The Transition Artist

This is a post I wrote last night, but I fell asleep before I could send it. I attended my first seventh day Adventist church service today. I say today instead of this morning because it’s unlike any church service I’ve ever attended. It’s an all-day affair. We trekked across town to East Nairobi to go to the church that my African mom goes to on Saturdays (Saturday is the Sabbath day in the Seventh day tradition), and it was totally different from any church service I’ve ever been to. First of all, it’s long. Really long. The first part of the service usually starts around 8 or 9am (although today we left late and the trek across town took us about an hour so we didn’t get there until about 12pm), and the whole thing runs until about 4 or 5pm. Around 1pm there’s a break for lunch, so we caught the end sermon and singing, ate a snack, and then went back into the church for Bible study (totally unlike the Bible study you’d do in America, considering there are about 600 people there..). The other thing is that they speak more of a Kiswahili/English fusion than anything. They speak both fluently, but the majority of the day I listened to Kiswahili with a few English words dropped here and there. It was like listening to a Mexican woman speak Spanglish, except that I hardly understand any Kiswahili (even though I’m learning). The most interesting part of the whole experience was being pretty much the only non-African there. I’ve gotten pretty used to people staring at me and whispering (or saying loudly, and very blatantly) “mzungu, mzungu!” As though white people are some sort of unheard of phenomenon. I honestly feel a little alien sometimes, and at first I was confused because I thought, “hey! I’m not white! I’m brown!” But I’m not black. So I’m automatically white because that’s the next closest shade. Anyway, the kids at church kept up the discrimination (I’m not offended) and a little group of girls I sat by at first immediately moved closer to me and started touching everything I was wearing. Necklaces, shirt, skirt, vest, and especially my “mzungu hair” were big novelties. I was sitting next to them by myself, though, so after a while my host mom found me a seat by her inside and came to get me. When I tried to get up to leave (key word: tried), it was like someone had told the girls that I was their winning lottery ticket. They refused to let go. Absolutely refused. I tried to nicely take back possession of my hair, but once I did they grabbed my hands, and then, if not my hands, my skirt, my legs, my vest. I was sure I’d lose my clothes before I managed to leave, but eventually their moms intervened and freed me enough to go. Before the lunch break one of the moms and her twin daughters (who had gotten the most attached) came and found me because she said they refused to leave without saying goodbye to me first. I, of course, was flattered and hugged the sweet little girls goodbye, halfway fearing that they’d latch on again (which they did). We came back from church to rain and had to hustle home after running an errand for the wedding I’ll be going to with Monica (my host mom) tomorrow. She surprised me by having me fitted for an African dress to be made for me to wear to the wedding and I’m ridiculously excited because I’ve never actually gotten to attend a traditional African wedding before! It rained on our way home, so the roads were soggy and muddy. The dirt in Kibera is unlike any other dirt I’ve ever experienced. And so is the rain. When it rains it pours and the red dirt is weirdly sticky (I don’t want to talk about any human added ingredients I suspect might be in there), almost like clay, except that when it’s dry it gets so dusty it’s inescapable. You breathe it, you wear it, you walk in it. The dirt is everywhere and on everything and it’s a Kibera staple, like humidity is to Houston. I’m still adjusting to life here, and I won’t lie and say it’s been easy. It’s challenging. Each day presents a new challenge of its own and tries me in a new way, and I know that’s good for me in terms of growth. It’s healthy that I’m uncomfortable and I know it only makes me human. I still struggle with wanting to go home early, but honestly it only occurs to me when I start to miss the cushy comforts of my home in America. It’s selfish and it’s not a noble concern, and I’m not proud of feeling that way, but I hope this challenge expands me in a way that I didn’t imagine it would.