Nakupenda Sana Kenya

by Taylor Feezor (United States of America)

Making a local connection Kenya

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The sadness is palpable. Emma and I have two letters in hand, one for each of our guides, thanking them for showing us their home of Tsavo East National Park over the last three days. When James and Jeremiah greet us for our final game drive before our flight, no one is making eye contact. It is mostly quiet under the roar of the cruiser’s engine. Bless their hearts, they are still trying to teach us about the animals. We are barely listening. We don’t want to leave this place, and we don’t want to leave them. This is announced publicly. James responds by pointing to Mount Kilimanjaro and the Chyulu Hills and says, “These two mountains look at each other every day, but will never meet…. but we had the chance to meet each other.” The knot in my throat swells. We arrive at the last place on earth I want to be - two strips of deadened grass in the middle of the open plains, worn by the countless runs of a single engine Cessna. Zebras graze around us. Something comes in on the radio and the boys whisper in Maa quietly. Jeremiah turns around and says, “There are cheetahs nearby. We are going.” We scream at the top of our lungs as we rip through the bush at a speed our land cruiser was never intended to travel. We have been granted a final adventure with the boys, another chance on the plains; a bonus round. Emotions are volatile, so it feels like we have won the lottery - knowing the plane is coming to take us away at any minute. We see cheetahs for the first time, with full bellies from a recent kill. They are the most striking animal of Africa. Graceful, the size of large dogs, with tails that look like balancing features of a mobile. Their eyes are not of this world. For two minutes, time stops. Once returned to the airstrip, Emma and I have our final moments with the boys. We recap the best parts of the trip, ask some final pressing questions, and Jeremiah offers to jump for us. It’s a sacred act, a ceremony for junior warriors to showcase athleticism to girls of the village, but sometimes just “for funs.” He is a sight to witness - lithe, graceful, controlled, after 10 high jumps, no sign of fatigue. We understand the appeal. The boys say they can hear the plane. Emma and I call their bluff with our wrecked, American eardrums, but within two minutes the matchbox aircraft materializes. I am not okay. Emma and I are holding hands. Jeremiah is somehow driving the car for the first time ever, so it appears the boys aren’t keeping it together either. With nothing else to say, James mutters, “Well, here we are.” We get our bags and everything is a blur. My hand putting the notes on their seats, hugging them hard, sharing “Nakupenda sana’s” and trying desperately not to cry. A flight crew member asks us to verify our identities and all I can manage is a frantic nod. Emma and I board, with the boys waving all the while, two hands each. When the door clicks into frame, we fall apart. The passengers on our plane are wondering what kind of safari this was because two twenty-somethings have just boarded in hysterics; one in a giant Maasai necklace, the other in a self-contained nest of kikoys, with every suspicious symptom of a drug rehabilitation jailbreak. Amidst the absolute circus, the plane prepares for take off. We try to catch final glimpses of the boys from the window, but they quickly disappear with the cruiser from sight. “Taylor, where did they go?” Seconds later, as we are hurled into the sky with take off, we see them, situated perfectly in our line of sight. They have climbed up and are jumping on the roof of their cruiser, waving furiously, with perfect, giant smiles eclipsing their faces. They see us and we see them. It is one of the most beautiful moments of my life. With an event like this, you find yourself unsure what you ever did so right to deserve it.