Diary of an African Woman in US: My Crazy Crazy Friends

When I lived in the US, I tried to connect with Kenyans and other Africans. So I met this group of Kenyans living in Boston, Massachusetts in 2008. Kariuki, Waruingi and Omondi shared a house in Waltham, close to Brandeis University. They were a fun loving, adventurous and a hilarious trio, which is why I loved their company. Since Lewiston, Maine is only two and a half hours to Boston, we visited each other at least every few months especially during Kenyan holidays. 

One day, I received a call from Kariuki, who we all called Karis:

Karis: You have any plans for Jamhuri day? It is this Saturday

Me: Not really. What do you guys have in mind?

Karis: We have a goat! We have been fattening him for 3 days! So Nyama Choma (roasted meat) pap!

Me: What? Where did you get a goat from in Boston?

Karis: At a farmer’s market. Our nosy neighbor Mrs. Phillips thinks it’s a pet. The day we bought him, he kept meeeeing through the night and she (the neighbor) came out in her pjs and asked us to shut the freaking goat up. Omosh (Omondi) with his acting skills started crying crocodile tears. Wa Phillips (a common way Kikuyus refer to the wife of or the mother of) was touched by his tears so she asked what was up. Guess what craaazy Omosh said?

Me: Yeah? What?

Karis: That we had rescued the poor goat! That we had found the goat meeing on Chestnut Street. He was lost and we were now housing him. Sheesh! Count on Omosh to cook up a story and add condiments! He even claimed that we had already named the goat ‘Mueni’!

Me: haha! That’s creative! Am game so I will come on 12^th. No goat for me though. I have become a vegetarian?

Karis: Nkt! Stop behaving like an American! You will eat goat and you will be incharge of making some yummy guacamole. Nkt! Ati vegetarian!!

So on 12^th I took an Amtrak train to Boston and Omosh picked me up from the Boston South station. We were excited to see each other after 4 months. So he updated me on the goat festivities. Here’s his version of the story:

Heee! So wacha nikushow (Let me tell you)! Mrs. Phillips left last evening for Connecticut to see her son. We were happy she was going away coz we weren’t sure how to malizia Mueni with her snooping around our place. So once she was gone, we took Mueni to our backyard. Heeee!

He paused for suspense.

“Endelea na story! So what happened?

So we were about to maliz Mweni when suddenly there was a flashlight on my face! It was jioni (night) you know. Kumbe it was cops! They were doing regular patrol in the neighborhood when they noticed some activity in our backyard and came to investigate! Si we were in trouble? Heee! So the cops were like: Hands where we can see them!

It turns out that unlike in Kenya where we can slaughter a goat in the back yard so long as it has been inspected; the U.S. Department of Agriculture regulates many of the processes by which animals are slaughtered here. It has to be done in a plant. There is also the Humane Methods of Slaughter Act. Heee! huku manzee ni kucomplicated! (here things are complicated)

So anyway, the cops let us go but with a warning. They called animal control and they took Mweni away. So no nyama choma. But we bought some chicken.

It turned out to be a fun evening with my friends. But they learnt a lesson: America sio Kenya (American is not like Kenya). They are laws and slaughtering an animal can get you into lots of trouble.When Mrs. Philips returned from Connecticut, she inquired about Mueni the goat. Omosh was ready with a story: They had found Old Larry, the goat’s owner. And the two were happily reconciled.

Diary of an African Woman in the US: The Flight

People have been telling me to write more about my experience in the US. So here's a new series! I will write about my culture shock,language blunders, about the food, crazy weather especially Winter, interracial dating, finding friendships, school, entertainment, my encounters with racism etc. 

Nineteen hours and forty minutes! That’s how long the flight was: From the Jomo Kenyatta International airport, Nairobi; a 2hrs layover at Amsterdam airport, Netherlands to Logan International airport, Boston. 

Let me go back a while. After I had said goodbye to family and friends, and my mom’s friends, (Kenyans know what I mean), I boarded the KLM aircraft that would take me to Amsterdam . What a huge vessel! Now, I had been in a plane many times before, but it was usually a 12- seater to Dadaab, and Kakuma refugee camps where I had worked for some years. I liked the small planes better because: I knew most of the pilots and trusted them.

 Ok. Saying I trusted them is an overstatement. Allow me to digress a bit. One day, I was flying from the Wilson airport, Nairobi to kakuma. I had been away for my 2 weeks R&R (rest and recuperation) and was going back to work. Usually, the small aircrafts had only one pilot so I always rushed to grab the co-pilots seat for a few reasons: I enjoyed the view from the front, I was fascinated by the cockpit and I enjoyed putting the co-pilots headphones and listening to the coded chats between the pilots and control towers. During the flight, I tried to chat with the pilot. He was super nervous and I thought chatting him would make him relax. My friend Maggie disagreed. "Stop charming the man, let him concentrate! U will get us killed!' Sheesh! Maggie! Relax. He has engaged autopilot! 

As we were about to land, we observed a herd of cattle crossing the runway! A turkana herdsman was trying to rush them across in time but landing the plane would be impossible. Everybody on board (well, except me and the pilot) was screaming on top of their lungs. We were going crash onto the cows! In a nick of time, the pilot maneuvered the plane back to the air, circled around and landed us safely. The cows were already gone. Don't ask me who was responsible for ensuring the runway was clear for landing. Anyway, people got off the plane, cursing the heardsman and his cows. The pilot however was rooted to his seat. With concern, I asked him: You ok? He slowly nodded. "Dont tell anybody, but this was my first flight by myself!" What??? You are telling me now? "Would you rather have known when we were up there?" Ok. You make an excellent point. "So yeah! And I landed the freaking plane safely! Wooooohooo!"  And with that, he leaped out of the cockpit and helped me out. 

Back to my journey to America. Now in the huge vessel I was sandwiched between two heavy Dutch men. Don’t get me wrong, I like Dutch people. In fact, I was supporting team Netherlands for the World cup. But here I was, in between unfriendly men for 8 hours! Not that I wanted extremely chatty neighbors really—they would bore me to death. But at least respond to my ‘hi’ with more than just a snort. When I look back, I am convinced that my introvertedness, which was pretty dominant in most of my stay in the US, started on that fateful day.

The plane left Nairobi at 10.20 pm. That was way past my regular bedtime, but excitement kept me awake. My first real airplane food was served by a tall flight attendant. (I had once applied for a flight attendant job with Flamingo airlines, Kenya but they said I wasn’t tall enough. That is a story for another day).  After the cold, bland food, I watched some movies, slept, woke up and watched another movie, ate some more and then we landed in Amsterdam.

This airport is the sixth largest in the world in terms of international traffic with almost 50 million passengers per year. I had an over 2 hours lay over. I couldn’t sleep for fear that a terrorist would slip a bomb into my carry-on bag or that a drug courier would sneak some and I would get arrested at the security check.  The constant warning over the intercom ‘Attention all passengers, please keep your luggage with you at all times. Do not leave your luggage unattended. Do not accept any offer from strangers to handle your luggage. Do not accept any luggage from strangers’ kept me very alert.

I boarded the Northwest airlines (now absorbed into Delta) to Boston. It was less luxurious. And the airplane food was even worse. For some reason, I had expected everything to be better. The plane was old, the seats were less classy and the flight attendants were shorter. But I had a window seat though so I was able to see the ocean down below!

And finally we landed. I was overwhelmed with excitement as my feet touched the American soil. My childhood dream had come true. I didn't know the process of getting my luggage but I followed the other passengers. I found my suitcase and took the escalator down towards the exit. And there they were! The two wonderful women who had made all this possible: Patti and Rachel. They didn't need a placard with my name and with the words: Welcome to America. Their beaming smiles said it all. Hugs and more hugs and we walked to the car and drove to Portland, Maine. I leaned back and enjoyed the ride. I was finally here.

To be continued…