Friday, March 19
It was a quiet, early evening when the phone rang. I had just finished reading bedtime stories to my two sons, Seth and Ganymede. My wife Monica was at work. I raced to the phone so it would not wake the kids. At the other end was an operator from so far away we kept interrupting each other because of the time delay. She asked me if I would accept a collect call from Maurice Odero. Maurice was my brother-in-law, living in Kenya. "Maurice! How are you?" I asked. His reply came choked in pain and despair "Bruce, the old man is dead!" I struggled to find words to comfort him. Nothing seemed right. There was nothing I could say that would change that irreconcilable fact. During our silence I heard weeping in the background. My only words were "Maurice, I'm so sorry." He asked me to tell his brother George. We hung up.
My brother-in-law, George, is a bright 24 year-old who had traveled to California two years ago on a much coveted student visa. He was studying biochemistry and had ambitions for a career in medicine. I began to dial George's number but then stopped. It wouldn't be right to give such personal and heart-rending news by a simple phone call. George lived down the street in the same apartment complex. So I decided to walk over and tell him in person. My walk soon turned into a run and I realized this event was strongly impacting on my emotions. In a minute or so I was knocking at his door. George greeted me with a puzzled look, since I was visibly agitated. Normally I have a calm, reserved attitude. But I was shaken and feeling uncomfortable, knowing that I now, unavoidably, had to pass the sorrowful message. I stood in the hall for a moment unsure of what to do. His roommate, Oliech, sat on the couch with his girlfriend. I wanted to tell George in private, so I asked him if we could go to his bedroom. This seemed to peak his curiosity even more.
In an even, soft tone I said "George, Maurice just called me tonight to tell me your father passed away." I was struggling to maintain myself. George looked at me with a slight smile, as if I had related an amusing minor anecdote. "Gosh, really?" he replied in a somewhat bright tone of voice. I described the call and then he said, "Well, thanks Bruce for telling me". He still gave every appearance of being in good spirits. I was confused by his lack of response. Then, slowly, I made sense of this. George wanted to grieve in private. I excused myself and left.
The Late Mzee
For many years the late Mzee , Dr. William Odero Ayaro ran a small clinic in the farming community of Muhoroni in Western Kenya. He was born in Nyakach in 1922 during the British occupation of Eastern Africa. Nyakach and other settlements in the vicinity of Lake Victoria are the home of the Luo people. The Luo are traditionally pastoralists who migrated to the Lake Victoria region from Sudan in the sixteenth century. The Luo and other nilotic peoples presently live close to Lake Victoria and the Nile River, in an area ranging from Southern Sudan to Tanzania.
During World War II, Odero and a large number of his countrymen were drafted into the British Army and sent to fight the Japanese in Indonesia. The British drafted a large number of Luo men, believing they would be strong and resilient soldiers. While in the British Army, Odero was trained as a medical assistant and later completed medical school at King's College in London. Dr. Odero's first wife, Joyce, became his bride by a traditional arranged marriage in 1951. In the late 1960s he worked for several years at Kenyatta National Hospital in Nairobi for the Kenya National Hospitals Association. In the early 1970s he opened a practice in Nairobi with the late Dr. Robert Ouko for about four or five years. He returned to Muhoroni in the late 1970s where he opened his clinic. Being in Muhoroni allowed him to better manage his property there. In about 1979 he built a house for Joyce. He was well-known in Muhoroni and often provided free medical care when his patients were unable to pay. While in his sixties he took a second and then a third wife, Asca and Benta, respectively. By conservative estimate, he fathered about thirteen children.
Monday, March 22
The thought of going to Kenya didn't occur to me. But things were in chaos. Maurice sounded forsaken and even more distant. Monica hadn't seen her family in years. Did we have the money? No. But we did have just enough credit to make it happen. Our first step was to get passports. The US passport agency proved to be remarkably efficient in processing our passport applications. We obtained passports for Monica, Seth, and Ganymede with only hours to spare before our flight. On Friday we waited in line for about an hour only to find that the photo of Monica was unacceptable (too underexposed). She had to get the photo re-taken over the weekend. I resubmitted the applications on Monday. But our flight left Tuesday morning. All I could do was ask if they could be ready that same day. The passport officer said they would try. When I returned that afternoon all the passports were ready! But by this time the travel agency was closed! We picked up our tickets on the way to the airport Tuesday morning.
Tuesday, March 23
The night before we left, George telephoned to ask me over. He had bought a few things for me to take to Maurice. He opened the door and we walked to his bedroom. George had just showered and shaved. His continence had dramatically changed from the last time we met. He was somber and quiet, yet engaging once I started to talk. I realized I had come a little late, since he was about to go to sleep. The bed, where he was seated, was freshly made with one corner neatly turned out to reveal clean sheets. He was barefoot, wearing a dark silk robe with a paisley print. Reaching underneath the bed, he pulled out a white plastic bag. "Please give these tapes to Maurice", he asked. Inside the bag were six cassette tapes of reggae music Maurice had bought from the flea market. Maurice was an avid reggae fan. As he handed me the bag, I observed the room and noticed a subtle but remarkable change. It was meticulously clean. Absolutely everything had been arranged in a precise order. And George, at the center of this microcosm of the physically perfect seemed himself remade in perfection. The robe clung close to his body, revealing a statuesque and muscular physique. His skin was flawless black, reflecting the warm glow of the nearby tungsten light. His hair was closely cut and neatly combed. But all the attention he had given to the physical realm still was incapable of addressing the profound spiritual injury of the loss of his dad. Several times I tried to bring our conversation to a conclusion, since I still had to do my state and federal income taxes. To my surprise, George didn't notice my hints at all. I was perplexed by this at first, but slowly it became evident he needed to talk, to work things through with someone. It wasn't what he said so much as his manner of speech, a contemplative and flat quality that told me of the sadness in his heart. In the weeks to come I would be hearing this way of speaking from many others in his family back home. George wouldn't be able to make the trip to Kenya with us because his student visa had expired. If he traveled before getting it renewed, he probably wouldn't be allowed to re-enter the United States. We made plans for the next day when George would drive us to the airport. I was soon able to excuse myself.
Wednesday, March 25
Finally everything seemed to be
going perfectly. We made it to the airport in plenty of time. But
while waiting in line Ganymede told me he had to pee - really bad.
But where was the restroom? Unfortunately, it was not close. I took
him in my arms and ran. He really tried to hold it. We just made it
inside the restroom when he announced sadly "Too late!". He sobbed
while thoroughly soaking his pants and shoes. The only thing I could
was rinse them in the sink. He emerged from the restroom wearing wet,
but clean clothes.