song of the open road

She spent the whole performance riveted, with her right hand hovering near - thumb gently resting on the corner of her mouth, as if to protect herself from something out of the ordinary coming out of her: a loud laugh, a cry of surprise, fear, pride. She had a front row seat: the row reserved especially for grandmothers.

(It was an out of the ordinary day, though. And wasn't that what we all came for?)

When she arrived with two others, she was carrying a large bowl of avocados on her head: "Avocados," she informed me, that she was "on her way to sell at the market." I ran to them when I saw them linger for just a moment on the road by the entrance to the field where we had set up our makeshift stage - ran to them to welcome them, to invite them to come and see our play. "Karibu," I urged them, after greeting them with the traditional respect - Karibu, which means "welcome" - "come near." "We'll just sit on the ground back here," they told me in Swahili, after explaining about the avocados. "Come and have a seat," I tried to persuade them, but they held back, clearly suspect (and also perhaps a bit terrified) of this new and unusual occasion. "Are your children students?" I ask - "Yes, Festo is my grandson," one of them says. "Lucy is my daughter," says another, and at my recognition of these names and my exclamations of praise, their faces break, smiling with pride and with pleasure in our connection.

It was forty-five minutes past the time when we had said we would start the show, but still they ambled slowly to the gathering of chairs, lingering on the outskirts, in no hurry for us to begin. A few minutes earlier we had gathered the children to ask who thought they might have relatives coming (wondering how long we should wait for an audience before beginning) and only one or two raised their hands - "this is a busy time of year for families in this area," a teacher explained - "there is a lot of work to do around the house."

(And didn't we say those same things when we tried to break away from our important New York lives, and didn't that make it sweeter - all of us sneaking away, gathered to watch this play, wicked in our way...)

"Hello Sweetie," a boss says to his employee, grinning despite himself, "You are the queen of my heart, I love you, by the way... you have the problem of money? No problem, I can help you, I can buy you a house and a car, this company is very rich..." A play about the lure of corruption - the innocence of love, the desire to please, the position of power.

They draw closer. One old grandmother begins to rock back and forth, her face animated, her body engaged in the rhythm and the spirit of the play, although she most likely can't understand the English. They begin to exchange glances with each other - laughing. This new thing their children are creating before their eyes.

The next play takes place in a doctor's office. (The doctor played by Lucy, one of our shyest girls.) In strides a short man in a paisley tie: "I am Michael," he says, lofty, sits down to wait, eyes the beautiful receptionist, and then adds, "I am a banker." He awaits his results for an HIV test - flashes his money at the receptionist, charming us all with his air of importance, his outraged torment of the suffering companion in the waiting room, demanding to be helped first, breaking our hearts at his disbelief when he is declared positive - "What, me? A banker? What, me?"

More of an audience is gathering, just appearing from all directions. Out of the fields of corn, of sunflowers, from under the banana trees, from down the slopes of Mount Meru. Carrying things: children, avocados, untold histories. Running through airports, barely making flights, crossing our oceans. 

Our final play. Two sisters hold hands, call out to an imaginary grandmother: "I don't understand why my parents choose our brothers," looking up - "They are not allowed to do any of the work, and we are allowed to do all the work - " Help us, they call out, simply. Help us, please.

(An ordinary day, out of the ordinary.)

One by one we came to gather and listen. To break from our day for a moment to gather together and step back from the work of this time of the year, to look at life and declare it wonderful, terrible, to see ourselves as ridiculous, impossible, true. One by one we came.

Afterwards, there is applause, cheering, laughter and disbelief. One mother grabs me and tells me in Swahili - she loved it, YES, it was a GOOD play - congratulations, she tells me - no, congratulations to you, I tell her, they are your children. She pauses, looks at me, and says: "Lucy is my child." She looks at the empty stage where the play has just happened, and thinks for a moment. 

"She was a doctor." She says it slowly, thinking, quiet.

I hold her hand, looking together with her at the empty stage. She is moved, but doesn't say anything. Just presses my hand, holding it tightly.