An African lifestyle in America

An African Lifestyle in AMERICA

I admired my friend Phindes Gachoi, of Kenya. She did not admire me at all. In fact, she often asked why, at the ripe old age of 23, I had no children. Was I infertile? Was I using birth control? Whatever the reason may have been, she could not fathom the idea of barrenness.

Phindes was 30 and had five children. I sensed that she had another on the way, but out of respect for the customs of her people, I did not mention it. When I first met her in 1983, I was in the Peach Corps teaching at a harambee (parent-supported rather than government-supported) school. She was about to go to the river to fetch water, with hollow gourds slung over her shoulder and two children in tow. They peered timidly around her skirt as I opened the door. I was the first white woman they had ever seen.

Getting Acquainted

Phindes greeted me in Swahili and welcomed me to the area. Then she presented me with a full sack of dengo (dried peas). Having been in Africa only two months, I was suspicious. Did the woman want money? Why would she give me such a valuable gift if she did not want anything in return? As it turned out, Phindes wanted my friendship. With a wave, she was gone, making her way across the stones and thorny shrubs, with her two young ones tripping along behind her.

I began to visit her on Sundays, following the church service she attended with her family. I would meander along the dusty goat paths; over the vast, semiarid countryside; down across the dried-up riverbeds; up the rusty-red hills; and through the groves of acacia trees where the children tended their goats and humpbacked cowss. "Habari, Mzungu!" ("Hello, White Person!") the children would shout as I passed. Then they would run to greet me and accompany me on the final stretch to Phindes's family compound. (Phindes told me the children felt honored to havemeas a guest.) With their round eyes shining brightly, they would open the gate and pull me in, giggling with delight.

On my first Sunday visit, Phindes put her eldest son in charge of the pot of food she was cooking, and took me on a walk around her shamba (farm). She explained that her harvest was plentiful because her area was lower than most; the little rain there was would pool down around her crops and saturate them. Not interested in the maize and pinto beans introduced by the Mzungu, Phindes planted only the traditional crops of the region: dengo, oshoro (millet), and cow peas. In her vegetable garden, she planted cabbage and sukuma wiki (a type of collard)--crops that were more dependent on the weather. Sometimes they thrived, but often they did not.

For the most part, Phindes tended the entire shamba single-handedly. Occasionally her mother-in-law would help, and during school holidays her husband's younger brothers would pitch in. But because Phindes was an "only wife," because her husband had no unmarried sisters, and because tradition discouraged husbands from participating in these ways, she was obliged to do most of the housework and fieldwork alone. Besides, her husband--a handsome man with brilliant flashing teeth--had a job picking tomatoes in Machakos, 200 miles from the family shamba. He was gone for all but two between-season periods of the year, each just two weeks long. How they were able to conceive their six children in such short segments of time was amazing.

Phindes always cooked a big meal for me. The first time, she killed one of her few chickens and presented the bird on a plate--complete with shriveled head and dried, crispy feet. Accompanying this dish was a huge platter of ugali (a local delicacy made of millet). Although the grain was available commercially--prepackaged as a maize-based flour--Phindes preferred thrashing her own millet, collecting the pellets, and grinding them on a stone. Then she added the flour to boiling water and formed a hot, spongy loaf.

I feasted on this scrumptious meal, stuffing myself until I could hardly move from the table. All the while, I could see the children timidly watching me through the windows of the hut--and no doubt smelling the cooked chicken that I so gluttonously devoured. At one point, Phindes snapped at them to get away from the windows, whereupon they gathered around the outdoor fire and dipped chunks of ugali into mugs of steaming broth which I later learned was the soup made from the bird I had been given).

More often, Phindes cooked dengo or cow peas, sometimes with potatoes and cabbage. She set up a table in the largest hut, covered it with a hand-knitted kitambaa (crocheted doilie), turned the radio to a lively Zairan beat, and then disappared to finish cooking and keep the children away from me.

Sharing Lives

On my third or fourth visit, I told Phindes that I liked her children and that if she would let them play in my view and come and go from the hut, I would not mind at all. Delighted by this information, she called in her second oldest child to talk to me. Atanasia was her Christian name; Kanini was her Meru name. Seven years old, she was in the "standard two" class at school and already knew a little English and lots of Swahili.

"What is your name?" she asked, and "How are you?" I answered and then posed some questions in Swahili, to which she responded shyly. This time when the food came, there were two bowls--one for me and other for Kanini. She seemed flustered to be eating with the Mzungu lady, but proud as well.

Sometimes I would ge early on a Saturday morning to spend the day with Phindes and her family. She would place a chair in the shade for me and give me a cup of chai made with goat's milk. I would insist on helping her do her chores, and finally she would give in. While it was still cool, we would go out to the field, usually accompanied by a few of the children on foot and one tied securely to Phindes's back. After weeding a little and picking peas, we would sit in the shade and shell them, plopping them into a large cooking pot. Then Phindes would leave Kanini or Njagi, her third child, in charge of keeping wood on the fire as we headed off down to the river with two or three children toddling along. Phindes told me that she did not mind leaving the there and five years olds with Kanini, but she liked to bring along the two year old in case he wanted to nurse.

It was always a lengthy excursion to the river. The 40-minute walk grew proportionately longer as more and more women joined the trek. It was a time for socializing--for chatting about problems and concerns; interactions with children, husbands, second wives, and mothers-in-law; the state of the shambas; and howmanygoats had to be sold to pay for the next round of school fees. Although I couldunderstand verylittle of the conversation, I felt comfortable in this group of women, almostas though I shared their concerns. The discussion invariably continued down at the river, as the women slapped their laundry on the flat, smooth stones while keeping an eye on their children, who were swimming nearby. Because Phindes did not allow me to help her wash clothes, I usually played with the children. They loved to watch the Mzungu lady swim because, as they put it, they liked to watch my white skin glowing like sunlight.

Over time, i became less a guest and more a close friend of the family. Phindes still insisted that I sit in a chair, but she now allowed me to sit around the fire with the children rather than alone in the hut. The second time she cooked chicken, she again gave me the whole bird, but I doled out the pieces of stringy meat to the family. The children gazed at me with wide eyes, and Phindes beamed but said nothing.

In the evenings, Phindes would sit by the fire mending clothes or weaving baskets of sisal string, as the children read their schoolbooks or played with homemade cloth balls tied together with yarn. Sometimes, as peaceful as these youngsters were, they played warrior, throwing sticks as spears and pretending to kill one another. (Although Phindes knew very well what they were doing, she refrained from criticizing or commenting on their antics, for to do so would Have intruded on the refreshing spontaneity of their play.) When it was time for me to go, Phindes or her oldest son would escort me at least halfway home or, if it was dark, the entire three miles to my door.

I was struck by the ease with which Phindes raised her children and did so much other work besides. What prevented her children from requiring her constant attention? Why was she not kept from tending to other tasks? Perhaps the answer was survival itself: eating a meal would have been impossible without everyone's cooperation and help. And so there was no clinging to mother's skirt, no crying out for immediate attention, and no refusal to do what was expected.

Even the two year old seemed to understand. Never did I hear him whine. He would toddle along valiantly at Phindes's heels; and when he got tired, she would tie him onto her back with a kanga (a Kenyan-made decorative cloth). Down at the river, he would entertain himself, picking up sticks and rocks and playing on his own or with the other children. Sometimes Kanini would carry him or her back, especially when Phindes had too many other things to carry. Kanini's help was most needed when Phindes grew very heavy with her sixth child.

I had hoped to attend the birth of this child, but i knew that births were considered sacred events attended only by the midwife and the mother's close female relatives. Not even Phindes's husband was present when she went into labor. For a number of weeks after the baby was born, I missed seeing my friend and presumed that she could not visit because she was too busy with her new child. But when the baby was about six weeks old, I spotted Phindes walking up the path toward my house, her bright orange head scarf bobbing closer and closer. Over her shoulder was a woven kiondo (basket), in one hand was a black umbrella to shade her from the sun, and in the other was the hand of her two year old. On her back was the new infant--a tiny, brown mite of a thing, all bundled up in cloths and blankets despite the 90-degree heat. (Kenyan mothers traditionally keep their young ones as warm as possible to prevent sickness.)

I invited the trio into my little stone house and made chai for them. Phindes nursed her baby and then, handing the little one over to me, proceeded to nurse her toddler. Watching her and realizing that her three and a half year old was also a nursing toddler, I began to understand a major source of her strength. Phindes's way of nourishing her children reflecter her people's belief that "there is always enough to go around." There would always be enough breastmilk for her family as long as she herself had enough to eat.

As we talked, Phindes mentioned that it was planting season and that I was more than welcome to help out anytime in the weeks ahead. Also coming up was one of the twice-yearly returns of her husband; upon his arrival, she was planning to slaughter a goat in honor of the birth of their sixth child. "Ni lazime wewe huderie karamu changu," she said at last, explaining that she had to leave, as the sun would soon set and she still had to collect firewood for the evening.

I escorted her up the path, down through the dried-up riverbed, and up the hill crowded with acacia trees, where her 10-year-old son was tending their cows and goats. "Njoo," she greeted the boy, with a smile. Then I waved them off, and they disappeared behind the next ridge.

I admired my friend Phindes. She lived the life I ached to live upon my return to the United States. Would I ever be able to find a small, aesthetically pleasing community? I wondered. One in which the people were supportive and I would be able to cater to my simple needs in as natural a way as possible?

I also admired Phindes for her strength and independence. An undominated matriarch, she was queen of her compound--free to live a life uncontrolled by forces other than seasonal changes. She seemed perfectly content living without her husband for months at a time; and if he should ever leave her completely or take another wife, she would not be devastated, either financially or emotionally. I, on the other hand, was afraid to get seriously involved with a man--afraid that I would be deserted, or be expected to sacrifice my individuality, or be forced to live under this thumb.

Most of all, I admired this woman's attitude toward her children. Phindes was who she was largely because of her children--not in spite of them, as is often true in our society. If anything, they enhanced her personal sense of identity and her worth in society. Whereas her husband--discouraged by tradition from helping with the housework, fieldwork, and child care--was compelled to seek outside employment to avoid feeling inadequate, Phindes knew her place and felt confident and secure in her role as mother. Her potential knew no bounds. To me, the thought of becoming a mother was overwhelming. The responsibilities of parenthood loomed large: How would I ever be "free" to do things on my own? The image of being trapped in a house with a squawling baby sent shivers up and down my spine.

Bringing It All Home

My fears of residence, relationship, and mothering have all dissolved. Five years after leaving Africa, I delight in these once-pressing aspects of life. True to the memory of Phindes, i arise every morning and cook porridge (buying the oats at a local co-op instead of grinding them myself). As I eat, I nurse my baby. Then I strap him to my back (in a baby carrier instead of a kanga), wash out diapers and little baby suits (in the bathroom sink, not the river), and hang them up to dry (on a clothesline in my backyard, rather than over the Kenyan thornbushes). After that, I gather my water jugs (made of plastic, not gourd) and my kiondo, and walk to the store (along the highway) with my baby still asleep on my back. I haul drinking water and all the food I can pack into my bag (usually enough for two days) back home . . . to the refrigerator.

Then I go out to my garden and weed the vegetables, picking perhaps a few leaves of lettuce and some scallions for lunch. Sometimes I put up a pot of beans or dried peas for dinner. Although I do not gather firewood for cooking, as Phindes did, I do chop up a few logs for an evening fire. Come late afternoon, I clean up the house, play with my son, nurse him, and lie down for a rest. After that, I prepare supper, all the while carrying my baby on my back. When my partner returns home, he builds the fire (something a Meru man would never do), and we sit down in front of it to eat our rice and beans, or maybe polenta and peas.

Sometimes I wonder. . . . Is it inappropriate to be living this way here in the "First World?" Is it perhaps more suitable to be "doing as the Romans do"? But then I look about and realize how important it is in our fast-paced society to choose a slower life and find contentment in simple things. After all, how else can we have anything left over to give to our children? For me and my family, it is not only appropriate but quite refreshing to be living an African lifestyle here in America.

Kirsten Johnson (29) spent 2-1/2 years in Kenya with the Peace Corps before traveling to Thailand, where she taught English and cross-cultural skills to Indochinese refugees headed for the US. Kirsten now lives in Madison, Wisconsin, with her partner David Long and their son Torsten (8 months).

COPYRIGHT 1990 Mothering Magazine
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