Walking away - not an option

The bus ride from Mwanza to Musoma takes about 4 hours. I had a reasonable seat by the window, with views of Lake Victoria and then an unremitting rural landscape of crops and thatched mud-walled homes, as we drove through the northern edge of the Serengeti National Park.

I sent a text message to my host as we pulled out of Bunda, the last stop before Musoma. These days the buses stop at a bus station outside the town, so I took a ride in a dalla-dalla (Hiace minibus) into the busy town centre, where Monica met me, looking overweight and bursting out of her clothes.

I have known her for many years. A Kenyan by birth, her husband died of malaria when in his 20s, leaving her to bring up 3 small children, with the help of her mother. She managed to get a job teaching in Tanzania, while her children went to school in Kenya. Monica has always had drive and determination, making things happen somehow.

We took a taxi to her home, some hired rooms in a small complex owned by a man who sold motorbikes.

When we got inside, she burst into tears. I hugged her and tried to console her. Since I had last seen her a year ago, her beloved youngest daughter Bev, aged 11, had collapsed suddenly and unexpectedly and died within hours. Monica's grief had surfaced again on seeing me.
I was also greeted by a younger woman whom I had not met before. Irene was also Kenyan, and had come to Monica, like a number of girls in trouble, because her mother had died. Her father had died when she was 2, so now, at the age of 20, she had noone to support her and no job. Monica had heard about her and taken her in.

She had the top bunk bed in the living room, from where she could see the TV and also have a little privacy. The rest of the facilites, including an outside shower and toilet, were all shared with others. Amongst them was Rebekah, a single mother with a baby called Lynn, whom I had met before, and who also had no job.

Irene interested me. She said she had wanted to be a doctor but nobody could pay for her education. She was determined to get a job somehow, so that she could have the money to fund herself. Like most Kenyans, she spoke English reasonably well. It was easy to talk to her and she was glad of my attention.

I was drawn to her lively personality and also struck by her tight-fitting tops and pants. She looked good.

She asked if she could call me 'Dad'. I guess this was a compliment, though it also felt like a reminder that I was old enough to be her father and had no prospect of being considered a boyfriend! Whenever she had the chance in the next 48 hours, she came alongside and talked to me of her life and hopes.

I tried to give her some love, as I did Monica and Rebekah. All were women struggling with various issues in their lives. Monica was the only one with a job and was keeping the other two in return for their help with cooking and looking after the rooms. Before I left, I gave them some money to ease the situation a little. I could do no less.

As we strolled in the searing heat past the market stalls not far away, with women selling all kinds of fruit and vegetables, and on to the lake shore, where mostly fish or maize were being sold, I felt the simplicty of their lives - but also their desire to do better than the market women.

Irene liked me to take photographs of her. Some women see it as a kind of flattery but she also wanted to please me. She sensed that I found her atrractive. She probably was also hoping I might be able to find funds for her education - but she was wise enough not to spoil our relationship by pushing me for money.

After I had left Musoma, I lost touch with her for a while and my text messages went unanswered. Then I received a message:

"hello dad how was ur day? am in geita where have apply 4 temporary job and now waiting 4 the result. goodnight dad."

Geita is about 4 hours the other side of Mwanza, so 8 hours or more from Musoma. Maybe she knew someone there that tipped her off about a job. I wondered who she was staying with and how she was managing. She had strength of character - enough to stay clear of the many pitfulls for a young girl on her own in an African town. But I felt concern nevertheless. Already, I was feeling like her father, it seemed. I knew that I was going to be in for the long haul.

But then, when we feel a connection with people, walking away from them and their needs is not an option. And, after all, Irene was somehow meeting my need.