Isabel and I brought over ourselves and five children, which according to East African standards is a very large family for an American but not that large for an African.  I replaced Neil Albright at Bishop Willis TTC in Iganga, Uganda.  Our son, Bill, attended Nairobi School for boys—a place like a reformatory school.  He was fifteen and hated it, transferring to the local secondary school by the second year.  Jennifer, age thirteen, picked up Swahili during our eight weeks at Columbia U and had no trouble learning the local vernacular.  She loved her two years at the local secondary school.  Our twins, Jaan and John, age ten, attended Kaptagat in the "highlands" of Kenya.  They often referred to their internment as "a prison overlooking the Riff Valley,” but she and he survived with no more than a few run-ins with the headmaster, Mr. Chitty, who was often referred to, not so lovingly, as "Mr. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.” 

Our three year old, Nicholas, stayed with us in the campus compound.  I had thought he would maintain a low profile until the following happened: I was elucidating about the quadratic formula when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted young Nicholas trotting across the campus compound toward the sound of my voice: no windows or doors—after all, it's Africa.  He climbed up the entryway into my classroom whereupon the entire twenty-three-male student body stood up and spoke in unison, "Good morning, Master Nicholas.”  I stood there dumbfounded while Nicholas found an empty chair and desk in the front row, climbed up on it, and sat.  I continued to complete the derivation of the formula, but before I could end it, Nicholas had heard the frantic calls of his mother in the distance and climbed off the chair, and was out the door, running toward his mother's voice, hoping he wouldn't get a not so friendly swat on his behind.  Once again they all stood up, said "Good bye"—one astute student wished Nicholas a safe journey.  After a short pause, I suggested we break for tea a bit early. All of us exited with small sly smiles on our faces.

Every time my family and I get together to talk about our experiences in East Africa, the children say “Dad, it’s the greatest gift you ever gave us.” The greatest I ever gave myself too. With a wife and five children, I suspect I had one of the largest families to go over. My daughter attended the local secondary school, one mzungu among seven hundred Africans, and she can still speak Swahili after all these years.