Living in Africa as a white girl with a U.S. passport means that I live a privileged and protected life.

It's not that I seek privilege. It's more that my education, background, connections and resources mean that regardless of how simple my lifestyle is in comparison to peers back in the States, I live well above the quality of life that the vast majority of Africans around me live. And protection comes with this status. I am protected from hunger, from cold and rain, from heat and back-breaking work.

Essentially, I am not impacted by the elements. I sometimes think that this is the line that truly separates me from most of my African friends. Season in and season out, bread appears on my table. Whether there is enough grass for the cattle or not, I can find milk for my tea. It may be powdered milk imported from Holland, but I can find it.

Ndeito works as our night guard. (Security is another story, worthy of a post of its own.) He arrives at our house at 5:30pm, 6 nights a week. He leaves at about 5:30am. I like him. I like his quiet and thorough manner. I like that he likes my dogs. I like that he comes and tells me we shouldn't leave the bicycles out and I like that he is thankful every single night for the thermos of hot and sweet milky tea I take to him before I go to bed.

Last week Ndeito had some really crummy stuff happen. While he was here at work one night his prized ox died. Now you should understand that for months there was not much grass left around here. Things were getting pretty grim. Though we couldn't feel the real pain of it, we knew that if rain didn't come soon, cattle would begin to die. The rains came, though. They came and came and came. The grass grew lush and those of us who don't know any better would have thought that this could only be good news.

What I didn't know is that this new grass can make the cattle bloat. Ndeito's ox died because he was full of new grass. If my night guard had been home that night he would have most likely been able to save his hard working ox by stabbing him in the right spot to allow the gas to escape. But he wasn't home and his kids didn't know what to do and the leader of his plowing team was gone by the time he arrived back. And just a few days after this loss, the family's milk cow suffered the same.

The thing that makes my life so different from that of those around me is margin. There is no real margin in the lives of most Africans. If your milk cow dies, that's it. There IS no more milk.

Speaking of milk, my folks were here at Christmas and my Mom was a little alarmed at how many perishable items I left out on the counter at night. I wasn't being lazy, you know. I just couldn't fit everything into our little fridge. Mum was worried about germs, as a mother should be, and she went home and rounded up a few friends and pretty soon we had a gift large enough for a great big fridge.

The fridge was delivered today and I just love it. I've never had a big new fridge. It's gleaming white and I can't wait to put pretty colored produce into it tomorrow. Red tomatoes, green peppers, yellow squash, bright orange carrots--they're all going to last for ages in that cavernous chilly space.

But as excited as I am about this new fridge, I can't help but feel a little sick. It cost more than a year's salary for a minimum wage worker in this country.

What am I supposed to do with that?