Chapter Fifteen Trust the Process
Chapter Fifteen
Trust the Process
Nairobi, Kenya
“Folks, please fasten your seat belts. This may be a bumpy ride,” the flight attendant says over the intercom, and it feels less like an announcement and more like a metaphor for my life.
Scarlet’s words at the hospital still ring in my head. I’m torn because when I’m with Hart, it’s magic between us. When we’re apart, it’s easier to be objective and tell myself I won’t get swept up in the idea of us.
She was right about one thing, though—I do need to be a mother.
Some people don’t, and that’s great for them.
I’m just not one of them. I ached holding her precious newborn, like there was an actual baby-shaped hole in my heart that could only be filled when I had one of my own nestled into my arms.
I downloaded a couple of books to my e-reader in preparation for the flight but haven’t been able to get past the first few pages on any of them.
On trips I would often borrow one of my mother’s books, which ranged from women’s fiction to saccharine romance.
I’d devour those in a matter of hours if left unattended.
I loved the idea of love. I still do, even if it’s become more and more elusive as I’ve gotten older.
On the pages of those books, it seemed so simple.
A young heroine who was ready to take on the world, with her rosy cheeks and perky outlook.
I feel a long way from being a young, hopeful twentysomething.
In a lot of ways, that’s a good thing. I’m financially independent and know how to take care of myself.
I know how to dress well and which hairstyles to avoid.
Bangs didn’t work on me at all, and neither did neon colors.
Thankfully, the turbulence the captain was expecting never materializes and we land smoothly at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport.
Edmund, my driver, is waiting outside the terminal for me when I make my exit, exhausted but happy to be back.
He helps me with my luggage and takes me to the apartment that will be my home for the next two months.
There’s much to be done, and I’ve had Joslyn pack my days full with meetings with elected officials and members of the city council.
I prepared my speaking points on the plane, and I feel ready, but you never know how these things will go.
I’m an outsider here, something I can never overcome, despite all my work here over the past several years.
A history of scandals has plagued the city.
High on the list of things the council is eager to put an end to are the water shortages, the unmitigated dumping of waste, and the informal settlements and illegal structures currently mushrooming out from the city center.
We have many of the same priorities, and I aim to remind them of that when we meet.
Corruption has been rampant too. The city struggles with so-called ghost employees—nonexistent workers who collect a paycheck from the city despite not actually working.
But, this is Africa . A common saying here, it even has its own acronym: TIA.
It’s sort of a general sigh or shake of the head when things don’t go as planned.
Lack of services or the internet going down again—it is just the way things are in Africa.
I often have to babysit my tongue. Still, this place holds a piece of my heart and always will.
The hot, dusty climate feels like a second home to me now.
In the morning, I head into the office early. Joslyn is chipper, and things are running smoothly. David has decided to grow a mustache, which is all the talk at the watercooler. It’s nice being back. Just as I’m finishing up an email, David pops his head into my office.
“Hey, one more thing,” he says, looking cagey.
“Sure. What’s up?” I squint, wondering when I’ll get used to that mustache ... it really is a lot .
“I got a weird email. From a reporter.” He pauses, waiting like I’m supposed to fill in the blank. His eyes widen, latching on to mine. “Asking if I had any comment about your love life.”
My stomach drops like I’m on a Tilt-A-Whirl. “What did you say?”
“I said no comment, obviously.”
I practically sag with relief.
“Thanks for your discretion, David.”
“Sure thing.”
I wonder if I need to tell Hart, to warn him.
But I can’t stand the idea that, like Sean, he’ll think I’m being too needy, that I’m overreacting and letting my emotions rule.
Fighting off a panic attack, I tell myself to remain calm.
As long as no one comments, everything will be fine, and this will blow over.
Right?
Later I head off to see the progress on the water well that has been dug in the north end of Kibera. Edmund escorts me, as always, and keeps watch over me.
The well is up and running, and children and local women are waiting with their jerricans to fill them with clean water. I’m so happy I could cry.
“Adongo!” I call out, surprised to see her here.
She waves and makes her way across the dusty road to give me a hug.
She, too, is holding a jerrican. She once told me that when she was young, they couldn’t afford to buy the filtered water sold by vendors, so they would fill their containers with the running sewage in the street.
Her mother would try to filter it with sand.
I know she’s not the only one, and now, these children won’t have to do that.
Emotion swells inside me. I’m reminded of an old African proverb my father shared during one of my first visits to Africa.
Once you carry your own water, you’ll remember every drop. It’s undoubtedly true.
“Where is your man?” she asks, shading her eyes from the sun.
“He went back home to New York,” I tell her, not bothering to correct her that he’s not my man.
“I had a dream about you. You were married and had a baby on the way.” She’s smiling broadly as she says these words, but they leave me feeling hollow.
“It’s a nice dream,” I say. I wonder if that’s all it is—a dream.
Sitting on my desk right this very moment is a stack of paperwork from an adoption agency.
I requested information and an application from a reputable agency in Uganda.
I still haven’t decided if I’m going to fill out the application, but it’s made me feel more in control of my future just by taking that small step.
Of course I don’t say this to Adongo. I haven’t mentioned it to anyone, not even my parents.
Ignoring the application, at least for now, I begin working on a new blog post once I return to my office.
Dr. Rebecca Lee Crumpler, born in 1831, was the first African American woman to become a doctor of medicine in the United States.
She graduated from medical college at a time when very few African Americans were permitted to attend college at all.
In fact, during her time at the New England Female Medical College, Rebecca Lee Crumpler was the only African American student at the entire school.
The school closed almost a decade later without graduating another black woman.
She suffered extreme sexism and racism while working as a doctor, and often treated poor women and children as well as recently freed enslaved people. By pursuing her vocation and not bowing to pressure, she paved the way for countless other women and black Americans to pursue a career in medicine.
She was a true pioneer, displaying a tremendous amount of courage by graduating prior to the end of the Civil War.
Courage ... I type that word again and stare hard at it. Is courage filling out the application or saying yes to a fling with Hart in the face of opposition? Or maybe it’s forgoing both those things in pursuit of building the school. It feels impossible to know.
“We should do something fun this weekend,” Joslyn says, peering at me over a stack of file folders.
My brain flashes with ideas. There was one summer I spent here in Nairobi when I had more time for leisure.
I recall visiting the Kakamega rainforest with a group of locals who had befriended me, or more like rescued me from the long hours my dad spent working in the village.
We went rafting on the Yala River, bouncing along on the water in an inflatable raft.
I remember the beauty of the lush forest, the exhilaration, the thrill of the bottom dropping out of my stomach when we went over the rapids.
A girl named Liz tried unsuccessfully to teach me the moves to a dance.
We swam in the river and laughed. I can still taste the sweetness of Afia Mango, a soft drink, on my lips.
“How do you feel about rafting?”
“Rafting?” She scrunches her nose, looking at me like I’ve gone insane. “Not when the rivers here have large populations of Nile crocodiles.”
“That is an excellent point.” I laugh. Besides, who am I kidding? I’ll probably just try to keep myself busy and distracted with work. It’s what I do best.
After four weeks in Nairobi, I’ve made a lot of progress working with the city officials, as well as on the gala the foundation is hosting in New York in a few months. But one thing has been more difficult than I imagined it would be. Unexpectedly, being away from Hart has left a mark.
Whenever I think about him, which is constantly, I feel a sense of uncertainty. So when Joslyn steps out to take a call, I close my eyes and say a silent prayer, asking for direction.
God, please give me a sign. I don’t know what I’m doing or where I’m heading ...