“Kenyans are mean,” a customer complained to our friend Irene at Dorman’s, Nanyuki’s quintessential westernized cafe. They had surveyed each other at the counter, he a British tourist and she a Kenyan local, he full of inexperience and arrogance, she full of compassion and hospitality, and it was immediately clear that the situation was hopeless.
I have been here four months and am still developing my understanding of the Kenyan culture with its odd assimilation of the new among the old, the modern among the traditional. The idea of arriving in any foreign country and characterizing its entire population by a single interaction triggered a visceral protectiveness inside me. “Kenyans are mean,” is not a phrase you hear very often. Pushy, perhaps. Assertive, definitely. But more often the words welcoming, generous, and loving come to mind. They are friendly, almost to a fault, with little concern for personal space. They notice if you have gained weight and will remark on the fluency of your Swahili, but their criticisms and compliments are sincere, unburdened by judgment.
In other contexts this might be considered rude and intrusive, but here it is more of an acknowledgment of reality, a means of survival. Nanyuki, a town of colonial history, is a hub of sorts, modern and growing to meet the demands of its eclectic population. People fill the stores and sidewalks, and cars weave around each other, so close that it makes you want to shut your eyes against the certain collision, which never comes. It is organized chaos with one simple rule, “Don’t get hit,” and, somehow, it works. There seems to be a collective understanding that it is both “every man for himself,” and “we are all in this together.” Lining the roads are leaning storefronts supported only by the friction of their connecting walls and the sheer willpower of their owners. I recently did Christmas shopping in some street-side shacks selling handmade carved animals, painted bowls, and beaded jewelry. It seemed like the perfect place to buy authentic Kenyan gifts, and I purchased two ceramic bowls for less than the cost of a grande mocha at Starbucks. I was satisfied and grateful but a little uneasy about the exchange.
My mom has always said that there are two types of people in the world, those who give and those who take. I generally think of myself as the former, someone who would rather watch the delight in someone’s eyes as they open a gift than receive one myself. But in that shop, paying my bargained down price, I felt that I wronged the shopkeeper somehow, that I took more than I gave. But it extends beyond those few hundred shillings, beyond the simple fact of my relative wealth in a country of corruption and need. It comes down to the Kenyans and their culture of giving. Their manner of giving can be confusing. Driving down the dirt road we pass children yelling, hands outstretched, “Chocolate! Water! Give me your jacket!” which at first seems a little demanding and, well, greedy. That’s no way to ask for something, and even if I did have some chocolates I’m not sure I would feel very inclined to give them to you, I think to myself before mentally banging my head on the wall for being so ignorant and heartless. Over time my perspective has evolved. There was that time when our truck slid backwards into a ditch, wedging itself at a 90-degree angle to the road, and was rescued by a team of at least thirty locals who rushed over to help.
There was that time when, after a particularly frustrating morning with the baboons, James, a fellow observer, sat me down with a cup of his homemade chai. The sweet, milky tea and his sympathetic company provided comfort that I usually only find with my closest friends and family. Kenyans are a people of givers. Their demands that we share our wealth and food come more from a place of generosity than greed, an understanding that what is mine is yours and what is yours is mine. Wealth is more fluid and less owned, and assistance is given with the faith that the favor will be returned. It is this simple, unaffected generosity that makes me want to open my home and my heart to the Kenyan people. It is something in the way a furrowed brow and tight-lipped scowl can suddenly burst into a gleaming white crescent of pure joy. This is the smile Irene gives us every time we visit her in Dorman’s. The smile that, if you open your soul to it, will erase your doubts and fill you with the absolute certainty that you and she are the same and you are both that much better because of it.
About the author: Leah is a recent biology graduate currently pursuing behavioral research with baboons in rural Kenya. She enjoys the hobbies of an elderly grandmother such as reading, baking, knitting and shopping for new cozy socks.
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