Alexandria of Africa (13 page)

“Some would be sick. There are lots of infections and illnesses caused by drinking unclean water.”

“They shouldn’t drink water that isn’t clean.”

Renée gave me an angry look. “Do you think they have a choice?” she asked. “There are no drinking fountains or even running water here. These kids—and it’s usually the children—have to walk up to four miles to get water and carry it home on their backs or balanced on their heads.”

“I didn’t know,” I sputtered.

Her expression softened. “I’m sorry. Of course you didn’t know. It just gets me so angry, but I shouldn’t be angry with you. Instead of coming to school they’re either home sick because of the illnesses caused by the bad water or they’re out carrying water instead. Some kids only
come to school every second day because on the alternating days they’re carrying water or finding firewood or tending to the flock or doing one of the thousand of things their families need them to do to survive.”

“But there has to be something that can be done.”

“We’re talking about a fresh water project for this community. We want to either drill a well or create a rain-retention program that would capture water in the rainy season and store it in holding tanks.”

“That would be good,” I offered.

“It would, but either method costs money, and we’re not exactly rolling in it.”

“How much money?”

“A lot.” She paused. “About the cost of your necklace.”

The words jabbed at me like a punch to the stomach.

“Not that anybody’s after your necklace. We’re all doing our best. See how much better the new school building is going to be?”

“For sure. Concrete floors, solid stone walls held together with cement, windows with glass, and there’s going to be more light and air.”

“A big step up,” Renée said. “Come on, let’s go to the next class.”

We’d moved from class to class. Some were a little bit better than the first but others were worse. The classes ranged from fifty-four students in Standard Seven to eighty-eight in Standard Two. All students shared the same red uniforms and the same smiles. Each student called out
“Jambo”
or
“Hello” and gave me a big smile or a laugh. In one class all the students got up and sang me a song—a beautiful song.

“This is our last stop,” Renée said. “Standard Eight. Some of these kids will be your age or older.”

I stopped at the door. “But if this is grade eight, how can they be my age? I’m going into grade eleven.”

“Some of these students couldn’t come when they were younger because of family responsibilities or lack of funds. They could even be a couple of years older than you.”

She knocked and we entered. Before we’d even greeted the teacher I could see a big difference between this and the other classes. There weren’t that many students. I did a quick count—nineteen—and each student sat at his or her own desk. On each desk was a large exercise book, and they hardly looked up as they continued to work.

“They are writing an examination,” their teacher said, his voice just above a whisper.

“These are the tests they write to determine if they can go on to high school,” Renée explained.

“Very difficult, very important,” the teacher added.

I nodded. “So if they pass they can go on?”

“If they pass they’re qualified to go on,” Renée said. “They still need to be able to pay for classes. High school is not paid for by the government. The students and their families are responsible.”

“And if they don’t have the money?” I asked.

“Then this is the end of their schooling,” Renée said. “That’s why this class is so small. These are the only students who
might
have the ability
and
the money to go further. Even these tests they’re taking have to be paid for by their families.”

Renée turned to the teacher. “Thank you,” she said, and we left the class.

I understood that people with money could afford more things, better things, than people who had no money, but didn’t everybody have a right to education?

“That isn’t fair,” I said. “If you’re smart enough you should be able to go to school.”

“It isn’t fair,” Renée agreed, “but it isn’t that much different from back home.”

“It’s way different!” I protested.

“Is it? What university are you planning on going to?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe Stanford, or UCLA. My mother wants me to go out east to Sarah Lawrence.”

“All good schools.”

“The
best
schools.”

“And I guess anybody can just show up and get in, right?”

“Of course not. You have to have good marks, and do well on your SATs, and fill in applications, and—”

“And pay a lot of money,” Renée said. “It doesn’t seem fair that poor people can’t go to university.”

“But that’s different. Everybody can go to high school, free.”

“But lots of people drop out because they have to earn money to help their families survive, or they drop out because they know they can’t go on further anyway and they know that with just a high school education you can’t become a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher or a nurse,” she said. “You can work at Wal-Mart with a grade-ten or a grade-twelve education, so why go further?” she asked. “Both countries place a roof on how far the poor can go. Here in Kenya, the roof is just lower.”

I hadn’t ever thought of that. There was so much that I’d never thought of, that I’d never needed to think about.
I suddenly felt my legs start to get all shaky and a rush of heat surged through my entire body.

“Are you okay?” Renée asked. She reached out and steadied me with one hand.

“I’m just feeling a bit woozy … nothing serious. I just feel like I need to sit down.”

Renée took me by the arm and led me away from the school buildings and across the dusty schoolyard. I wasn’t sure where we were going. Then I saw the big truck parked up ahead.

“Sit here, just rest against the truck.”

I sat down and leaned against one of the big wheels on the shady side. It felt good to be sitting. Renée pulled out a bottle of water. She took off her bandana and poured water on it, then placed it around my neck.

“It’s a hard adjustment,” she said. “Not just the time changes and the travel, but dealing with the emotions. None of this is easy, is it?”

I shook my head.

“And I think in the end you might do okay,” she said.

“But … but you don’t think I am doing okay now … right?”

“Not yet … but I’m hoping. You just stay here, rest, and when you’re ready, come back and join us.”

I didn’t answer. I just put my head down between my legs and closed my eyes.

I heard voices. Talking, whispering, giggling. I opened my eyes and almost screamed. All around me in a little semicircle were dozens and dozens of kids, staring and smiling and pointing at me as I sat on the ground. I shrieked and they roared with laughter, and some even jumped backwards.

“Pateo!”
yelled out a loud voice.

A girl, an older girl, appeared in the gap between me and the children. She yelled something else and made a kicking gesture and the kids all screamed and scurried away. Whatever she’d said had scared them into leaving. She came and stood overtop of me.

“Okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine. I must have gone to sleep,” I said.

She nodded. “A
cat
nap.”

“Yes, I guess I had a catnap.”

“May I?” she asked, gesturing to the space beside me.

“Sure. Sit down.”

She sat down. “Ruth.”

“No, I’m Alexandria.”

She laughed.
“I
am Ruth.”

“Oh, I didn’t understand. Good to meet you.”

“I am most pleased to meet you,” she said.

She had a funny way of speaking, almost with a British accent, but her English was pretty good.

“Your hair is so long,” she said.

“Not that long.”

“To mine it is long,” she said.

Her hair was, like that of almost all the girls, nearly shaved off.

“The colour … it is like straw.”

“I think the exact term is honey-blond,” I said, reciting the specific shade it was dyed.

“So beautiful.”

“You should see how it usually looks,” I said.

“Can I … touch?”

I was thrown for just a second. “Sure.”

She reached over and very gently took a strand of my hair in her hand. “So soft … I wish my hair was like that.”

So did more than half the girls in my school. “Yours is nice too,” I offered.

She shrugged.

“Your English is very good,” I told her.

“So is yours,” she said, and laughed.

“Much better than my Swahili. Why is your English so good?”

“We start English in Standard Four. I am in Standard Eight. What Standard are you?”

“I’m going into grade … Standard Eleven.”

“That is so good! Next year I hope to go to high school … if I can.”

“Your English is very good, so you must be good at school.”

She smiled and nodded. “Good, but maybe one of my brothers will go instead. We shall see.”

“Why can’t you both go?” I asked, before I realized the answer—money. It cost money to go to high school. Now I really wanted to change the subject. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“I’m fifteen too!” I was just about to ask her why she was only in grade eight when I remembered what Renée had told me about kids here starting school late, or having to miss a lot of classes.

Ruth reached over and gently touched a finger to my eyelid. “Your eyes are colourful.”

“Do you mean the eye or the colour around the eyes?”

“Both. Both. Very pretty.”

“You have beautiful eyes too,” I said. “So dark. And your cheekbones are perfect!”

“Cheekbones?”

“These are your cheekbones,” I said, touching them. “You have cheekbones like a high-fashion model. Actually … stand up.”

I got to my feet and she got up too. She was thin and tall, almost as tall as me. She made me think of the high-fashion models who were from Africa, like Iman.

“You really
could
be a model,” I said.

She laughed and turned her eyes to the ground. Maybe for all I knew she’d even blushed, but I couldn’t tell.

“Good to see you up and on your feet!” It was Renée. “And I see you’ve made a friend.”

“This is Ruth.”

“I know Ruth and her whole family,” Renée said. The two of them hugged. “Are you feeling better?” she asked me.

“Better, but not right. I’m almost afraid to think how my stomach is going to react to the ride back. Do I really have to ride in the truck?”

“The only other option is to walk.”

“
Could
I walk?”

“It’s pretty far. Almost seven miles.”

“I can walk that far. That’s not a problem for me, honest, I’m a good walker. Sometimes when I’m shopping with my mother we’re on our feet for the whole day!”

She almost laughed, and then politely stopped herself. “It’s not just the distance. I wouldn’t want you to get lost. One of us would have to go with you, and we’re all busy here supervising.”

“I could walk her,” Ruth offered.

Renée looked as though she was thinking. “Your village is about halfway to the compound. You wouldn’t mind if she walked with you as far as your village?”

Ruth shook her head. “Would not mind.”

Renée looked directly at me. “This is not how we usually do things, but I think walking with Ruth might be a good experience. And that way you’ll only have to take the truck halfway back. But you have to promise you’ll do exactly what Ruth tells you, and you’ll wait at her home until we come by in the truck to get you.”

“I’ll do that, I promise.”

“If you promise, that’s good enough for me,” Renée said. “You know what, Alexandria? I believe that you’re a person of your word, and since you’ve given me your word I know you’ll keep it.”

I knew at least one judge who would have disagreed
with her—I wasn’t even sure I agreed with her opinion myself—but I wasn’t about to say that now.

School had been dismissed, and while some kids were hanging around, playing soccer or basketball, and others were watching the construction going on, most had started for the gate and were beginning to walk home.

Renée said something to Ruth in Swahili and the two of them hugged. She turned to me.

“We’re just going to work for another thirty or forty minutes and then clean up. Hopefully we’ll be leaving in the truck in less than an hour. We’ll see you at Ruth’s village after that. Be safe, and be smart.” Then, to my total surprise, she reached out and hugged me as well.

Ruth took me by the hand and we started to walk. I thought she would let go, but she didn’t. She kept hold of my hand as we hit the road and started to walk. Part of me thought it was strange to hold hands, but I noticed that the other kids were doing the same thing. Not just girls, but boys as well. They all held hands as they walked—sometimes pairs of them, sometimes whole chains of kids.

We were in the middle of a huge pack of kids, all in their red uniforms, moving along the dusty red road. The road, which had seemed so rough in the truck, was even rougher on foot. There were gigantic ruts, large rocks, and places where the roadway had been washed out completely, leaving behind a sandy gully, with the occasional trickle of brown water running across it.

A little hand reached up and grabbed my free hand. It was a girl, maybe eight or nine. She smiled up at me.

“My sister,” Ruth said. “How many sisters do you have?”

“None.”

“None! That is awful! Just brothers.”

“No, I don’t have brothers either. I’m an only child.”

Ruth looked sad. “Your mother died?” she asked.

“No, my mother is alive.”

“Your father died?”

“No, he’s alive too.”

Now she looked confused. She shook her head. “Why only one child?”

“I don’t know, exactly. Lots of my friends are only children. Sometimes people have two. I know a family with four kids, but most aren’t that large. How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“Eleven.”

“No, how many brothers and sisters in your family?” I asked. She obviously hadn’t understood the question.