Coming Home

I left Ghana in a daze. The thursday before I’d been running errands in town, trying to buy food for our new livestock project when I suddenly felt really sick. I ran to Happy Kids and lay down, and within two hours had a 104 degree fever. This must mean I finally get to join the “I’ve had malaria” club.

I spent two days in the Hohoe hospital, a not so nice cluster of cream colored buildings that lacked running water, soap, and actual doctors. My nurse’s name was Nelson. He wore jeans and earphones in his ears. They put an IV in my hand but they punctured the vein, so for the next day fluid flowed freely into my arm. It swelled up twice its normal size, but all I could do was laugh.

On Saturday I’d been rebooked on a flight direct to New York, and then to California. The doctor was supposed to come and discharge me, but when I asked if she was coming all they said was “Eh, it’s the weekend. Maybe she’ll come, maybe she won’t.” I ended up discharging myself. They asked me to write an official letter to release them of liability. I was surprised by the formality of it until they handed me a dirty piece of yellow pad legal paper.

Dear Hospital,

I, Kelsey Finnegan, am leaving. I take responsibility for my life. Thank you for the care. Here is 25 dollars.
Sincerely, 
Kelsey Finnegan

The Happy Kids were glad to see me, and I’d missed them over the last few days. I packed my bags, showered with a bucket and hugged them with as much energy as I could muster.  

Goodbyes are not permanent, and they know that. 

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I landed in JFK airport on a Sunday. I followed everyone through the crowds, through to customs, and made my way to the United lounge. I watched the sunrise and the planes taking off, feeling supremely out of place.

The first week was spent seeing specialists and deciphering that I was, in fact, getting better. I was fine, and on top of that, I got to see the people I hadn’t seen in a very long time. 

I’ll admit that those of us who live abroad worry. There are plenty of things we give up that we don’t care about. We can live without all the stuff. But we do worry what relationships we’ll have to give up. After so much time, it feels inevitable that you will lose some.

And I am the person that is away. I am the constant, perpetual goodbye. I’m the person that misses your birthday, the person that couldn’t come to your wedding. I’m sorry I missed you falling in love, or having your heart broken. I’m sorry I’m not the person you can call when you’ve had a terrible day at work and need someone to drink a glass of wine with. I chose Africa. As much as we try, I’m not someone to rely on.

So I come back half expecting you to have moved on. And then I find that I was wrong and that you’re all still there. You’re still sitting in my corner, and everything is exactly as it was when I left.

And it is important to come home. Not only to catch your breath and take a step out of the all-encompassing world that is development – but also to be reminded. Coming home says, even though you left a long time ago, you are not forgotten. Even though you are far away, you are loved.

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Back in Santa Barbara, I walk into a bookstore and marvel at the availability of knowledge. Find the Africa and Genocide sections and sit between the aisles. I sit on the floor for over an hour thumbing through the books, feeling the pages bend. I end up choosing 12 books, but can’t afford them all so I buy 6.  

Lay on the beach for far too long and get sunburned. Take a breath. Hug the kids I’ve always loved, in fact - hug everyone I love. Walk down the street and blend into a crowd. No “muzungu muzungu” to be heard. Marathon catch up sessions mixed with nights sitting on the couch just being. Eat ice cream and have an untimed conversation.

Jump into the ocean and watch the sailboats passing by. There are washing machines. Paved sidewalks. Streetlights and iced coffee. People can pronounce my name, and everyone speaks English. Every type of food you can imagine. Every type of anything you can imagine. There is lettuce and salads, no more forced all carb diets. Wine tasting and margarita tasting. But does everyone really need so much?

I experience the strange and wonderful feeling that is to be had from talking to people that share my history, and know my history. Remember the world I left behind, but take comfort in the fact that I no longer fit into it.

I’m sitting in a café drinking an iced latte when my friend in Rwanda texts me that there’s been more bombs and grenade attacks, and things are getting tense. I worry, but I can’t worry too much because I know in two weeks I’ll be back in it, and none of this will feel real. It will all just seem like a distant dream, a fuzzy idea of a far away place in the back of my mind. 

At the end of my trip, I leave California for New York to spend my last week with two of my best friends, and then I fly back to Kigali. I say goodbye to my friends, say goodbye to my family. But I will not be saddened by these goodbyes. I'm only thankful. You were far away, and I almost didn’t get here.

I'm reminded and comforted by the fact that our relationships are permanent, regardless of locality - but home is in and of itself a transient place. Once it was my parent's house in Dublin, California, and then it was an apartment in Santa Barbara. At some point it became an orphanage in Ghana, and now a city in Rwanda. I don't think that one has to be mutually exclusive, and realize it's possible that I can miss them all. I left this 4 week trip in America with renewed energy and a fresh pair of eyes. I don't know when I'll be back again, but until then these memories will last me.