|A small section of our Garden. Planted by the non-gardener me:)|
|Masai bracelets and Silly Bands|
Wednesday: On my way to sub at a school. We are unable to drive up the road as police are motioning for us to go the other way. We try to drive up the road anyway and notice that there is a large crowd of people walking and running in our direction. Stones are being thrown and it looks like something has been set on fire in the distance. The angry, yet helpful protesters tell us to wind up our windows and drive in the opposite direction. I think back to the other 3 demonstrations we either caused or were in the middle of while in Jerusalem and the huge red bricks that were being thrown at the cars in one instance at those who were breaking the Sabbath by driving their cars. But I digress. Only later that day would we find out that the protest was in response to police who had murdered an innocent boy on the assumption that he was a thug.
Herein lies a story that resonates with most Westerners. This typical media-driven sensationalism about the continent of Africa sadly frames our worldview of the Motherland. How I struggled to write this knowing that our experience here is characterized by other mundane excitements and ordinary miracles unrecognizable to the above written narrative.
Saturday: We are going to the open market to buy our fruits and vegetables. We drive past several malls and many grocery stores on the way to the busy, mud floor bazaar. Perhaps it’s because we want the “African” rural experience that we venture where the trash looms outside and the monkeys are ever grateful for the abundance of food. Or maybe it’s because the produce is four times cheaper than the stores or maybe it’s because this is where Quincy can buy all of his exotic fruits and sprout the seeds later in preparation for his next project. Whatever the reason, we hold a certain romance with this place. Here we connect the faces to those who grow the food. Such a treasure was rare in our own consumerist, home culture. I see a monkey scamper by. The children ask for shillings to buy sugar cane and maze, “Ninatoka maze tadfathali,” Zahari says with a big grin on his face. He is quite proud of himself as he bites into the blackened, golden kernels.
|Rural House in Limuru|
|"Want to buy a chicken? I also slaughter it for you"|
|"Look Mom I made a volcano!"|
|More artwork made of clay|
|At the Market after the Christmas Play|
When Stars hide
When stars hide beneath the clouds those on earth can see
Cracked silhouettes, jagged edges fading glow-what once was brilliance.
When stars dangle in the ray of the sun their glow becomes what once was glory
Dangling in the beauty of a vast element, Venus is no longer the morning star.
When stars begin to wave across the blackened night with a trail of brightness we marvel at this wonder before us.
While we wonder and marvel, this star will quickly be no more.
What is this glimmering feature that hangs in the sky, encompassing rainbow’s blush?
While all of them light up the sky with midnight’s orchestra, only some starlight songs are called by name.
While thousands of illuminations dangle and dance along galaxy’s stage, the curtain of time will soon conclude this theatrical production.
By Joanne Ball-Burgess