Mwaka and Midnight Pomegranate

It was four days before I was to leave for Kenya. Joseph, our dear friend and the head of our program in Kenya, was calling me to cover last minute details about our arrival. “Rinda,” he said, “Mwaka wants to talk to you.”I had spoken to Joseph countless times, our voices finding their way across oceans and continents. But I had never spoken to Mwaka, his wife, on the phone. Only business calls seemed justifiable, at the rate we had to pay. But I loved hearing her voice this time, accompanied by her deep, rich laugh. “Rinda. Did you remember the Midnight Pomegranate?” Luckily I had. I had suffered a much dreaded trip to the mall to get it. It was already tucked safely in my bag.Three years ago I had returned to Kenya on my own, planning to stay for a month with Joseph and Mwaka. I did not know her well at the time. What could I take her to thank her for welcoming me into their very small home? It needed to be something unusual,  something she had never experienced before.Stopping in the Bath and Body Shop (or some name like that) I smelled one lotion after another. Would this be a good gift? What would she make of such strong, exotic scents? How would they blend with the odor of charcoal burning and the pungent scent of her African home? Would she find it to be repugnant by being so dramatically foreign? “It’s worth a try,” I thought. Midnight Pomegranate was the one I chose. I wore five scents out of the store, but that is the one I returned for.Mwaka and I opened it together my first night back in Kenya. Its luxurious extravagance filled the small room we shared. Strong and bold, the thread of that scent connected me to my other world. She rubbed it into her work-worn hands. A smile spread over her face.  “I like it verry much, Rinda. Verry much.”Now I am home. Mwaka and Joseph are in a home now empty of their exuberant American guests. I think of their tender love for each other, and I smell Midnight Pomegranate.