Please Sir May I Have A Bullet

It was an odd experience today to wake up and realize that I will be leaving in 6 weeks and that I was thinking about the manner in which I might be killed. I was reminded of little Oliver Twist saying “Please sir, I’d like some more”. And I thought, I wonder if I can ask to be shot. I just don’t want to be chopped into little pieces and slowly die. They say bullets aren’t that bad.
I got downstairs and opened my email and read this from a beloved Kenyan sister.

“Thanks for encouraging words, we didnt sleep in our house due to security,its bad susan,am holding on lord who is our refuge.The girls are still in nanyuki at my sister inlaws place, but may go home any time until things cool.If i had enough money could go by air to kisumu then by road to Butere.My request is your support if you can, its my prayer that our country goes back to normal.

Pray for us always
my love to you”

I felt like I had been hit in the by a huge deep object. My body was worn and my head ached. What do you do with something like that? Where do I begin? What was it like for Beatrice to have to hide away from her home because the kikuyu’s were being told to kill her tribe. They were in KARI for heaven’s sake. Everyone has gotten along in Kari. St. John’s where my friend is minister and Beatrice’s husband is choirmaster, my refuge, is comprised of all tribes. Now neighbors were indeed killing each other.


I called her immediately and discussed the situation. I knew the roads were closed going out to the west. I knew they had to fly, but alas, there is no way to get money to them. That’s the main reason I’m going in March (well that and I need to assess the situation for myself). We agreed that I might be able to purchase tickets online using a local airline. Yeah and I’m gonna be cute and skinny in this century.


God, even dealing here in the U.S with an airline with offices in N.Y but is Kenyan is like aerobics in hell. (you know after you finish your 5,678,923 push ups you can start on your 1,340,789 jumping jacks). First they would only let me buy two tickets, even though there are 4 in the family. I finally talked them into 3 because 2 are children, but Boaz my sister’s husband was out. Ok, I’ll take the deal. They then wanted me to send a copy of my credit card by fax. Ok, I’ll do that (I can cancel it right after the charge is made and paid). Ooops! Well no, they don’t take that Mastercard. No they don’t take American Express. Yeah this was after they got my fax.
Next…oh yes, they take paypal. Go figure since I would be using the same credit card for paypal that they just refused. 4 Hours later still didn’t have the address for the paypal payment, and BTW they spelled my friend’s name wrong. Now under the best of times in Kenya if your name doesn’t match EXACTLY what it says on your identity card, it’s just not happening without several days of deliberations.

I finally got the paypal payment off to the airlines, but have no idea if it went through. But tomorrow’s another day and we have till Friday to get it done. Who says you can’t have the same African experience here in the States as I do in Kenya?
I called Beatrice and Boaz back to tell them to reassure their terrified daughters that they were getting out of there as soon as possible. I got Boaz on the phone. He told me that if they could get to Kisumu and out of the city during the daylight they could get to Butere, their ancestral home. He said they would be safe once they were in the Western part of the Country since it is where their people are. He tells me that they are not killing the muzungus (whites) but I figure once the famine sets in real hard, I’m just a means to food and some crazy, hungry people could decide I’m better off to them dead.

I hear you God, I know it’s all about faith. But in case You’ve decided it’s my final trip, Please sir, may I have a bullet?