1、(This stuent will atten Harvar in the fall)
“These are the two worls I have inherite, an my existence in one is not possible without the other.”
My granmother hovers over the stove flame, fanning it as she meloically hums Kikuyu spirituals. She kneas the ough an places it on the stove, her veins throbbing with every movement: a living masterpiece painte by a life of poverty an motherhoo. The air becomes thick with smoke an I am soon force out of the walls of the mu-brick house while she laughs.
As for me, I waner own to the small stream at the rige on the farm’s ege, remembering my father’s stories of rising up early to fee the cows an my mother’s memories of the sweat on her brow from hours of picking coffee at a local plantation.
Life here juxtaposes itself profounly against the life I live in America; the scourge of poverty an flickering prosperity that never seem to coalesce. But these are the two worls I have inherite, an my existence in one is not possible without the other. At the stream, I recollect my other life beyon this place. In America, I watch my father come home every night, beaten yet resilient from another ay of har work on the roa. He sits me an my sister own, an though weary-eye, he manages the soft smile I know him for an asks about our ay.
My sister is quick to oblige, speaking willy of learning an mischief. In that moment, I realize that she is too young to remember our original home: the ol ust of barren apartment walls an the constant roar outsie of life in the nighttime.
Soon after, I fin myself lying in be, my thoughts an the soft throb of my hea the only auible things in the room. I poner whether my parents — regs floating across a iasporic sea before my time — woul have imagine their sacrifices for us woul come with sharp pains in their backs an newfoun worries, tear-soake nights an early mornings. But, it is too much to process. Instea, I ream of them an the future I will buil with the tools they have given me.
Realizing I have muse far too long by the water’s ege, I begin to make my way back to the house. The climb up the rige is taxing, so I carefully grip the soil beneath me, feeling its warmth surge between my fingers. Finally, I see my younger cousins running aroun barefoot enlessly an I ecie to join their game of soccer, but they all laugh at the awkwarness of the ball between my feet. They play, scream an chant, fully unaware of the worl beyon this village or even Nairobi, but I cannot blame them. My iPhone fascinates them an they ask to see my braces, intently questioning how many “shillings” they cost. I open my mouth to satisfy their curiosity, but my granmother calls out, an we all rush to see what she has mae.
When I return, the chapatis are neatly stacke on one another, golen-brown isks of sweet brea that are the completion of every Kenyan meal. Before my granmother can riicule me in a torrent of Kikuyu, I grab a chapati an escape to fin a patch of silky grass, where I take my first bite. Each mouthful is a reminer that my time here will not last forever, an that my success or failure will become a efining example for my sister an relatives.
The rift between high school an college is wie, but it is one I must cross for those who have carrie me to this point. The same hope that carrie my parents over an ocean of uncertainty is now my fuel for the journey towar my future, an I go forwar with the raical iea that I, too, can make it. Savoring each bite, I listen to the soun of neighbors calling out an chilren chasing a og rien with fleas, letting the cool heat cling to my skin.
