and duct-taped bumpers. With surprising frequency, their relatively new and well-maintained van was passed by large passenger vans overflowing with people. Following her stare, Mama Joe laughed. “Those are matutus, Kenya’s primary means of public transportation. The vans are supposed to hold about fifteen people, but as you can see, they typically carry at least twice that number.”
Leslie shook her head slightly in sympathy as she continued to look through the window. Drivers here were aggressive—really aggressive. She watched in astonishment as a rust-covered car swerved around them and nearly cut them off, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a car in the right-hand lane. Leslie clutched the seat and glanced at Mama Joe and Dennis. They didn’t seem the least bit fazed by the darting traffic, sudden stops and starts and blaring horns. With slightly nervous resignation, she determined to avoid watching the traffic ahead and concentrated on the sights from her window.
The city’s skyline loomed. Modern skyscrapers were interspersed with two-and three-story buildings that appeared to date back to British colonial rule. Occasionally ramshackle structures were adjacent to office buildings, and a variety of crowded shops and stores could be seen only a few feet off the busy street.
“I’m surprised there are so many tall buildings,” Leslie said as they approached the city center. “Nairobi reminds me a little of Chicago or even New York.”
Dennis nodded. “Nairobi is very cosmopolitan. Of course, the majority of people are African. But because of British colonization, there’s a large contingent of Europeans here. And there are a lot of immigrants from South Asia, particularly India and Pakistan.”
“This is very different from where we live,” Mama Joe added. “In our area, there aren’t many who aren’t African. Mostly farmers. We also take care of quite a few Masai—the nomads who tend cattle.”
Leslie wondered anew about the conditions she’d be exposed to in the rural area. She had vaguely pictured mud huts with thatched roofs and cooking over open fires.
They drove out of the primary business district and entered a residential neighborhood. As they progressed down a tree-lined street, the houses grew rapidly in size until they became mansions on huge lots surrounded by high walls. “We are very fortunate,” Dennis said. “The building that houses the East Africa Mission was donated about fifty years ago by a wealthy family who returned to England.”
Marcus turned the van through a gate and parked in front of a large Victorian. Inside the old brick walls, Leslie saw a lush lawn, edged by deep beds with layers of flowers. As they walked to the front door, Leslie recognized the sweet smell of honeysuckle and lilac. Dennis held the door open for the two women. “The main offices of EAM are on the first floor,” he explained. “My family and I live on the second.”
Two African women were seated at desks in the first room of the mansion. The young women smiled shyly at Leslie as they were introduced, revealing beautiful white teeth which contrasted strikingly with their very dark faces. Mama Joe stopped to chat as Dennis led Leslie through the lower floor.
A slightly plump woman with gray-tinged brown hair met them at the top of the stairs. Before Dennis could make the introductions, she took Leslie’s hand. “Hello, I’m Connie. I’m so glad you had time to come by.” She pulled Leslie into the living room. “Please sit down. I know you’re exhausted—that trip is a killer!” Leslie sat back in a cushioned chair with the lemonade Connie had handed her and surveyed the room with its enviable collection of Victorian antiques. It gave her the impression that she was in a parlor in southern England rather than in a missionary’s home in central Kenya.
The disconnect was vaguely perplexing.
At Connie’s suggestion, Leslie spent a few minutes in the modern bathroom freshening up before lunch. She changed into the spare blouse from her carry-on bag. It was slightly wrinkled but clean. The high humidity had caused her wavy, dark brown hair to curl, so she brushed it into a heavy ponytail and confined it with a large barrette. There were faint dark rings under her large blue eyes. She sighed. Only a good night’s sleep would remedy that.
Lunch was anything but exotic: fried chicken, mashed potatoes and salad. The only nod to their being in equatorial Africa was the selection of fruits for dessert—mangoes, pineapples and papayas.
Between bites of flavorful mango, Leslie asked, “So, why are you called Mama Joe?”
“I haven’t thought about that in quite a while.” Easy humor shone in the crinkled corners of the other woman’s brown eyes. “Well, when we first came to Namanga, our kids were very small. As a sign of respect, I was not called by my given name, but by the designation ‘Mama.’ ‘Joe’ is my oldest son, so I was ‘Mama’ of ‘Joe,’ which became ‘Mama Joe.’ I’ve been known by that name for about forty years.” She chuckled. “I doubt many people even know my name is Anna!”
At Leslie’s prompting, Mama Joe recounted how she and her husband had traveled to Kenya in the late 1960s as newlyweds. “We raised four children here,” she said. “In 1994, we retired and moved back to Alabama, but when my Daniel died just a few years later, I decided to come back where I could be useful.”
Leslie sat quietly, thinking about how closely Mama Joe’s reasons for coming to Kenya mirrored her own.
She wanted to help the people here, too.
She wanted to find a place where she could be useful again.
She only hoped she could find that in Africa.
CHAPTER TWO
THE COMBINATION OF jet lag, exhaustion and lunch slammed Leslie during the drive back to the airport. The van was nearing the airport when she awoke, surprised she’d slept through the crazy Nairobi traffic.
Marcus offered to wait at the van with Leslie’s bags while the women located the pilot who would take them on the final leg of the journey. “Ben told me to meet him at the Rift Valley Bar around three o’clock.” Mama Joe gestured toward the rear of the terminal. “It’s over there. Back near the gates.”
They were making their way through the crowd when they heard a voice call loudly, “Mama Joe! Mama Joe!” A woman dressed in a bright yellow-and-orange cotton skirt and blouse ran toward them and grabbed Mama Joe’s hand.
“Mary!” Mama Joe exclaimed. The two embraced, and they conversed for a moment in Swahili before Mama Joe introduced Leslie.
“This is Mary Keino, a dear friend of mine. Mary worked with me many, many years ago, even before we settled in Namanga.” She leaned toward the Kenyan woman, and they talked for a moment more. Mama Joe laughed at something Mary said, then turned to Leslie. “I would really like to visit for a moment. She’s telling me about her grandchildren.” She motioned in the direction of the bar. “Would you mind going to find Ben and letting him know we’re ready?”
Leslie smiled. “No problem. I’ll be right back.” She swiftly covered the remaining distance and was at the door of the Rift Valley Bar before it occurred to her that she’d failed to get Ben’s description. She considered retracing her steps to ask Mama Joe, but glancing across the long terminal, she rejected the idea. Surely she’d be able to recognize their pilot.
The dim lighting forced Leslie to pause a moment just inside the bar to let her eyes adjust.
The patrons—mostly men—were seated at tables haphazardly scattered across the limited floor space. At the table nearest the door sat
