Rafiki Means Friend

Eunice is my translator. She accompanies me on treks to the springs, streams and homes of Nyametaboro and Nyangiti (the “sublocations” of Kenya where the Nuru pilot project is taking place) to fill in the gaps of my limited Kiswahili and Kikurian (a local language, I haven’t even mastered the greetings yet). We investigate where the women and girls are fetching water for their families and if it’s making them sick.

Eunice is beautiful, courageous, incredibly intelligent and very generous. She had a chicken slaughtered for me for a special lunch the very first time I visited her home. Eunice has taught me a lot- about water and sanitation in her community, but also about what it means to be a rafiki (Kiswahili word meaning “friend”).

Eunice preparing the chicken that was slaughtered moments prior. Note the feathers in the pot, top left.

Eunice and I have already spent quite a bit of time together, walking the hills and fields in search of water and the people who consume it. One day as we sat on the bank of a river, she taught me how to eat sugar cane. As I slowly peeled away the thick green stuff attempting to reach the sugary inside, she shared her story with me.

Right- the original sugar cane, cut right off the tree. Left- the sugary inside that you chew on and spit out. It definitely took me ten times longer than Eunice to peel (with my teeth) and I definitely had a very sticky face afterwards.

She graduated from college and went to work as a school teacher. She left teaching at her husband’s request, because he needed her to help him start a business. After she got the business up and running, he decided he was done with her and took another wife. Soon after that, her daughter (one of her five kids) decided to get married and failed to ask for her parents’ permission (a huge disgrace in their culture). Eunice did not disown her daughter as her husband demanded and did himself. So, he kicked her out of the house and said, “Out! Go take care of the children!” Eunice had to build a new house for herself with her own money next door (the way family land works, there’s really nowhere else to go). He proceeded to spread lies about Eunice. He told everyone she was a bad wife, a terrible cook …

I asked her if he ever hurt her. She silently lifted her skirt up to reveal a 4-inch scar on her muscular calf. “He did it with a knife,” she whispered to me and looked around to make sure no one else saw or heard. I was heartbroken for her. I told her she was strong. “Why would such a smart, capable woman ever marry such a monster?” I wondered. She explained to me that there is tremendous pressure to marry young. Why? Dowry. Your family cashes you in for about 10 cows, and in a community that is literally starving, that’s great motivation to find your daughter a mate.

“Why should I be sad?” Eunice said proudly afterwards, “It is good. I am alone, but I do what I want.” Then, after a pause she added, “I won’t make my children marry young. I will do everything I can to help them have a better life.”

To give them choices, she means. Choices she didn’t have.

Eunice works the shamba (“farm”) every day, pulling weeds, tilling soil and planting seeds by hand. She fetches the water, cooks, cleans, manages the animals, and takes care of the children. She sold two cows and a house to send her son to college. She has very little, but she takes great care of everything she has and she greets everyone who crosses her path with a smile and Habari? (“How are you?”). And she always, always manages to make time for me.

During one of our adventures together in the field, we ended up at her friend, Robi’s home. Robi is probably about 50 years old, she has a sweet smile, very short gray/black hair and long earlobes that the older Kurian women proudly wear (in an old tradition of stretching the earlobes dramatically that ended in the 1960s, the long lobes are a symbol of beauty). We asked Robi to show us the spring where she fetches water. She ran in the house to grab a bucket, as to not waste the trip, and Eunice whispered to me, “She’s very humble. I will assist her, because she’s very sick.” I inquired about the reason before the woman returned. “She’s very weak. Her husband beat her.”

Part of me started screaming inside. Who could ever harm these selfless women who devote every waking moment tirelessly laboring so that their families can eat, drink and bathe every day? It just kills me. I can’t imagine the depth of the wounds of these women, beaten by the very man you serve daily and have literally laid down your life for. I wondered if a special bond exists between Eunice and Robi because of their shared pain. In a low, slow breath to fight back tears, I uttered a silent prayer for them both. I fantasized about them both experiencing healing through counseling- hearing that they are not to blame and through friendship- breaking the silence and supporting one another. Maybe they have such conversations, in whispers at the spring where there are no men to be found… I pray that they do.

The beauty of a rafiki carrying her friend’s bucket up the steep slope to her home moved me to tears, unable to fight them back this time. I reached the top of the hill, sweat pouring down, a mere jug in my hand, and watched Eunice approach balancing a dripping five-gallon bucket on her head. With Robi still a good distance behind us, Eunice started laughing, “I’m tired.”

Eunice inspires me. Despite all that she lacks, she reaches out; she digs deep and gives all that she has. I want to live my life like my rafiki, Eunice, who is literally laying her life down for her friends and her family, and for me.

And it gets me even more excited about the work we're doing- together with the community. It is going to give people like Eunice and Robi and their families more choices. The agriculture program alone is going increase their crop yields, and allow them to earn a bit of money to save and reinvest in fertilizer and seed for the next harvest...a step toward escaping the poverty trap. And the water/sanitation program I'm running will provide lasting solutions that reduce waterborne diseases and give these women back some of their precious time. And then there's the health care, education and small business programs...


There really is a lot to be hopeful about. It's intense at times, but I really do love my job!