A story of love...

Balliol College - my University home.

I grew up in middle class, rural England, enjoying a sheltered life in which I was always encouraged to believe in my own abilities. Being accepted into one of Britain’s world-class universities was like a dream come true however the cracks began to appear during my second year. “Healthy” competition gradually became stifling and I had a growing sense of unease. The once-fun social events I loved became distorted in my mind as opportunities for judgement where I was never cool enough, slim enough or clever enough. My teenage self sought an escape from the critical environment I had become accustomed to. I enrolled in a volunteering programme to be placed in a rural Kenyan secondary school for three months over the summer.

Africa does wonders to settle your mind. My hut was overlooking a stunning vista of rolling hills and tea plantations, with corrugated iron roofs sparkling in the sunshine. The constant smiles of passing strangers, in brightly coloured material, seemed to offer a reassurance I had never felt at University. Looking back now, there is a level of irony in the fact a developing country, with basic facilities and few creature comforts could provide such a rest from the rat race of England.

The headteacher of the school, Mwalimu (teacher) Moywaywa, seemed to embody the open-hearted mentality of Kenyans. A liberal, educated man, he chose to disregard the corruption embedded in the Kenyan education system. While other headmasters were wrangling for an influential position with their MP, he was working alongside teachers to utilise the limited funding (which wasn’t siphoned into the pockets of power) for the good of the school.

The Moywaywa family farm, set amongst the Kisii highlands

Meanwhile, he made efforts to support me as a ‘mzungu’ volunteer. Our conversations seemed to bounce back and forth with the liveliness of a Wimbledon finals match. He’d listen with such attentiveness I’d feel caught in his stare, allowing myself to open up in a way I failed to do at University. Little acts of kindness, like washing my lantern or handpicking me a home-grown avocado, soon became meaningful in my mind – before long I was smitten. Regardless of the obvious connection between us, his role as a husband and father always took precedence. I left Kenya with powerful memories but knowing nothing was possible between us.

Over the course of the next three years I drifted in and out of casual relationships but nothing compared to the enigma of ‘The Kenyan Headmaster’. We’d occasionally talk on the phone but these chats would be coupled with tension and a fast-beating heart. Though I felt I had found my purpose training as an English teacher in an inner city school, the tug of Africa still remained.

Feeling trapped (and overworked) in a London school I applied on a whim to seven teaching jobs across Africa. As if fate wanted to speak to me, I only received two interviews and one acceptance; all were in Kenya.

Arriving in Kenya a year ago I found a recently widowed head teacher, desperately seeking companionship.  My expected adventure of seaside sunshine on Kenya’s coastline became overshadowed by intense dialogues with the man I loved. At the first opportunity I chose to visit him, braving the 15-hour bus journey, to offer support and consolation. With a speed so unexpected and tense, our first kiss happened, fraught with nervous energy. Suddenly the magnitude of such a relationship hit me. African traditional values seeped into my head and thoughts spiraled from being a surrogate mother of four kids to fulfilling the ‘African mama’ role of endlessly cooking and wearing bright African fabrics.

African fabrics of Zanzibar - ready for some tailor made dresses!

This year has been a long journey of attempting to figure out how to characterise our relationship. His patience is admirable. He does not expect me to be a typical African lady, and while there is caution voiced by both his family and community, the knowledge of his acceptance quietens my fears.  When we are together it feels like we click on a level beyond race, age and nationality. It reverts back to our original encounter where he nurtured my self-belief and encouraged me to be confident in who I really am.

Spot the mzungu?

The paradox of this statement is that ‘who I really am’ in Kenya is an outsider. Shouts of “mzungu” follow me wherever I step and my skin colour will always set me apart from the rest. While I realise this is immaterial to our relationship, it is a challenge to know a life with him will mean I never truly fit in. Yet, in a strange way this chapter of my life has taught me an important lesson. ‘Fitting in’ is not necessarily something one needs to strive for. Instead, having confidence in yourself should be rooted in your own personal interpretation of a situation rather than other people’s judgements. 

I have therefore allowed Africa’s roots to embed and thrive. After being here for one year I am tied to a meaningful life and a strong relationship. It is him that has given me this self-assurance, and for that I will always be thankful. We are like a yin-yang– as separate parts we do not look like a couple, in fact many people would look at us and disregard the relationship as incompatible; too much of a contrast. Yet together, as a pair, we love and complement each other. At the moment I am willing to invest in the partnership, accept the judgements inevitably made by his community and cherish the role we have in each other’s life.

I am trying to embrace the Kenyan way - as they often say in Kiswahili, ‘Hakuna Matata’ (no worries).