On a beautiful August day, I landed in Nairobi with my son, Shabab (at 13 he was almost a six-footer). Moving continents wasn't easy––long flights, new environment, different culture–– with a challenge-mixed optimism I tried to embrace Kenya, Africa, at large.
We were met by a big-guy wearing a warm smile––a Kikuyu admin -staff from operations. In a new land he seemed like our Oasis.
We were booked at the Jacaranda hotel, West Lands––a heartwarming, boutique hotel enclosed by Jacaranda trees rioting in lavender blossoms. Before we travelled, Shabab and I had agreed to have separate rooms––no connecting doors . . .
. . . on the first night I was invited to dinner at my supervisor's house. Rachel Carnegie and Dr Mira Aghi, project-consultants and close friends, were also present. As the discussion continued about work––the Sara project I was to head, my mind wandered off. I fell asleep . . . and woke up to the sounds of laughter.
"Am I fired, already??" I was embarrassed, tried to be funny adding to the hilarity. Whew! Luckily, I wasn't . . .
I spent the next day in orientation, meeting colleagues––checked on Shabab at the hotel.
"What do you want for dinner?" I asked skimping through the hotel-menu.
"I've tried everything. Can we eat somewhere else?" he replied. While I was away, he had experimented with room-service––ordered everything edible. Adolescent boys are always hungry . . .
We settled down in Nairobi. I loved our offices in Gigiri––spread over 140 acres housing multiple UN agencies. I think about/over 5,000 expats worked in the UN those days.
My son didn't like the Aga Khan school he initially joined. After some months, I enrolled him in a British School of his choice––Braeburn. He moved to the school dorm. I could breathe . . .his happiness meant the world to me. He made new friends.
There was a large Bengalee community in Nairobi––UN and diplomat families. Their kids went to Braeburn . . . my earnest focus was to make myself acceptable to the Bengalee-mothers so that Shabab was invited to birthdays, picnics, group- events. At the time an expat Bengalee-single-young-mother with an adolescent-child was an anomaly––"too much to handle?" I understood that. Fortunately, my efforts worked.
As I was learning the ropes––working as an international professional, I also was acquiring skills of bringing up an adolescent son. I didn't know so many things . . . how to knot a tie . . . adequately handle sensitive egos of a teenager . . . strike the right-delicate balance between being a mom and an empathetic-sort-of-friend. I was naïve . . . I tried hard––didn't give myself much grace . . . I tried to like the Rap-music he loved, accept his attires without criticism (his jeans almost fell off from his waist . . . that was the trendy style of the time). One day he sought my permission to pierce his ears.
"No . . . if I allow your ear-piercing, my father will have real doubts about my parenthood," I was firm.
I knew my dad. . . in the mid/late 1990s, the code of behavior for families in which I grew up was much rigid––regimented in many ways. And my dad was a military doctor . . . he was the "forward march" guy who didn't understand deviations from mainstream. He was critical about my move to Nairobi, uprooting my son. He was actually worried . . . I didn't want to add more ammunition to his stress.
I disappointed my son. He locked himself in his room for hours. The sign on his door "do not enter without permission" was written boldly on a poster paper-card. I waited for his reemergence. I felt sad. We almost never argued, actually––never exchanged words that we regretted . . .
My travels were extensive. The workload was heavy. I covered 18 countries––2 from West Africa: Cote d'Ivoire and Nigeria which were special additions. Navigating through office politics in country offices . . . personalities . . . addressing the confounding-elements in every engagement in order to build a robust-regional-partnership for my project weighed me down, sometimes. Out of this complex process I gained life-long-African/sister- friends.
. . . Enroute to my first home-leave we transited via Bombay to oversee some project-animation work at a studio. Bombay's narrow streets, dense crowds and traffic jams had put off Shabab. He loved Singapore . . . Our connection to Dhaka was via Kolkata.
After landing in Kolkata, we discovered that the city was under strike/Bandh. Connecting flights were cancelled. We couldn't go to a hotel. The airport was very basic––no business lounge or it was closed (?).
I spoke with the airport manager. (Bengalee men can be chivalrous!). He promised to give us a bed in a specific ward inside the airport designated only for women with minor children––it required special prior permission.
"This young woman is stuck here with a little boy, sir," he pleaded on the phone with his seniors. It worked.
The place was full with moms and children. One look in there and my almost six-footer-fourteen-year-old-manchild spent the entire night playing video games on slot machines.
It was too much for his manhood (I guess) . . .
We were met by a big-guy wearing a warm smile––a Kikuyu admin -staff from operations. In a new land he seemed like our Oasis.
We were booked at the Jacaranda hotel, West Lands––a heartwarming, boutique hotel enclosed by Jacaranda trees rioting in lavender blossoms. Before we travelled, Shabab and I had agreed to have separate rooms––no connecting doors . . .
. . . on the first night I was invited to dinner at my supervisor's house. Rachel Carnegie and Dr Mira Aghi, project-consultants and close friends, were also present. As the discussion continued about work––the Sara project I was to head, my mind wandered off. I fell asleep . . . and woke up to the sounds of laughter.
"Am I fired, already??" I was embarrassed, tried to be funny adding to the hilarity. Whew! Luckily, I wasn't . . .
I spent the next day in orientation, meeting colleagues––checked on Shabab at the hotel.
"What do you want for dinner?" I asked skimping through the hotel-menu.
"I've tried everything. Can we eat somewhere else?" he replied. While I was away, he had experimented with room-service––ordered everything edible. Adolescent boys are always hungry . . .
We settled down in Nairobi. I loved our offices in Gigiri––spread over 140 acres housing multiple UN agencies. I think about/over 5,000 expats worked in the UN those days.
My son didn't like the Aga Khan school he initially joined. After some months, I enrolled him in a British School of his choice––Braeburn. He moved to the school dorm. I could breathe . . .his happiness meant the world to me. He made new friends.
There was a large Bengalee community in Nairobi––UN and diplomat families. Their kids went to Braeburn . . . my earnest focus was to make myself acceptable to the Bengalee-mothers so that Shabab was invited to birthdays, picnics, group- events. At the time an expat Bengalee-single-young-mother with an adolescent-child was an anomaly––"too much to handle?" I understood that. Fortunately, my efforts worked.
As I was learning the ropes––working as an international professional, I also was acquiring skills of bringing up an adolescent son. I didn't know so many things . . . how to knot a tie . . . adequately handle sensitive egos of a teenager . . . strike the right-delicate balance between being a mom and an empathetic-sort-of-friend. I was naïve . . . I tried hard––didn't give myself much grace . . . I tried to like the Rap-music he loved, accept his attires without criticism (his jeans almost fell off from his waist . . . that was the trendy style of the time). One day he sought my permission to pierce his ears.
"No . . . if I allow your ear-piercing, my father will have real doubts about my parenthood," I was firm.
I knew my dad. . . in the mid/late 1990s, the code of behavior for families in which I grew up was much rigid––regimented in many ways. And my dad was a military doctor . . . he was the "forward march" guy who didn't understand deviations from mainstream. He was critical about my move to Nairobi, uprooting my son. He was actually worried . . . I didn't want to add more ammunition to his stress.
I disappointed my son. He locked himself in his room for hours. The sign on his door "do not enter without permission" was written boldly on a poster paper-card. I waited for his reemergence. I felt sad. We almost never argued, actually––never exchanged words that we regretted . . .
My travels were extensive. The workload was heavy. I covered 18 countries––2 from West Africa: Cote d'Ivoire and Nigeria which were special additions. Navigating through office politics in country offices . . . personalities . . . addressing the confounding-elements in every engagement in order to build a robust-regional-partnership for my project weighed me down, sometimes. Out of this complex process I gained life-long-African/sister- friends.
Forging Alliances––Nuzhat in UNICEF-Zanzibar, with a UNICEF-staff and girls
. . . Enroute to my first home-leave we transited via Bombay to oversee some project-animation work at a studio. Bombay's narrow streets, dense crowds and traffic jams had put off Shabab. He loved Singapore . . . Our connection to Dhaka was via Kolkata.
After landing in Kolkata, we discovered that the city was under strike/Bandh. Connecting flights were cancelled. We couldn't go to a hotel. The airport was very basic––no business lounge or it was closed (?).
I spoke with the airport manager. (Bengalee men can be chivalrous!). He promised to give us a bed in a specific ward inside the airport designated only for women with minor children––it required special prior permission.
"This young woman is stuck here with a little boy, sir," he pleaded on the phone with his seniors. It worked.
The place was full with moms and children. One look in there and my almost six-footer-fourteen-year-old-manchild spent the entire night playing video games on slot machines.
It was too much for his manhood (I guess) . . .
I love the idea of a six-foot minor child - because I had one like that, once. The only thing you might have missed in this sympathetic description were the Crested Cranes in Gilgiri. And the Ibis. . . . .
ReplyDeleteAnd look at him now. Grown into a respectable, responsible, loving father of two, caring husband and doting son. You raised all rounder son! Well done !
ReplyDelete