Fond memories of home: why I feel fat and lazy in America
I
f you are reading this and it sounds like I am complaining and fretting and 90 per cent grumpy, you will be
almost everything. In the village, I woke up every morning to sounds of birds chirping in the bushes behind my simba. I spent most mornings with mother in the shamba, harvesting peanuts. In the afternoon I roamed the village, where everyone on the road greets you and asks after your wellbeing. No rush. In the evening I ate wherever dinnertime found me – fresh food, no refrigeration or chemical processing. Everything tasted like a slice of heaven. Back in the big city I woke up weekdays to a different but familiar rhythm. I had no car and needed none – I don’t know why sane people drive a car into Nairobi’s central business district. You get there, if you do, and then find out you can’t go anywhere. The traffic jams are beyond description. So every morning I would walk to Langata Road, board a matatu. If we came to a traffic jam and I was running late I would jump out, hop on a piki piki or just walk. I would get to town and walk everywhere I needed to go. In two weeks, I was a whole kilo lighter. My blood circulation felt a lot better. There was no chance to feel fat and
lazy, like my town in America makes me feel. Every week I looked up to Sunday in Nairobi. I settled on St. Paul’s University Chapel for the 11:30 Mass. Little things started to matter a great deal: the morning walk on empty streets from town centre to church; the familiar crowds entering church; sudden memory of the years I used to sell this magazine at this church; the Swahili songs; then the sermons. Oh the sermons. Somebody once told me that if you go to church and leave feeling just the same, you missed out on the Sunday experience, and the pastor probably had something to do with it. But if you go to church and leave feeling touched, provoked, confronted, then you had a Sunday experience. At St. Paul’s they don’t just talk about Galilee and Capernaum. Oh no. They tell you what the reading means in Kibera, Eastlands and Kileleshwa. They don’t dwell on Jerusalem where nobody in the audience has even been to. They take you to Kisii, Machakos, Murang’a, and Mombasa. In America, I often have no clue what the pastor is talking about at church. At St. Paul’s in Nairobi, Fathers Patrick Kanja or Dominic Wamugunda come to the pulpit with stories that make sense to my background. They do not repeat the readings in the pretence of giving a homily, like some non-prepared preachers do. They do not repeat the obvious, that there is hell and heaven and the bad go to hell and the good go
right. That’s because it’s a season called summer in Texas, USA. The temperature is at 38 degrees Celsius. That’s hotter than Lodwar. It’s not fun for a guy born in Homabay County Kenya wit [\\?] \?\?[? HY? ?8?&\?[? ?? ?[?\?[?\?H [?][??Z\??H[??? ?8?&\? ?X]\???] ]8?&\???]?[?[?^H ??[\?H?Y??\? ??[H\?H\? ]?? ?YH[? ?x?&[H ? X?? ?] H?Y ?[? H?\?K??] ?\?H[Y\?X?[?? [??[???]?[???[ ?[? ?YH[? ??Y^H???H ????]?\?H YX\?H? H??? ^x?&\?HZ[?H[?x?&[H?^?HX??] [K?] ?YH[? ?[???? ?][? LH[?H YX\??H?X[ O?\???[X?\?H[?Y^H[? H[????YH? H[Y\?X?[?Y?H ?]H???[?X??H[?H ??X\? ? ?] \???YK?HY ?] \?????]?H?\??[[? ??[YH?[?X[? ? H??\??]H?Y]?\?][???[?X[?8?$? ?[??L???H?QQ H?? ?K??
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