Mighty Moses
Saturday morning I'm up, putting on make-up then cycling to the Kenya National Library across town. Getting through the two roundabouts next to the matato station is hell, what with the mini-buses scraping my fender and people distracting me by calling, “Hey Mama, I see you ride your bicycle a lot," and “Hey, Mama, are you riding a bicycle?” Scary indeed to dodge the mad drivers and smile at each greeter, but worth navigating the labyrinth to get to the books! I drop the application off, expecting to get my card and the books I've been eyeing. But Grace, the librarian, says Moses is not in today and his office with the library cards is locked up. Tight. I'm quiet for a full 10 seconds, then say, “Waahhh” and put my head on the counter, pseudo crying. I mean, I feel like crying for real because I've looked forward to this trek since Wednesday. Grace is obviously moved by my pitifulness. She says I can leave the application with her and the card will be ready for me on Monday. I'm heartened.
Ed and Ian will meet me at Mon Ami's at 10am, so I grab “Surrender the Pink” from the shelf and read for about 30 minutes. Carrie Fisher is so intelligent and acerbic, and I'm constantly thinking how superficial her heroin's life is, concerned about losing her virginity (three times) and finding a man who appreciates her for her mind and body and dreams and heart. Wait, I remember what that felt like. What it felt like to be a woman in love, or wanting to be in love. Seems I boxed up my cravings/yearnings for true, true love and stuffed them in the storage unit in Atlanta, just behind the dining room table, next to the guitar case.
So Monday arrives and I leave TICH early to hazard the matato maze in the busiest part of town, arriving at the library before it closes. And there, as I ask for Grace and am told she's out sick, sits my application on the counter, where Grace left it last Saturday. Waahhhh. But I'm directed to a side office, Moses' station, and he stands, his head reaching nearly to the ceiling, to shake my hand. “So we meet again,” I say to him since he gave me the application last week. Moses is a lovely man, and suddenly interested in me because my job title on the application says 'marketing advisor.' “Ah, you'll have to help us market this library,” he says. I smile, thinking, “When?”
He takes two card pockets and writes my personal information on each. Then he writes my info onto an ID card. There's a two book limit. This raises my eyebrows, and not in a good way. But I run and grab “Surrender the Pink” (might as well finish it) and Rachel Carson's “Silent Spring,” and go to the big, beautiful marble counter paid for by the Carnegie foundation. The woman takes my books and writes on a stack of stapled papers the name of the book, the title, the ISBN number, my ID number and name. I must sign by each entry. She takes my card pockets and deposits the slip of paper from the back of each book. Then she stamps April 4 into the back of the books and I return to Moses to collect my backpack.
He asks me how we check out books in the states. “Well,” I begin thinking it sounds like a fantasy, like a tall tale, like a trip to the moon, “the library card has a coded number on the back and they scan the card, which pulls up your account on the computer. And there's a 30 book limit, so the librarian will scan the book's code, documenting each loan on the computer. And that's that.” “Well, we're not that advanced,” Moses begins, and I instantly regret having told him about the computer and the hand-held scanner with the ultra sensitive electronic eye. He doesn't seem as tall as before and I regret having told him about the 30 book limit. But the Kenya National Library in Kisumu has an electronic gate everyone must pass through to make sure they're not smuggling books. A security guard sits just outside the gate and asks to see the books, checking, well, I really don't know what he's checking as he thumbs each book.
Packing my treasures into the backpack, I'm suddenly tired. It feels as though I've jumped hurdle after hurdle to get these books. I resolve right now that each book I check out will be fantastic. Each book will be well worth the hassle of cycling across town, facing down matato drivers and sneaking around Mighty Moses so he can't ask me to market his library. A girl has to read a raunchy novel in peace every now and again. It's a reminder that she should unpack her yearnings/cravings, so she can remember things like true, true love and feeling like a woman.
Ed and Ian will meet me at Mon Ami's at 10am, so I grab “Surrender the Pink” from the shelf and read for about 30 minutes. Carrie Fisher is so intelligent and acerbic, and I'm constantly thinking how superficial her heroin's life is, concerned about losing her virginity (three times) and finding a man who appreciates her for her mind and body and dreams and heart. Wait, I remember what that felt like. What it felt like to be a woman in love, or wanting to be in love. Seems I boxed up my cravings/yearnings for true, true love and stuffed them in the storage unit in Atlanta, just behind the dining room table, next to the guitar case.
So Monday arrives and I leave TICH early to hazard the matato maze in the busiest part of town, arriving at the library before it closes. And there, as I ask for Grace and am told she's out sick, sits my application on the counter, where Grace left it last Saturday. Waahhhh. But I'm directed to a side office, Moses' station, and he stands, his head reaching nearly to the ceiling, to shake my hand. “So we meet again,” I say to him since he gave me the application last week. Moses is a lovely man, and suddenly interested in me because my job title on the application says 'marketing advisor.' “Ah, you'll have to help us market this library,” he says. I smile, thinking, “When?”
He takes two card pockets and writes my personal information on each. Then he writes my info onto an ID card. There's a two book limit. This raises my eyebrows, and not in a good way. But I run and grab “Surrender the Pink” (might as well finish it) and Rachel Carson's “Silent Spring,” and go to the big, beautiful marble counter paid for by the Carnegie foundation. The woman takes my books and writes on a stack of stapled papers the name of the book, the title, the ISBN number, my ID number and name. I must sign by each entry. She takes my card pockets and deposits the slip of paper from the back of each book. Then she stamps April 4 into the back of the books and I return to Moses to collect my backpack.
He asks me how we check out books in the states. “Well,” I begin thinking it sounds like a fantasy, like a tall tale, like a trip to the moon, “the library card has a coded number on the back and they scan the card, which pulls up your account on the computer. And there's a 30 book limit, so the librarian will scan the book's code, documenting each loan on the computer. And that's that.” “Well, we're not that advanced,” Moses begins, and I instantly regret having told him about the computer and the hand-held scanner with the ultra sensitive electronic eye. He doesn't seem as tall as before and I regret having told him about the 30 book limit. But the Kenya National Library in Kisumu has an electronic gate everyone must pass through to make sure they're not smuggling books. A security guard sits just outside the gate and asks to see the books, checking, well, I really don't know what he's checking as he thumbs each book.
Packing my treasures into the backpack, I'm suddenly tired. It feels as though I've jumped hurdle after hurdle to get these books. I resolve right now that each book I check out will be fantastic. Each book will be well worth the hassle of cycling across town, facing down matato drivers and sneaking around Mighty Moses so he can't ask me to market his library. A girl has to read a raunchy novel in peace every now and again. It's a reminder that she should unpack her yearnings/cravings, so she can remember things like true, true love and feeling like a woman.
posted by Cindi at 11:55 AM
1 Comments:
Hey Mama! Julia told me you had a blogger but I didn't ask how to get there. So I searched Cindi Brown+Africa and there you were! Glad you finally got your library card. I will enjoy reading your entries and catching up on your great adventure. Man, how awesome an experience! Talk about the word "vicarious". I've always admired Ernest Hemingway (although I've only known the basics about him, haven't read any of his novels...well, I'm not well read)and reading some of your entries reminds me of him. Does that make sense? I surely do regret missing your going away party. Catch you later, Mama! And keep your legs tucked in good while cyclin' by them motorcars! Joan
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