The Mwakas

The day had begun poorly. All of us, our American team, were “feelin' it,” as we say. The conditions in general, the lack of personal space, the removal from our usual distractions and comforts – all of it had taken a toll. It is challenging being here simply because there is such bombardment of input and so little time or space in which to process it. We felt the need to be realigned and reminded of what had brought us to Kenya to begin with.Water, a most precious commodity, had ceased to flow in the main pipeline that runs through our area. When the water ceases to flow, life changes abruptly, or at least it does for women. The luxury of water within meters of your home is lost. All other concerns are forgotten with the demand for the liquid imperative. Women gather their laundry, jerry cans, and buckets and head to other water sources, as they have for centuries.Mwaka, our hostess and wife of director Joseph Mwengea, was fortunate. There was a natural “water catchment” just half a mile away.  Hoping to get our American team aligned with themselves and the rich culture that embraces us, I suggested a walk to the catchment, where we would all spend some time alone before hauling water home with Mwaka. (It is so frighteningly easy for us to sit down to a meal of beans and rice and forget the hours of toil that went into accumulating the fuel and water that made the meal happen.)Accompanying us was “little Mwaka,” a three year-old girl that had become “big" Mwaka’s sidekick. Born of a young mother who had been seduced by her secondary school teacher, she was being raised in the mud hut of her grandmother. Her mother had left the area to live in Mombasa. Rama, her brother, was now required by culture and tradition to be financially responsible for little Mwaka for life.  Quite a burden for a young man of 19, especially considering he had nothing to do with the birth of this child. Rama had been in our sponsorship program, a promising student, hoping to be the first in his family to get an education.Little and big Mwaka led the way to the water catchment area, bearing the water vessels that marked them as African women, little Mwaka’s pitcher hung on her back. We got there. We dipped our buckets. We heard the women’s laughter, one woman sharing her frustration over not being able to work in her patch of maize because a huge snake had taken up residence.We each strayed off to have our moment alone. We let the ragged edges of our spirits find their way. We watched the Mwakas set against the blaze of the African sky, and we felt the heartbeat of the land we occupied. Little Mwaka led us home, water aboard, calm and sure. There was not grace or poise in our awkward fumbling with our water containers, the weight of water so foreign to us.Mwakas, both big and little, please bequeath me with your surefootedness, and the stoic serenity that runs in your calm Kenyan veins.