Chai Tea Sunday by Heather A. Clark Page A

the very least, my new part of the world.

    Walking out the front door, I shielded my eyes from the sun and took in my first daylight view of Africa. The ground was covered with red dirt, and dustier than I was expecting; every surface had been covered with a russet-coloured dry, powdery film. It tickled my nose. I sneezed.
    Taking two more steps out the door, I was greeted by a burning stench that was so strong it made me gag. I covered my mouth. “Mama Bu? What is that? What’s burning?”
    â€œThat is garbage smoke, Nicky. We have got nothing to do with our garbage but burn it,” Mama Bu replied. She shut the warped door behind her. The door was decaying and about the same width as a thick pad of paper. “You’ll get used to it. Everyone does.”
    I hoped so, but wasn’t sure. With each new breath I took, the thick smoke choked at my throat and threatened to launch a wheezy cough from deep within my chest.
    â€œNow, Nicky, let us check out the fruit trees we have growing.” Mama Bu led me up a patchy grass hill, dried out and thirsty, directly behind their house. When we got to the top, we found a grove of trees littered in fruit.
    â€œWe have mostly mango and papaya. Have you had them before?”
    â€œOh yes! They’re two of my favourites. We don’t have any trees growing in our backyards though. We have to buy fruit at the grocery store.” I touched the smooth surface of one of the mangoes that had fallen from the tree; it was cool from being in the shade. “What a sweet treat to have it right at your doorstep.”
    â€œYou are right about that, chicka. We do not have a lot, but God is a good God and He blessed us with these trees on our property . . . and a backyard filled with
sweet treats
,” Mama Bu answered, laughing at the expression. “Here, now I will show you our garden.” My host mother led me through the patch of trees and over another hill to a hidden vegetable garden, which was filled with rows of brightly coloured vegetables. “This is what we use to make our meals. All of it is grown by us.”
    â€œWow! Look at it all. You’ve got
so
much!”
    â€œThank you, Nicky. This year we have grown some snow peas, bobby beans, sweet potatoes, okra and maize.”
    â€œMaize? I haven’t heard that term since I was in elementary school and we were learning about the pioneers.” I paused, admiring the perfect, weed-free rows of the garden, which had clearly enjoyed a lot of farming TLC . “Back home, we now call that corn.”
    â€œYes, one of the past volunteers who stayed with us talked about corn. But here we call it maize.”
    â€œI love to hear about what you call things. And I’d love to pick up a bit of Swahili while I’m here as well, if you’d help me?”
    â€œOf course,
rafiki
. I will teach you about life in Africa and you can teach me more about North America.” Mama Bu gave my hand another firm squeeze. Her affectionate touch made me feel so grounded and safe, almost as though I was a child again. I welcomed the feeling and relished how it made me feel warm and protected.
    â€œWe have also got some rice wheat and sugar cane, though I would like to grow more.” Mama Bu began walking again, to another section of the garden. “We started having a good year, but the dry season is coming, so our crops might turn soon. They are already not doing as well as in previous weeks.”
    â€œOh, I hope that doesn’t happen. What you’ve got now is very impressive.”
    â€œThank you, Nicky. I agree, but only God knows what is in store for us.” Mama Bu paused, shielding her eyes from the blazing sun and looking past the garden. “You can see in the distance where the chickens are. We will not go there right now, because Kiano and Petar are tending to the eggs. We do not want to disrupt them.” Mama Bu tugged gently at my arm, and started walking