Oh Happy Day!

My sister, Jan, sends a letter. It arrives today and I rip it open and read her words, then check the date, stamped May 5. It arrives today and I'm so happy to see her name on the envelope and to read her address, Sugar Hill, Georgia. "It's from my sister in Sugar Hill, Georgia," I tell Liz, the receptionist. She's laughing and I do a little joy jig in the reception area, saying "Sugar Hill, Georgia" over and over. Jan is funny, an excellent, excellent story teller and the best joke teller I've ever heard. Reading her emails always brightens my day. She's sassy and unsinkable and promises to keep a journal so I'll know everything she's been up to. A journal. What an excellent idea!! Walter Odede stops by my office to update me on the Pamba Zuko building's progress. The foundation is laid and the brick walls are about to be constructed. He's not well and thinks it might be malaria; his joints are aching and his back is sore. I tell him to go to the doctor then go home and rest and heal. I show Walter Jan's letter and he asks all about her and her children. When we're through examining the letter, I tuck it into the secret compartment of my backpack. Another package arrives today from VSO in Nairobi. It's an emergency medical kit containing syringes and needles and IV tubes, etc., to take the hospital if something bad happens. Tucked into the package is an envelope with red lettering, "passport." My passport is back from immigration, stamped with a two-year work visa, giving me access to Kenya through May 2007. I take the passport to the Reverend's office, so we can celebrate, and on the way run into Dr. Ariga. When he sees the visa stamp he says, "Now when your friends from immigration show up, you can just show them your stamp." Immigration showed up two months ago asking about Bevon from the Congo. They drove through the gates at TICH and steered their pitiful little car straight up the walkway to the front door. It wasn't a parking spot, but a walkway, and they drove right up the front door and parked in everyone's way. Pushy. While interrogating Bevon, these two immigration agents see me walk by and, simply because I'm white, they send Dr. Ariga to bring me before them. As if they're royalty. The short guy is rude and condescending, mumbling his words rapidly so I can't tell what he's saying. "Whayoudonhere?" Excuse me? I say. "Whayoudonhere?" I stand tall. "Are you asking what I'm doing here at TICH or here in Kenya?" "In Kenya," he puffs, angered that I question him. But I know I have a temporary visa and a Kenyan ID and he can't scare me. He laughs when I mention the ID and insists on seeing it. When I return with the ID, he looks it over and his companion looks it over then they dismiss me with a wave. Thank you, your highnesses. But now, with my work visa, I'm legal and I hope immigration does show up and demand to know what I'm doing in Kenya and I'll whip out the passport, like it's a police badge, and tell them to back up. And to get their pitiful little car off our front porch, too! Liz is in the Reverend's office when I arrive to show off the visa. Once again, I'm doing the joy jig in front of her, about the passport this time. A letter from Jan, and emergency medical kit and a stamped passport. It's a mighty fine day.