A Day of Fish and Football in Nairobi

Today at lunch I ate a fish—a fish pulled fresh from the lake, dipped in a fryer, and put on my plate—head, scales, bones and all. I’m sitting on an outside bench; the plate on my lap is filled with ugali, unidentifiable greens, and of course, the fish. I have just a napkin and no fork, and am thinking: how in the world am I supposed to eat this fish? Thank goodness for Bethuel. He is so patient and usually tolerates my “Americanness.” “Sarah,” he says, “you just have to poke it!” And sure enough, he succeeds in breaking through the ribcage of his fish and draws out the white, fleshy, good-to-eat part. I try to do the same but end up poking the little side fin of the fish, which simultaneously blocks my attack and grosses me out. I ignore my discomfort, wage a war on the fish, and eventually win. But it wasn’t a pretty picture, and I left a lot of uneaten carcass on my plate and was reprimanded for wasting the eyes.

I was invited to play soccer. I said I’d love to join if I wouldn’t be the only girl. Several of my girlfriends smiled and said they would certainly play. But when we made it to the pitch—a huge, uneven field where the grass came up to my knees—and unloaded out of the van, all the girls piled right back in and drove away. Apparently, in Kenya people use sarcasm a lot. I’m forced to follow the group of men toward the center of the field. They pick a spot, throw their briefcases on the ground, and immediately start stripping. Most of them take everything off except for their boxers. Apparently, I get to play soccer with a bunch of half-naked Kenyan men.

We start to kick the ball around and I am able to cast aside feelings of awkwardness. But about five minutes in, we stop and they introduce me to Coach. He is a little, quick-looking guy, and the only one wearing actual cleats. He proceeds to make us line up and run sprints. The stitch in my side burns, but my teammates are encouraging and jovial. An ocean away from home, I’ve found something familiar.