Page 10 of A Beginner's Guide to Forever
It’s a common sentiment—Westerners throw money at problems and then don’t stick around long enough to see if the solution actually fixed anything. It’s frustrating for the locals here. All they want is to be seen—for people to know they exist and care enough to provide a helping hand.
“How do you support your family here?” he asks her.
“Adongo owns a small beauty salon that she operates out of her house,” I say.
She nods in agreement. “I braid hair.”
After saying goodbye to Adongo, we continue on our journey. The weather is close to perfect this time of year. The rainy season has ended, and the temperatures hover comfortably in the midseventies.
Hart tips his chin to where a man is boiling a large drum of liquid, stirring it with a wooden paddle. “What’s that?”
“Changaa. It’s a popular home-brewed alcoholic drink. It’s very strong. The Swahili wordchangaacan be translated as ‘kill me quick.’” The high unemployment rate unfortunately has led to drinking problems for many here.
Hart shakes his head, his face filled with surprise.
“How long are you in Nairobi?” he asks as we continue strolling.
“Just a few more days, actually. I’ve been here for two months, but I’m heading off for a business meeting.”
“Another meeting with potential investors?” he asks.
“Another meeting with potential investors,” I confirm. “It’s my life these days. Turns out running a nonprofit isn’t all that profitable.”
He chuckles. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”
“Anyway, I need constant revenue coming in to fund all of our many projects.”
“Projects? Plural?”
I nod, ducking my chin, feeling the slightest bit insecure in his presence. It’s not something that happens to me often. “Yes, but I’m afraid I made myself sound more important than I really am.”
“You’re very important.” His voice is steady. “I can tell.”
“We have two other projects we’re actively funding right now.”
We walk along in silence for a few minutes more, Edmund trailing a comfortable distance behind us.
“Where are these other projects?” he asks.
“One in Indonesia—I spent four months there last year—and another in Los Angeles.”
“You’re quite the jet-setter.”
I don’t respond. The truth is, I do live out of a suitcase much of the year. But it doesn’t feel all that glamorous. It feels, at times, chaotic, messy.
What are you running from?my mother once asked me. While other teens were worried about dating and prom, I was researching which vaccinations I needed to receive in order to visit Ethiopia or India, or how to save up for a plane ticket to go back and visit friends that I’d made during other trips.
“Where are you headed next?” he asks.
“London.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there.”
“In London?” I give him a quizzical look.
“My family has sponsored an art exhibition at the National Gallery, and it opens next week.”
I don’t say anything else, because I’m not sure what to say. I didn’t expect I would see him again, so the possibility of him being in London leaves me momentarily speechless. Though it’s a big city, it’s not like I’d run into him.
