principal here, preparing for mission there, from a funeral or a wedding
address. Sometimes the honeymoon suite would heave and creak with excitement
next door. It was part of the wonderful facilities; a superb large double bed;
the shelves all round filled with Doc’s and Rosemary June’s library of spiritual
books, a goldmine for preparing a talk or sermon, and en suite w.c. and bathroom
with galvanised sheet flooring, facilities which we ourselves enjoyed on later,
shorter visits. The young just-marrieds were often former pupils unable to
afford a holiday whom Doc wished to bless for a few precious days together
before they took up the grind of teaching, pastoring or farming again. One such
couple whom we saw wed in the CCA cathedral in Kisumu on a Saturday did
eventually arrive late on Sunday. It was always a joy and privilege to be part
of the Christian welcome into guest-house, fellowship centre and orphanage. |
|
So what did we do? Only God and
our friends can say. Contact with the orphans was slight at first, evening
surgery through the hatch being less than satisfactory for examining dark skin
in dim light. Elizabeth, unless too tired, examined the line of hulking boys,
‘Mama Tom, my leg hurts,’ or girls appeared at my surgeries, ‘Baba Tom, my arm
hurts.’ In truth the application of boiled water, as hot as could be borne, to
cleanse and place a poultice, to inhale steam under a towel with whatever
placebo effect of concerned love accompanying it, was (as the book ‘Where There
is No Doctor’ stated) a great fillip to morale for them and us. The children had
left for school before 7 a.m. and in the evenings were often slumbrous over
exercise and chorus books, in homework or worship time. Elizabeth, clad in her
kanga (over-skirt) prepared vegetables or watched the kwon (ugali maize meal)
cooking over the three big stones, learning numbers and other dho-Luo
vocabulary. My painting of tanks and the lower part of the house – Mother wanted
to give a sheep for this – was followed by helping visiting paid fundis (lit.
experts) put in posts for an outer gate and strong mesh fence. David the foreman
perfectly interpreted and executed Doc’s plans: a wooden floor over the beaten
mud of St George’s; Louisa Edith hall arising as the main dining-room for the
children, and one day big new tanks were in place on their platforms, one fed
from roof and guttering, three by pump from the river. Elizabeth and I did take
part in the mission, preaching and praying over many, acquiring one specific
god-child whom I was only three-quarters of an hour from delivering, and many
other Libbys and Roberts. Although the deepest held beliefs and customs were
hardly revealed, the degree of warmth, in the physical if not the spiritual
heart of the dala, became measurable with experience. The reading of the Bible,
requests for prayers for the children, the imparting of simple health care, all
brought new friends and gave an entrée into some amazingly dark as well as
cheerful homes. We did collect firewood and Elizabeth carried food and water on
her head. Illness, physical and emotional, required us to return to the UK after
nine months, dispatched with the same love and concern which had greeted us. |
|
Age, overwork and sickness have
taken four of the five faithful leaders who created and sustained the orphanage.
A new director and trustees here and in Kenya continue to interpret the vision,
but the Happy Home is no longer the home of Johana and his mother Phoebe who
died in 1997 and 1999 respectively. Johana died while on a fortieth anniversary
mission, forty years since he had at 18 years old testified to Christ at a
school in Nyakoko. It was a tough assignment. Elizabeth made him as comfortable
as possible for the truck drive to Aga Khan hospital, Kisumu. He died the day
after I had been privileged to give the final address of the mission in his
place. Rather than become maudlin, let me finish with a selection from the ABC
devised by Elizabeth and myself in homage to the fun and interest we enjoyed.
Five will suffice and illustrate a mzungu’s-eye view of how it was to live among
the Luo, friends of humour, patience, faith and devotion – devotion to God and
their strange white neighbours. |
|
B for Breakfast. Be sure to have
some. G for Greet people thoroughly. I for Invitations: ‘Karibu (welcome) – just
get in!’ U for Unusual which usually happens. Z for Zedekiah’s notice for me to
preach i.e. 5 minutes. |
|
‘Ruoth (lit. Lord) opake
(praise)! Nyasaye (God) ogwedhi (bless you). Oriti idhi nind maber’ (Good night
and sleep well) from Libby Achieng and Robert Otieno. |
|
Robert
Sopwith
|
|
