Our small group of American visitors had just stepped onto the dry cinnamon-colored dirt of the Fuleye village school when a dozen dancers decked out in traditional Duru’ma clan attire approached us - a pulsing swish of beads and feathers and red-and-black kangas (the fabric of a tribe’s unique pattern that is usually wrapped around their waists). The dance troupe included a few members who might have been in their twenties but the majority of them were classic figures from National Geographic, some with skin so wrinkled from long lives in the sun that it would have been impossible to guess their age.

Regardless of generation, all kept loosely in step with the unrushed but persistent percussion of their drums and shakers and whistles as they slowly encircled us.

They led us rhythmically towards a waiting crowd of several hundred villagers, mostly schoolchildren squished beside and on top of each other to form a large circle where our official welcome celebration would take place.

No one explained what was happening or what was expected of us and, even if someone had, I couldn’t have heard them. So, I was admittedly anxious and looking for any kind of direction when I became aware that a young woman about my height had slipped in on my right and was offering understated signals. Her kanga was wrapped snugly enough to suggest a slim but womanly figure while her upper body was adorned in a remarkably white flowing hijab that swirled gracefully around her face and loosely over her shoulders. I fleetingly wondered how this desert woman - with skin as dark and smooth as ebony keys on a piano –kept the lovely fabric of her hijab so pristine. More urgently, I felt an immediate attachment to this helpful girl who was gently rescuing me from embarrassing myself in front of a huge curious crowd.

She gestured that I should join the rhythmic bouncing that united everyone else in the advancing entourage.

She re-tied the kanga that had been hastily put on me and was already falling off. She stayed at my side, ready to take my bag and the feathered baton I had been entrusted to carry when I needed my hands free to help plant a seedling. We moved from one ceremonial activity to the next without any pause in between, so we were never introduced and I could only catch quick glimpses of her face. But there was something about the intelligent eyes above her mask that seemed vaguely familiar. I dismissed the notion as ridiculous. How could I possibly know anyone in rural Africa when this was my first visit to the continent?  

From a slight distance, I overheard Rinda, the founder of Kenya Keys, strike up a conversation with my mysterious guide.

“Don’t I know you? You’re a former Kenya Keys student, aren’t you? Remind me your name.”

“Zainab Tsuma,” she answered humbly.

“We haven’t seen you for a while, Zainab. Do you remember who your sponsor was?”

“Heather and Carrie Cooke,” was her immediate reply. 

“You’re kidding!” Rinda’s surprise was palpable.

“Do you know that Heather is here today?”

What were the chances that, of 300 sponsors of Kenya Keys’ 700 students, this particular sponsor and the lost student would find themselves dancing side by side in matching kangas at a tiny village in the outback of Africa?!

I spun on my heels and rushed towards the poised young woman who had now lowered her mask to reveal a face I instantly recognized. That smile! A smile as wide and as wise as hers is unmistakable. It was the same smile that had adorned our kitchen bulletin board several years ago when our family first became her sponsor as she completed primary school with high marks. The same smile that matured but didn’t lose its magic in the ensuing photos we received yearly until she completed her secondary schooling. And then, we heard that she didn’t plan to go on for more education. I had been disappointed but willing to accept without judgment that her life had complications I could never understand.  I knew she would at least be better off for having earned her secondary school certificate. I was mostly sad to think that, after being a presence in our American home for years, we’d probably never hear from or about her ever again.

 Yet here she was! Standing right in front of me! No longer a schoolgirl, but a woman with uncommon composure

– a woman who had ironically become MY rescuer that day. I don’t think either of us could quite comprehend what was unfolding but, without hesitation, we wrapped our arms around each other like old friends finally reunited. And we just stood there, locked in that unbelievably unlikely embrace, for a timeless moment while tears streamed unrestrained down both of our faces.

“I’m sorry I left school.” She wiped her eyes with the fringed edge of her very white hijab. She had the rare maturity to look me straight in the eye as she explained that she now has two children, one four, the other two, but that she is married to a good man who supports her desire to return to school if she can find a way to pay for what they cannot afford. My heart leaped! Nothing could have made me happier!

At that surreal moment, on my first day in Kenya, all my efforts over the years to visit Africa were fulfilled in the unexpected blessing of finding Zainab. What were the chances, both for her and for me? No one can convince me it was anything less than the Divinity we both prayed to - “Allah” for her, “Heavenly Father and Mother” for me - who choreographed this impossible alignment of the stars!

As a member of the village school council, Zainab was appointed to honor me in front of the crowd with a new Duru’ma name that would symbolize my inclusion in the tribe. I don’t know who chose it, but Nadzuwa was the new name she declared for me. It means “the dry season” – an expression that describes the past few years of Zainab’s education. Nonetheless, like the parent in the parable of the prodigal son, I rejoice with all my heart that my surrogate daughter has found her way back. And I’m ready to slaughter the proverbial fatted calf to celebrate her return to education.

(Note:  Zainab will enter college on March 9, 2022. She is married to a fellow alumnus of Kenya Keys who works in construction management and looks forward to helping manage their two children while Zainab earns her teaching certificate.)