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

impatient. Fort Jesus might be considered a ghetto by American standards, but the living seemed to be easy. I needed to find someone who could show me the ropes and help me locate a few places to stay in Kibera. If Dan was as large and as imposing as Oluoch, he might make a perfect confidant.
    After a half hour of writing, I turned to Tom Mboya’s The Challenge of Nationhood . Jennifer Coffman had recommended the book to me with a comment about how his death was a loss to the world. The book, part of a series edited by the legendary Nigerian novelist Chinua Achebe, identified Mboya as a chief architect of Kenya’s independence, a friend of John F. Kennedy’s, and a politician “widely regarded as the most likely successor to Jomo Kenyatta as President.” I was taken by Mboya’s voice, and noted a few of his passages about political manipulation of ethnic identities. In one passage, Mboya concluded, “Perhaps the most crucial factor during this period is the role of personality of the men at the top—those who head the governments of the new states.”
    Writing in March of 1969, six years after Kenya’s independence, Mboya warned that if the first generation of African leaders, such as Jomo Kenyatta, did not stop rewarding their own ethnic groups at the expense of the nation, the “second generation leadership would inherit a framework that is so dependent on personality that it cannot survive the person on whom it depended. This could bring with it a phase of deep political problems—tribalism, personality cults, foreign intervention and even military coup.” * Four months after those words were published, assassins gunned down Tom Mboya on a busy street in Nairobi’s city center. He died at age thirty-nine, a father of five children, and a martyr for the democratic ideals he espoused.
    THERE WAS A knock on the door shortly after I put down the book. I rose to meet Jane Atieno, Elizabeth’s maid and house helper. “Mimi ni Omosh,” I greeted her.
    â€œWacha!” she exclaimed. “Omosh, you? No.” She shook her head back and forth as if it were the first time she had met a white person with an African name. Her hair was short and shaped like a pancake with a part down the middle. She had wide hips, strong arms, and an unforgettable, breathtaking smile.
    â€œAye, you’re up early. Students, they don’t get up so early. It must be true you are an Omosh.”
    â€œYes, I was born early in the morning. I’m a morning person.” I was proud to have a chance to show off a nugget of new knowledge. “And you, what time were you born?”
    â€œLet me tell you, atieno means ‘night.’ I was born in the night. But I have to wake up early, and so that’s what I do.”
    We made small talk as Jane heated milk and prepared a tray with bread, jam, and margarine. Her English was spotty, so I transitioned to Swahili. She pointed out corrections as I stumbled through sentences. When I moved to the sink and started cleaning dishes, she protested. “Oh, no, Omosh, this work I need. If you want to take my work then you can lift that bag there.”
    A cloud of soot exploded into my face when I dumped a bag of coal into the storage trough. Jane pursed her lips and waited to gauge my reaction. As soon as I smiled, she burst out laughing. “Oh, Omosh!”
    Roused by the commotion, Oluoch stepped out of his room, belched, and walked through the courtyard bare-chested in a towel and flip-flops. “Hot water,” he barked at Jane.
    â€œMornin’, Oluoch,” I said.
    â€œOh, you’re up. Our meeting with the Ministry of Education is delayed a day. We’ll go together tomorrow. But the boy will come by this morning to show you around.”
    Oluoch continued to the bathroom as Jane heated a can of hot water for his shower. I assumed that Jane was not from the slum since Elizabeth had not mentioned her