Grace in Africa

World War III is being waged in my tummy. When they tell you that there's a timeline of vulnerability for being sick (as you adjust to the foods of a new culture), they're lying. I thought that after more than 2 weeks, I was in the clear. I was wrong.

That may be TMI for many of you, but since this blog is all about being brutally honest - telling of both my highs and lows of this grand adventure - I thought I would let you in on the cruel intentions of the food I ate yesterday. If you know me well at all, you know that I may be the worst sick kid on the planet, worse than teething babies and grown men. So the story I'm about to share should come as little surprise.

I woke up to a disgusting boxing match in the pit of my stomach, and barring the horrid details, I knew I was sick. But because stubborness is genetically encoded into my persynality (thank you Grandma, then Dad), I chose to go attend my first staff meeting with MUHURI. Now, it's a good thing that the ramblings of our mind are not ordinarily streaming live on an online feed, because the elitist, angry America, and at times, straight-up violent thoughts that wound through my consciousness were not pretty.

The meeting, which was set to start at 9 AM, actually began at 9:45 (which is early for a large majority of the African culture), and by that point, I had already begun to mentally curse every late individual who walked through the door - I was in pain. I was looking for any kind of relief: I must have drank 5 bottles of Dasani, gobbled up pain killers and stomach meds like Skittles, and mastered the art of the fetal position. But regardless of what I did to calm my very angry intestines, that long, and, at times, pointless meeting put me in more physical pain than child labor, I'm sure (we all know that's a huge exaggeration).

Immediately after, I called the Site Team, letting them know of my churning stomach, and my supervisor at work told me to go home. It was already 12 and by the time I got home, I was sure I had met my maker. Of course, my wretched physical state didn't help me to remember that all the kids were home today, getting off early every Friday. Worst mistake of my life.

All I wanted when I came home was to crawl into a comfortable bed, put on a movie, complain to my mother who would then stroke my legs and pat my back through the blankets as Ladi, my loving and clueless dog, licked my hand skinless. Or, geeze, to plop onto the crunch Chatham matresses and fall into a sleep coma, feeling badly for Lyss who would, like a great best friend, sit on the edge of my bed with a look of sorrow like I was going to die. But no. I had to retreat to a sun-soaked bed, plain walls, and children who broke the decible level of Air Force rockets.

Folks, I could have killed them. Hard as my house mama tried, those little children had way too much energy to even muster heavy-metal rock beats. As I tried to sleep off this death disease, I lied there, sweating, cursing, and thinking of how easily I could lock all of those wretched children in the basement of the apartment complex. Although I try (desperately, but always failing) to live in such a way that doesn't make Jesus shake his head in shame, I knew I hated those kids. But alas, grace stepped in.

Now, my non-religious or spiritual friends will have to hold on to that respect that I know you have for me and all beliefs I have, including those of devine intervention, because I knew that's how I woke up and didn't strangle 4 almost-innocent kids. I finally got to sleep, and although my slumber was interrupted by shrieks, shrills, and the sounds of a beating door as they anxiously awaited for me to crawl out of my hole of misery, it was a nice nap. I was not cured, by any means, and still sit here at the cyber in quite a bit of pain, but, friends, I came out of my make-shift sanctuary and saw all of those kids piled around their mother on the only couch in the living room, watching a movie, peering down the hallway to wait for my homecoming. As soon as I stepped out, the youngest one ran over to me, and in Kiswahili, asked if I was ok, and hugged my leg like a toddler at Field Day.

I cannot even describe how freaking cute they all looked, piled like cold puppies on that floral print, using all of their might to not make a peep. They genuinely cared for me. It must have been so hard for my mama to let them watch a movie (something that rarely happens in this household) and I can only imagine how many urges the 4 little monsters had to fight away with stickes to stay seated and silent. They were all trying to stay as still as possible for the last leg of my coma, knowing but not understanding that's what I needed. Thank God for grace, because had it not stepped in to intervene, I might be in jail right now.

So no stories of adventures of tales of work today. Just a simple story to help you all understand that even though the tummies of life are churning with sickness (with George Bush as the piolot, I'm sure) and we can't always find the sanctuary we want (in the laps of our dear Mothers who always know the right spots to rub on our backs), grace does find a way to weasle into our bad moods and prevent us from commiting a felony.