Nancy O'Rourke writes "Arrival", wins FIRST in contest

– Nonfiction by Nancy O’Rourke –

Featured in Issue 17 of Dreamers Magazine and tied for First Place in the 2024 Sense of Place & Home Contest

I stumble out of the matatu taxi, struggle to hoist up my weighty backpack, and am immediately confronted by several people standing nearby under the leafy canopy of a large thorny acacia tree. “Esdeeyay! Esdeeyay!” they yell, staring in my direction, and pointing to a nearby path. Unfamiliar with this term, I check to see if they’re hollering at someone else. No. Their pronouncement is definitely intended for me. Even though they’ve replaced their shouting with warm smiles, they continue to gaze at me and gesture toward the trail ahead. Too tired to either inquire or protest, I mutely turn and take the route indicated.

I’ve just spent a sleepless night riding on a grimy, old jalopy of a bus, as it careened along the almost non-existent roads, winding down and up the steep cliffs bordering the Kenyan Rift Valley. My back aches from trying to fit into a seat shared with two others, one with a screeching chicken, its head sticking out of a tied burlap bag. The only foreigner aboard, the blatant stares from other passengers were palpable, as though singeing my skin. Feeling over-exposed, raw, I tried several times to hunch down, an attempt to blend in, an impossibility given my height and the cramped seating. The matatu ride from Kisii to Tombe village was equally confining and uncomfortable, though I’m loathe to admit how this lack of ease confounded me, preferring to think of myself as more adaptable. Less fazed.

In 1984, at 29 years, I was eager to leave Canada. I’d worked for several years as a graphic artist; nothing exciting, just setting up grocery ads for the local newspaper. Not exactly what I’d imagined when I began that career. But more than that, in the last year, I learned I had a medical condition that rendered me infertile. And while I’d not been thinking of having children at the time, the knowledge of being forever motherless left me feeling forlorn, without a compass to provide direction.

A Canadian non-government organization was seeking people to work abroad. What I found most attractive about the organization was how they emphasized that, besides providing a required service, this was an opportunity to learn about how others manage their lives, to discover practices and ways of thinking that could expand our worldviews. Intrigued, I applied and was accepted to teach English at a secondary school in the Kisii highlands of western Kenya. While this move could not replace any present or future desire for motherhood, the prospect of working with children overjoyed me. Though without formal teacher’s training, throughout university I studied English literature and worked as a volunteer, teaching English to foreign students. I left Canada optimistic, confident, and looking forward to the experience.

Eager to find the school, I continue along the path suggested by those near the matatu stand. This is my first visit to the African continent, and like a cliché I imagine, I’m struck by the intensity of the sun, laser-like, the skin on my arms appearing translucent, rather than their usual shade of opaque rosy-beige. And yet the heat isn’t extreme. While the village lies just south of the equator; at over 6,500 feet above sea level, the air is dry, crisp. I marvel at the scenery. Rolling out in every direction are rugged hills and mountains interspersed with deep plunging valleys, covered in patchwork shades of green, the markings of terraced tea farms—tea being the largest source of income in the area.

Further on, I’m met by several schoolchildren, dressed in their tidy uniforms of blue and white. Within minutes, they’ve swollen to over three dozen, each crying out, “Madame! How is you? How is you?” Given the noon hour, I assume they’ve been let out for lunch. They wrestle my backpack off, grab my hands, my shirt, anything they can get a hold of, and turn around back down the footpath. I trust they’ll deliver me to the headmaster, Mr. Nyangena.

“Lady!” he cries out. “Welcome to Tombe Esdeeyay! We’ve been waiting for you.”

Interesting. That word again. Esdeeyay.

Ahead of me, toward the end of the trail, stands a tall, large-framed man, wearing a loose-fitting grey suit, a white cotton shirt, and a dark tie. Though I stand at 5’8,” he towers above me, an imposing figure.

“Hello,” I say, reaching out to shake his extended hand. “Esdeeyay?”

“Seventh-day Adventist. This is the Tombe SDA Secondary School,” he says, pointing across a field. “I’m the headmaster, Nyangena.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I say, as a reddening blush splashes with a burn across my cheeks. Why did I assume SDA was foreign? Feeling like an idiot, I hope my embarrassment, as well as my misinterpretation, have gone unnoticed.

I gaze over at the school and note a rather dilapidated row building, made of clay bricks, with a handful of windows, many broken, with the entire structure covered by a tarnished corrugated tin roof.

Nobody had informed me about the name of the school or its alignment with any religious institution. I know nothing about Seventh-day Adventists and hope no one expects devotional adherence. I didn’t sign up for that.

“You’ll be teaching English to 9A, 9B and 10C. And you start tomorrow, so we should get you settled.”

Tomorrow? I haven’t slept the last two nights and suddenly question why I accepted this post, unsure of my capacity to teach in a classroom, not to mention adopt a curriculum I’m unfamiliar with. As if hearing my unspoken fears, Mr. Nyangena informs me he’ll have the teaching manual and instruction notes dropped off that afternoon.

“You’ll have the entire night to prepare,” he says with a broad smile.

I do not feel encouraged and stifle a response.

He then escorts me across a field, on the other side of the school. A handful of schoolchildren follow. One of them carries my massive backpack. We walk toward a series of small dwellings, and at the far end of these sits a compact rectangular cement building.

“Your home,” the headmaster says.

We enter a modest front room which holds a large wooden table, old and banged up, accompanied by two straight-back chairs. On the table sits a single kerosene lantern and a box of matches. Off this room is a small bedroom, with barely space to enter. I peek inside and see a single-sized iron bed with a thin, rolled-up mattress placed atop the wire meshing underframe. I’m unsure where to place my backpack and cannot imagine where or how I’ll organize my belongings. On the plus side, the room has a large paned glass window that offers an outstanding view of the bucolic landscape: a multitude of tea farms, interspersed with pastureland, winding up and down the nearby mountains that seem to stretch on forever.

Mr. Nyangena explains there’s neither running water nor electricity, but in another yet smaller room, he points out a kerosene stove, sitting on a scratched-up metal table. Next to this room is a closet with a red plastic bucket on the floor, placed next to a makeshift drain. Water, he tells me, is delivered every morning so I can wash and there’s a pit latrine out back, shared with the other teachers. I’d been told beforehand, at a culture shock training weekend in Canada, to be prepared for local living conditions. A bare-bones adventure I’m unsure I’ll adapt to.

The next morning, after a night of restless sleep and with nerves on edge, I follow a trail from the teacher’s housing compound over to the school. Two students pass.

“Good morning, Madame. How is you?”

“I am fine. How are you?”

“We is fine, Madame. We is fine.”

I then turn into the schoolyard, where I’m met by dozens more, all pressing in close, mere inches from my face. Excitedly, they clamour, “Good morning, Madame! How is you? How is you?”

My pulse quickens as they lean in. I fight the urge to reach up and push them away, a sensation of dizzy claustrophobia overwhelming me. I force a response. “Good morning, I am well. How are all of you?”

“We is fine, Madame. We is fine.”

***

Joan raises her hand. Finally, someone is responding. I’ve been teaching for close to three weeks and find that getting the students to interact, to say anything, is almost impossible.

“Yes, Joan.”

“Madame, we don’t understand you,” she says, standing up. With her desk close to the front of the room, she turns to face her classmates, as though seeking their approval, then glances back at me. “You speak funny.”

“What do you mean? Are you saying you’ve understood nothing since I arrived?”

She looks at me questioningly and, after a brief pause, responds. “Yes, Madame. Nothing. You don’t speak like a white.”

“You’ve had other foreigners teaching English? From where?”

“From the UK, Madame.”

“Class,” I say, speaking slowly, “Do you agree with Joan?”

They hesitate, then nod yes.

“But, if I speak like this, e-nun-ci-a-ting my words, can you un-der-stand me?”

“Yes, yes,” some call out. “Not good. But better.”

On an almost daily basis, I question my sanity in taking this post. Who am I to think I can teach these children? This is just one class. Have all the students been experiencing the same? What if no one understands me? I imagine Mr. Nyangena sending me back to Canada with an evaluation that states: “Cannot enunciate clearly.”

***

Walking home across the field, I notice a huge mound of cow dung with a child’s shoe stuck in the middle and realize that’s how I’m feeling—stuck dead center in a bunch of crap.

Mr. Nyangena stopped by the teacher’s office today to offer a complaint. I cannot stop thinking about our interaction.

“Lady, how is you? I need to speak,” he said, looming above me.

Seated at my desk, I glanced up, “I am fine. What seems—”

“You must stop refusing house help,” he interrupted, a curt tone to his voice.

“But sir,” I said, pulling my chair out so I could face him more directly. “I’m fully capable of cleaning my place.”

“Our people depend on income from foreigners and wealthy Africans. They will find you stingy, not wishing to help our people.”

“Perhaps there’s another way I can contribute,” I offered, keen to maintain my independence.

“Accchhh! Foreigners. You don’t understand,” he barked before turning away.

By the end of the week, I agree to hire a student, a young teenage girl. Every few days she drops by to wash the floors, but most times we simply sit and chat over a cup of tea.

***

Late on a Friday afternoon, I run along the hilly pathway leading from the school to the village center, determined to catch the last matatu into Kisii. Spending the odd weekend in town has provided a welcome reprieve, time to recuperate from the somewhat uncomfortable aspects of village life. There’s a small, cottagey type hotel, each room with a modern shower and beds with crisp, ironed sheets. Out behind is a lovely garden, overflowing with bougainvillea in every shade imaginable: fuscia, purple, gold, pale pink. Among all the colour, sit a dozen or so café tables, where local and foreign professionals gather to drink beer and eat roasted chicken. And share stories, mostly about our respective village experiences.

As I round the corner leading up to the taxi stand, the deputy headmaster, Mr. Monyancha approaches from the opposite direction, blocking the path.

“Madame, how is you?” he asks, reaching out to shake my hand.

“I am fine, sir. How are you?”

“Fine, fine. Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Into town. I’m spending the weekend in Kisii.”

“Ahhhh, Madame. I’m afraid you just missed the matatu,” he says in a quiet, sympathetic tone, his eyes warm and kind.

“How is that possible?” I ask, a frantic edge to my voice. “It’s not yet 5 PM.”

“But Madame, it’s almost 5:30.”

Feeling instantly dejected, as though I’d suffered a significant loss, I curse myself for not wearing a watch—for losing track of time.

Realizing I’m about to spend a wearisome weekend in Tombe, I turn and, with some hesitation, walk back to the school compound with Mr. Monyancha.

Later that evening, sitting on the front porch, I stare at the abundance of stars shining bright against an inky black sky. Transfixed. I’ve never seen so many stars and feel remarkably small, a pin-prick speck of dust, given the magnitude of the brilliant heavens above me. And yet, despite their luminance, I realize that if I hold my hand up in front of me, I can barely see it. I’m stunned by the utter blackness surrounding me, preventing sight of anything nearby.

But I can hear. The girls’ choir up at the school. They’re singing Ave Maria. At first, a single line of melody, maybe thirty or forty voices. Their tone is sweet, full, and carries well across the field between the teacher’s compound and the school. But then another layer of music begins and seconds later another—three-part harmony. There must be more than a hundred voices. And it occurs to me I’ve never heard anything so moving, the various tones weaving in and out like an intricate dance, a haunting that reverberates throughout the nearby hills and valleys.

I sit still, keen to hear more, and barely notice the tears sliding down my cheek.

***

On a Sunday afternoon, I hike across the village to a pasture known for its panoramic vista. Without a cloud in the sky, I can see the head of Lake Victoria, a silvery-blue dot, nestled in the mountains, far off on the horizon.

Finding an ideal spot, under a towering eucalyptus tree with its minty pine scent, I lay a brightly coloured cotton kikoy cloth on the ground. I’ve brought along class papers to mark, and my journal, but more than anything I wish to savor the scenery, take it all in. Breathe deep and let the sun’s heat seep through my body.

Minutes later, I notice one of my students sauntering along the opposite end of the meadow. Within seconds, he spots me and walks over.

“Madame, how is you?” he asks, sitting down beside me.

“I am fine. How are you?”

“Madame, why are you by yourself? This isn’t good. You must be sad.”

“I’m not sad. I’m enjoying the day.”

He moves closer, his arm touching mine. “Kisii people believe it’s bad to be alone.”

“But I’m Canadian,” I say, trying to inch away.

Within half an hour, I’m surrounded by a dozen villagers, all wishing to take me home, “Not to be alone.”

No solitude for today. With all these people circling me, looking worried and concerned, I finally agree to go with my student and visit his family: his grandmother, older sister, and her four children. Though it’s only mid-afternoon, his grandmother insists on feeding me: a glue-like maize dough called ugali, used to scoop up fried bitter sukumaweke greens. For dessert, they treat me to curdled milk, served in a tall glass, with some darker bits floating on top. An ant, I think. And possibly a bit of blood. I struggle not to grimace as I take a sip, all of them looking on eagerly, pleased to serve me this much-favoured beverage. And the truth is, it doesn’t taste bad. A bittersweet tangy flavor I cannot readily identify, but which piques my interest. I make a mental note to check out this drink again.

At the end of the afternoon, they walk me home. The entire family and some villagers who join us along the way.

“Good evening, Madame,” they say before turning back to their homes. “You is fine, now. You is fine.” And I can’t help but be touched by their kindness and concern.

***

I’ve been teaching for two months, and we’ve now entered the rainy season. Heavy rain. Blinding rain. Sheets of blinding rain.

Today, while writing on the blackboard, the students shout, “Scream, Madame, scream!” When I ask why, I realize that the rain hitting the tin roof is deafening. I yell, but it’s of no use. Though they no longer struggle to understand me, they cannot hear me. I can barely hear myself.

A half-hour later, with the rain still pounding, I look up from my desk to watch the students reading, hunched over their textbooks. Unable to teach, I’ve given them a desk assignment. They appear calm, engrossed, unaware of the beating rain. I watch them for a few minutes, then let my gaze drift outside the window. Even with the billowing, dark clouds, and sheets of grey, I’m stunned by the brightness of the red, clay earth, the disparate shades of green, moving up over the terraced tea farms that cling to the foggy mountainsides. There’s a now familiar smell that permeates the air: a pungent mix of damp soil, fresh manure, and wood smoke. Focusing back on the students, I notice that the loud, drumming rain holds a rhythm. It’s steady, strong, and provides a measure of comfort. They continue to work, heads bent over, concentrating, oblivious to the storm. A noticed stillness.

I look at them and realize how the pace of my life has slowed. I’m now used to this tempo and covet the simplicity involved: daily strolls into the village to buy fresh food, taking time to greet neighbours along the way—speaking my very broken Kikisii—and knowing somehow that I’m understood, listening to the girls’ choir on Friday nights as their sweet-sounding voices carry along the stirring wind and echo off the nearby hilltops, visiting the families of my students and being treated to local food—in particular, I’ve come to enjoy NyoNyo, a curry dish of maize and beans, prepared with onion and garlic. I no longer rush into town on the weekends, seeking a distracted getaway. Rather, I bask in the lazy quiet of the village, aware that I’ve stumbled upon something sublime.

In this moment, I am fully aware. Awake. And then, just like that, almost without surprise and with a kind of perfect knowledge, it hits me.

I am home. And I is fine.

About the Author – Nancy O’Rourke

Based in Montréal/Tiohtià:ke, Nancy O’Rourke is a writer of essays, memoirs, and poetry. With a PhD in sociology, specializing in human rights and social justice, she has written widely on issues affecting the rights of women and children. Her story “Descent into Darkness,” won the 2018 Creative Nonfiction Collective award. Her writing has been shortlisted in additional literary contests, nominated for a National Magazine Award, and appears in Prairie Fire, and carte blanche. In her free time, Nancy takes photos and paints—abstracts and portraits—sometimes of the characters she writes about.

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