I visited Paulina my first week back to
Juice in hand, I sat on the red plush sofa in a bare
concrete room and stared at badly-translated, hokey photos on the wall (“house
is where the heart is”) while I dutifully ate the plantains and meat she
brought me. Paulina insisted I relax while she cooked porridge for her daughter
Edwiggy, fed her, fretted about her lack of appetite, bathed her, dressed her.
“I’ve been so busy rushing around, I ran into the door,” she giggled, touching
a bruise on her head.
After a quick afternoon trip to meet her old grandmother and
run by the market, we returned with baskets full of onions, tomatoes, papaya
and watermelon. Paulina’s boyfriend was watching TV, irked that we’d returned
late and dinner wasn’t ready. Paulina cooked dinner, fed Edwiggy again, put her
to bed, made more juice. She brought out the food for me and Moses, and served
his plate. She turned up the American hip-hop louder and heated bathwater for
Moses as we ate. She washed the dishes.
By ten I was exhausted from merely watching her. Paulina
flashed me her smile again.
“Katherine, sit,” she commanded in Swahili. “Let’s tell
stories.”
She moved her shoulders to the music and sang along in
English as I explained the meaning of songs to her. She asked me six times what
I thought of her baby daughter.
BeyoncĂ© danced across the screen. “In America , do
people walk down the street naked like they do in the music videos?” Paulina
asked. She helped me review Swahili words for all the body parts, including the
ones seen in the music videos. She giggled. She asked me when I was going to
make enough money to buy her a plane ticket to America .
As I was leaving the next morning for Arusha—eight hours
away by bus, where I’d be living for the next year—she touched her forehead. “I
didn’t really run into a door,” she told me as we arrived at the bus stop.
“Moses beats me.”
I shook my head and tried to listen, but the ranting Swahili
was too fast for me. My bus pulled up. I hugged her goodbye.
*
Three months later on a Christmastime visit to the city, I
sat in her neighbor’s extra bedroom, sweating from the heat, as Paulina made
the bed for me. She pulled her khanga
up to her hips, exposing her legs. Baseball-sized bruises, blue and green and
purple, adorned her thighs. “Moses got drunk,” she said. “He is a horrible
person.”
“Leave him!” I exclaimed.
Her reasoning was practical. Moses, in his job with the
national police, brought home money for food. He brought home money for Edwiggy.
Paulina didn’t love him anymore, but where would she go without income? What
kind of work could she do with a nine-month-old baby? Who would take her in? She
figured she would endure it until Edwiggy was old enough to walk. Then at
least, she wouldn’t be burdening her family too much.
I hesitated, knowing I should think this through, but the
words burst from my mouth: “What if I give you some money?”
How many times had she begged me for money for a plane
ticket, for a trip to America ?
She was always asking for help.
Now I tried to meet her deep brown eyes. “If you had a
little money, could you leave?”
She refused. Maybe she didn’t want the charity, or maybe she
thought I needed the money, or maybe her no was a cultural way of being polite.
“You are a student. You are a volunteer. Keep your money.” She turned on the
fan, tucked me into my mosquito net, and told me to sleep well. I ached for
her. But I was twenty-two and she was twenty-one, and we saw no solutions.
*
Three weeks later, when I had returned to Arusha, Moses came
home drunk with another woman.
Paulina walked out with her baby daughter and took with her
enough of his money to buy the bus ticket back home to her mother, in a small
town close to Arusha.
I read her text message while I lay on the lavish bed in the
Kudu Lodge after the second day of safari with my parents, who were visiting
from the U.S.
It had been a day of elephants, cheetahs, soup and salad and steak. The dissonance
made me uncomfortable.
A few minutes later, another text appeared. Will you help me with some money to start a
business here?
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