Personal Narrative: Mama Veronica

Mama Veronica, a Kenyan business woman whose ex-husband is a member of Parliament, lives in the deluxe version of a crumbling stone house at the end of the circular drive. Just beyond the compound?s entrance sits my temporary abode, the non-deluxe version that she rents to the Peace Corps. Smack in the center of one of the hills overlooking the lake, Mama Veronica?s property abuts the Peace Corp training facility, a vast, austere track of land populated with one story maze like buildings. Much like a rabbit?s warren, a string of offices burrow into a kitchen and dining hall that can feed 60 and serves as a gathering place between classes.
Covered walkways connect the ramshackle buildings to a residential facility with six small bedrooms and two shared bathrooms. Guest suites, a sign on the door proclaims, but guests never stay overnight since new Peace Corps recruits live with local families in the town, and the trainers and administrative staff live nearby at home.
On guard duty at night, the dogs need a quiet place to sleep during the day. Actually their colleagues, the night watchmen, sleep in this shed most nights and leave the dogs to carry out guard duties on their own. This happens at Mama Veronica?s compound, where the night guard snores on the couch on the veranda behind my bedroom. More conscientious, or perhaps better rested, the dogs keep us safe. When I mention this to Mama V., she notes that the night watchmen also have day jobs. Not to worry, she says in her booming voice, those dogs will wake them up with their barking if there?s a problem. This is a very Kenyan response, practical with a hint that life is not fair so we must understand. A woman with connections, Mama V. has perfected an approach that works well for her: half down on my luck, half do you know who I