Pliz do not touch

This picture from here.

For the last four days I've been in Minneapolis visiting Kenyan Christians. There are over 15,000 Kenyans in Minnesota, which strikes me as an odd place for Africans to settle. As one pastor told me, "It is a very welcoming place for us. And there are jobs here."
Kenyans typically do not have mental health therapists in their country, nor do they use them, according to the Kenyan I spoke with. It is not consistent with the culture to share family or personal concerns with strangers, even highly trained ones. These concerns are discussed with an elder, auntie, or uncle. So it was with some misgivings that I accepted an invitation to speak to a group of Kenyans about family and mental health issues.
It ended up being a four-day cultural immersion program. I learned how to make ugali, a white cornmeal mush that has no mush to it whatsoever. It is a stiff, unwieldy lump that looks like overcooked Cream of Wheat made with insufficient water. It is to be broken apart with one's fingers (of the right hand, I was told) before scooping up vegetables and meat with it. Apparently a woman must be able to cook it before she can marry. She must prepare it for her future in-laws and if it is unacceptable they send her back to her parents to learn how to cook. The fact that I had demonstrated to the women that I could cook it was included in my formal introductions several times. This was met with murmurs of approval and loud, happy exclaimations!

I had the privilege of staying with a Kenyan couple over the weekend. It was quickly apparent that they were intent on feeding me all I could eat. They explained that thin people are considered neglected. A full-bodied individual is evidence of being well cared for. I fit right into that! At one meal I kept cleaning my plate, only to have more food offered to me. I was under the impression that I would insult them if I didn't continue packing it in, so I was nearly ready to explode by the time someone explained to me that I should leave food on my plate--a no-no in my background! I tasted "tea" consisting of boiled vanilla Silk soy milk with a dash of chocolate cocoa and teaspoon of brown sugar in it. It was remarkably good and I was given a huge cup of it about 9:30 or 10:00 each night. I slept like a baby, although all I could think about during the day was that I should be out hiking to use up all the calories I was consuming!
One woman ground her own spices together in the blender, making the most aromatic rice spice I've ever smelled. She sent me home with a huge container of it, admonishing me to "come back when you need more, okeh?"

On Friday evening I was presented with two kangas. These are the traditional Kenyan dresses composed of an ankle-length wrap-around skirt that is tied at the waist over which a long tunic hangs from the shoulders. The tunic has brightly colored machine embroidery. There is no significance to the colors per se, but each is matched to the complexion of the wearer. I was given a beautiful brown and white kanga, and a lovely light blue one with navy and white embroidery. Even the men remarked about how lovely they were on me. I think it was the idea that a White American woman would be interested in fitting into their culture. I felt rather exotic in my kangas, even if I looked very boxy in them. The head wraps were like tourniquets around my brain and when I got tired of them and took them off, my hair stood up like a rooster tail. I tried to explain that my hair lacks the texture of their hair, and they tied it very creatively about my slick hair. It stayed put, but I don't know how!

The hall where I spoke was full of silk flower arrangements around the podium. They were wrapped with white lace tablecloths. One bore the sign, "Pliz do not touch." The talks went well and I had a terrific time learning the Kenyan culture. I enjoyed every single individual I met and have great respect for the hurdles these folks must overcome when they enter this country.

On Saturday afternoon, I was taken to a gathering of people who were sitting with a woman whose mother had died in the motherland that week. As we drove into the driveway my hostess told me to be prepared to give a speech and say a prayer. With this responsibility looming over me, I entered a sweltering house packed with about 50 people, all sitting around a woman who was silently weeping and obviously grief stricken. After I was recognized by the man leading out, I was introduced and given permission to speak. It was a time when I measured every single word. After offering a prayer for the family of the deceased woman, we left. On the way out, we were detained by the huge platters of home-made Kenyan doughnuts, fruit, and cold drinks. As we were leaving we could hear voices singing African songs of hope and comfort.

As I leave this experience, I still hear their voices. People pay big bucks to have the opportunity to listen to lovely Swahili music--I heard it all weekend, sung with vigor, hope, and abandon. As I remember their rich, energetic voices, I feel a sort of smallness and humbleness that only comes from recognizing the brotherhood and sisterhood of all humanity. While we are immersed in our own cultural ways, hundreds of other worlds exist--ways of behaving, eating, speaking, thinking--all of which I know nothing about. It is comforting to me in an odd sort of way. I'm still savoring it today.