By Dawn
This past July, I spent a few weeks leading a writers’ workshop on the island of Lamu, Kenya. With no paved roads and no cars, the narrow, twisting streets are filled with donkeys. Most buildings, including the hotel where we met, are made of dead coral, and since there is no window glass, you hear everything going on outside, from the early morning call of the muezzin to late-night street fights.
One particular noise was inescapable. It came from the yard next door, where we could see a lone donkey kept in a tiny cage day and night, braying piteously. On Lamu, the donkeys are work animals, carrying heavy loads during the day and allowed to roam free at night, except for this one isolated creature. As the days went by, the plight of this donkey began to weigh on me. Tony, my teaching colleague who lives in Nairobi, told me not to let it get to me, but I could see that it was starting to get to him too.
Finally, Tony decided to walk over and find the donkey’s owner. From the hotel, we could all hear the ensuing, increasingly heated argument in Swahili. Tony returned and said angrily, That guy is barely even feeding the donkey. He doesn’t care if it’s suffering, he just wants to sell it and be rid of it.
