The African Way: An African Memory, written by my mom

Two incredible school teachers, Mama Cindy and Mama Chisi

I love Kenya. I love everything about it, (including the smelly streets of Mombasa). But without a doubt, what I love most is the people. This trip was no different from the seven previous I've taken in that I'm always taken off guard by the awakening of my spirit when I'm with the people. There is such a mixture--gratitude for my life, gratitude for their examples, gratitude that our worlds are no longer separated; grateful that these people will forever be infused in my soul as much as anything else that is or has ever been a part of me.

I really like who I am in Kenya. I love feeling like I can make a difference. I love knowing that we, Koins for Kenya, have made a difference. This trip, the reality of that difference became manifest on more than one occasion. I loved watching the Americans I was with. Many of them, seasoned humanitarians, poured their passion for good into the lives of our African brothers and sisters. Without hesitation they took their hands, they held their babies, they taught their children. I honestly felt overwhelming joy to be a part of something so good. I was unaware still that I would soon need my dear friend, an African woman, to reach out and hold my hand, whipe my tears, and offer kind words of consolation.
One evening as our group was gathered beneath the moonlight reflecting on our experiences of the day and enjoying each others' company, we were interrupted with tragic news that a young boy had just passed away under the mango tree no more than 50 feet from where we were sitting. He and his uncle were trying to reach the dispensary in hopes of gaining access to medication that might save his life. They didn't make it.
His name was Charo.
He was 12 years old.
He had gone to school that day, despite his horrible headache, so that he wouldn't miss out on end-of-term testing. By the time he got home from school and his mother returned from working in the fields near their home, he was terribly ill. They had walked several miles to get help. As I became more aware of this child and his story, my emotions couldn't be contained. I was mourning the death of a child I didn't even know. Everything I love about Kenya was completely overshadowed by everything I hate about it: the lack of food, the inability to prevent very preventable diseases, the scarcity of medical services, the absence of clean water. The list goes on and on. And then a hand reached out and took my hand, an arm pulled me in, and there was a shoulder for me to cry on. My African friend without words, told me it would be OK, that she was there for me, and taught me again the importance of each of us doing what we can to lift the burdens of our brothers and sisters.