It Happened on the Way to War by Rye Barcott Page A

class.
    We squeezed the ugali like putty and dipped it into the savory beef broth. Elizabeth began asking me about my parents. “Oh, sorry,” she said when I mentioned I was an only child. Although I joked that I had given my parents enough work as an adolescent so that they were content with one child, neither Elizabeth nor Oluoch seemed able to comprehend that some parents could want to have only one child. Apart from that awkward moment, we made easy and natural conversation. Elizabeth spoke about her daughter studying at an American university. Oluoch told me stories about attending conferences at universities in the United States and asked about UNC and our famous basketball team. He was impressed that many of our players studied Swahili.
    â€œNo wonder they’re such a good team,” he said, laughing.
    As we finished dinner, Oluoch commented on my research proposal. “We read your thing. Very interesting. You know, these people, you’ll meet some of them down there.” He waved his hand toward the wall. “They live like animals. They have nothing.”
    Oluoch’s condescending tone bothered me, but I withheld my impulse to say something. I was a guest in his home, and I needed his help. Oluoch was going to arrange a meeting at the Ministry of Education through a personal contact to fast-track my research permit. He also offered to introduce me to Dan Ogola, a youth leader in Kibera who could show me around. He trusted Dan because Dan had once helped an American student who was lost in Nairobi’s Uhuru Park, a place notorious for muggings. Dan had escorted the student back to Oluoch’s house in Fort Jesus and never asked for anything in return.
    â€œBut more important”—Oluoch raised his finger—“the boy is a Luo. And you, you are a Luo. When were you born?”
    I was sure I was a white guy from Rhode Island, but I went along with it. “Nineteen seventy-nine.”
    â€œNo, no. What time of day? When?”
    â€œSix A.M.”
    â€œAh, yes, I should have known. You are Omondi.”
    Elizabeth clapped her hands. “Ah, Omondi!”
    â€œIt’s a good Luo name,” Oluoch said. “And because you are our son, you’re a Luo. You are from Ugenya. That is our home in Nyanza Province near Lake Victoria, where we eat a lot of fish. We like fish. This name, I can see it on you. You have ambition. Omondis, they can be ambitious. This is a good thing.”
    â€œYes, it’s true. Yes, they can!” Elizabeth cheered.
    â€œThe nickname for Omondi is Omosh,” Oluoch continued. “Luo names always start with an O or an A . So now you know how to identify your brothers and sisters.”
    It felt special to receive an African name. I didn’t know that it was a common offering from host families to young college students.
    â€œThank you, Mama , Baba ,” I said with a smile, using the Swahili words for “mother” and “father.”
    â€œMy son Omosh.” Elizabeth clapped her hands together. “Omosh of Kibera.”
    MY FIRST NIGHT was miserable. Wide awake with the excitement of being in a new country, my mind raced and my body fought to resist jet lag. When I did finally fall asleep, the mefloquine pills that I was taking to guard against malaria filled my brain with hallucinogenic dreams. I would have stopped taking the drug had it not been for all the Vietnam War books that had imprinted my mind with vivid images of death and suffering caused by malaria.
    Cluck, cluck, cluck, coookooo. A rooster in the small courtyard sounded off at four A.M. I cursed the bird, flipped on the light, and started scribbling down reflections, including my reaction to Oluoch’s description of Kibera as “down there.” I needed to go there. I needed to go where I wasn’t comfortable. That had always been part of the attraction, whether it was Rwanda, or Africa’s largest slum, and I was