My mother, Bertha Ngumbi, is one of the kindest people I know. Growing up in Kenya with four siblings, though, her generosity often annoyed me. My sisters — and my brother before he passed — remember it the same way.
My mother expected us to prepare and serve black tea to anyone who came to our house. It didn’t matter whether the visitor was expected or unannounced, a close relative or a stranger passing through. If someone arrived during lunch or dinner, she would invite them to join us and have us serve them. Another mouth at the table meant less food for the rest of us, and a child’s selfishness made those strangers an unwelcome interruption.
My sister Faith still recalls how we were sometimes made to leave our plates and go boil water for tea, even when firewood was scarce or wet from rain. On those days the chore was worse, and the resentment stronger. We whispered that some visitors seemed to take advantage of our mother’s open door.
As an adult living and teaching in the United States, my view has changed. My mother’s example left a lasting mark. Even when my own needs are pressing, I find myself helping others — starting with family and stretching to acquaintances and strangers. If someone suddenly knocked on my door in Illinois, I would do what she did: make tea and share whatever food I had. I even bird-feed around here, something my mother still finds puzzling.
Curious about the roots of her generosity, I called her and asked where it came from. It wasn’t a mystery. She traced it back to her mother — my grandmother. Growing up in a large family, my mother witnessed a household that regularly fed neighbors, friends, and strangers. Sometimes her mother gave away the very lunches meant for her children. After a half day at school, my mother and her siblings would sometimes arrive hungry and find nothing to eat. They cried. Other times they were given money to buy bananas or sent to pick sugarcane when there was no food. When there was enough, my grandmother welcomed others into the home.
My mother was simply following that tradition. When she saw someone from her church or community in need, she could not turn them away. When I asked if she would have changed her habits had she known we resented those extras at mealtime, she said she would not. ‘‘How can they go hungry or be troubled if I can be of help?’’ she asked. ‘‘I would do it again and again.’’
I wasn’t thrilled as a child, but now I understand where her kindness came from and how it shaped me. I am grateful for the seeds of compassion she planted in me, in my siblings, and in the many people she has helped over the years.
Esther Ngumbi is an assistant professor of entomology and African American studies at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign.
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