My walk to Olives

I woke up at 7am and detangle myself from my mosquito net to blearily peer out of the window and survey my surroundings. Yes, still sunny. I get ready grab some toast and peanut butter, then fill my trusty water bottle. I slather my poor, reddened Irish skin with sun screen, sign out and wander through Salama estate. The guards at the gate smile and wave as I call “Habari Asubuhi”.

I turn past the vegetable stall and call hello to the women chopping mangos, then make my way around the corner to enter Bombalouu village. Mother hens squawk anxiously and lead their fluff-ball chicks safely out of my trajectory. I pick my way over rocks and past rubbish heaps where fat, placid cows sit and watch the nimble-footed goats scrabbling for scraps of food.

The air smells of burning rubbish, mangoes and cooking chipati, an interesting mix. Swahili reggae, American R&B and gospel hymns, our out of every mud house and corregated iron shack. I pass bare-chested men brushing their teeth, brightly-dressed women in acres of kanga fabric washing clothes, young girls carrying huge cans of water on their heads with effortless poise and young boys laughing and play fighting as they run to school.

Then I hear it. The faint yet distinctive cry that signals my arrival anywhere in Bombolulu, “Mzungu!” (white person).

I hear the scuffle of tiny feet, feel the little hands sticky from breakfast grab hold of mine, and turn to see a hoard of Kenyan toddlers giggling and beaming at this pasty apparition. The older ones hold out their hands for high fives, the tiny ones squeal “How ah yoo?! How ah yoo?!” then run away, If I respond. I attempt to walk with a toddler attached to each leg as the others run alongside patting whatever part of me becomes available. I eventually manage to detangle myself and wave goodbye as the “How ah yoos?!” fade into the distance.

I reach the blue gate of Olives and quietly slip into the yard. I spot my class in the mass of children gathered for assembly and smile as they wave at me.

The national anthem begins and I join in where I can as the sun beats down and I start to sweat buckets. The bell rings, I grab my books and follow the kids to class. Now my day begins!

Myself and Olives students

By volunteer, Miriam Stewart

My walk to Olives