How to Treat a Cold

The full force of winter—gray skies, occasional rain, temperatures of fifty to sixty degrees—is bearing down upon and afflicting the population of Nairobi. The pharmacist, when I meekly inquired about throat lozenges, declared that she had not been sick for years and years, but had caught this very cold. Everyone has it. It is the most contagious thing ever. The only thing to do is wrap up in a blanket and sit before a fire, and to rub expensive cognac on the throat and around the ears. Rub it in and then drink the rest was the admonition, not of the pharmacist but of my mother’s healthy friend who was perplexed by my moist, sonorous efforts to breathe. Obediently I sipped and sipped but was not healed.

Which means I shall probably be bringing it home with me in a couple of days. I will be the person hunched over, coughing up a lung, the person everyone silently (one hopes) curses for traveling when sick. If you don’t want to greet me upon my return, I understand.

Of course, everyone on the other side of the world is dying of the heat. My children chattered at me on WhatsApp, draping themselves all over the kitchen, wilting and whining. They can’t believe my good fortune, and I can’t believe theirs. Nobody ever gets the thing that they like best.

Today I’m going to bundle up and go to the school to help hammer down some nails that are sticking out in all directions. The children cleverly avoid them, but every time I walk into their tiny tin classroom, I feel sure that I will bash into some sharp object and injure myself. And surely other uncoordinated people will walk by and bash themselves. I’m also going to try to measure the kitchen. I am longing for a repaired floor, and to see how difficult it would be to hang a bigger and better blackboard.

I am also going to start trying to figure out how to shove all the enormous baskets I have bought into an actual suitcase. Kenya has outlawed the use and selling of plastic bags. Whenever you want to buy anything and carry it home, you either have to purchase a biodegradable flimsy mesh option, or you have to bring along a capacious kikapu, which can be acquired everywhere for very little money. I thought to myself, ‘You know what I bet each and every one one of my children want? What they wake up in the middle of the night longing for? Their own personal woven laundry basket.’ I bought six of them for a total of six dollars. The children are going to be so thrilled. I might have also laid in some chocolate biscuits. But I’m anticipating much joy when I return home and unpack these glorious baskets.

I’m kidding about the joy. I told Matt what I was doing and he was disappointed on their behalf. That I would come all this way and return with a new laundry system is going to be such a let down.

And now I must stir up the fire. My feet are freezing.