I taught English at an African secondary school for boys not far from Nairoibi, Kenya.

The school had its own compound of buildings, playing fields and houses for teachers. Beyond the compound was what was then called the Kikuyu Reserve, an African settlement of thatched houses and small shambas.

One day I took a walk with a schoolboy along a very narrow track outside of the school grounds. Coming toward us from a distance along this track were two Kikuyu women. When our paths crossed, we stopped to talk.

We exchanged greetings and my schoolboy friend translated their Kikuyu greeting into English for me and translated my greeting in English into Kikuyu for them.

After we had exchanged greetings, one woman made a surprising declaration.

“What did she say?” I asked my schoolboy friend.

“She says you are her son,” he replied.

I think I laughed and objected.

“No,” she said, “you are my son.  If my son was in your country you would be his father and he would be your son.  But you are in our country and I am your mother and you are my son.”

I had to think about what she said. 

This African woman was telling me about our basic human solidarity beyond the differences of language, customs, histories, skin color, or the flags of our nationalities.

Since that chance meeting, I have been continuously touched by the generosity of that woman's remark and the tenderness of her powerful acceptance.