Grace In A Shanty Town

After yoga class, a student approached and asked if I’d be interested in visiting one of the most impoverished areas of Nairobi. After a moment of hesitation, I agreed. She wasted no time in connecting me with a colleague of her husband’s who lives in Kibera, one of the largest, most impoverished, areas of East Africa, inhabited by more than 300,000 people. To respect his privacy, I will call my contact “Jim”.  I spoke to Jim over the phone and WhatsApp, and he agreed to walk me though Kibera for the afternoon. I honestly had no idea what to expect. Just to be on the safe side, I decided to leave my camera at home and I carried only a few shillings (the local currency) for a taxi, and a burner phone that I wouldn’t miss, should it go missing.

I met Jim at the Yaya, a shopping center about a 20 minute walk from Kibera. I was immediately stuck by two things. First, that the area resembled a construction site, with the red Kenyan soil thrown about. Secondly, the paradox of a seemingly “whites only” golf course just on the outskirts of Kibera. A golf course with perfectly trimmed green grass, manicured trees and an actual wall separating the two areas. I couldn’t hide my surprise to Jim, who just shrugged his shoulders. 

Jim mentioned that most of the people living here are not originally from Nairobi. They moved to the capital from other impoverished areas of Kenya, in hopes of finding a job to improve their lives, and those of their families. The competition is though, Jim explained, “there aren’t many good jobs for black people”. Jim is a trained electrician, who feels grateful to have a job and is determined to hold on to it. There is no space for dreams. Having a job means being able to provide food and shelter for his family. And with a little luck and a lot of effort, being able to afford his children’s school. He knows that having a high school diploma and a college degree can make a big difference in the lives of his children. 

The Family Home

After walking with Jim for a half hour, he wanted to show me his home. It was an unexpected and pleasant surprise. He is married to a lovely, demure, wife I’ll call Martha. They have three children (one boy and two year old twin daughters). I can’t remember all of their names except for Chelsea who was named after Jim’s favorite English football team (Chelsea F.C.). Jim looked proud as he introduced me to his family. He was eager to share his life with a foreigner, someone that could listen openly and maybe understand a little better how life is for him and his people. Then, Jim and Martha warmly offered me lunch. 

To be transparent, I grew up in a country (Italy) where forty years ago there were almost no other races or cultures beyond “Italian”. I never had to think about racial disparities until I was an adult. I grew up Italian, in Italy, surrounded by other Italians. Therefore, I can’t truly appreciate the depth of what it might have meant to Jim to have me in his home. Yet, it was easy to notice how surprised his neighbors were to see a white man in flip-flops wandering about. There must not be many “outsiders” interested in getting to know Kibera and its people. 

Jim told me that it’s difficult for the locals to trust any “whites”. There isn’t any open conflict, simply a fear of being used and then thrown aside once a profitable business for whites is established. How could I blame him? Historically, “whites” were the group of people who ‘invaded’ the country centuries ago. The average European working for an NGO or as an intern at the United Nations, as my flatmates did, are comparatively ‘rich’ when compared to the people of Kibera. Yet, Jim says the “real plague” of Kenya is not “whites” or “foreigners”, it’s corruption. For example, he told me a few years ago, several million shillings were invested in fixing some of Kibera’s infrastructure (the main roads in particular). Years later, those same roads were worse than before. This, of course, negatively affected the traffic and impinged people’s daily life. He said, “Some people were paid millions of shillings to rebuild this road, but because they don’t live here, they don’t care. They probably used crap materials, did a poor job, and made high profits. So, the government’s lost money and five years later, the road is destroyed again”. 

The main challenge of Kibera is not the roads, but the toilets (or lack thereof). In the neighborhood where Jim lives, there is one toilet for about 400 people. I repeat, ONE TOILET FOR 400 PEOPLE. There’s electricity for the television, but no clean running water. Most houses are built out of old wooden panels and sheet metal. My guide and his family (five people) live in one tiny room of about 3 to 4 square meters. This houses two beds joined together and a couch, underneath which they kept two live chickens to be eaten for Christmas. There’s also a small television and a small charcoal stove. That’s all. Yet, they welcomed me as an old friend with warmth and kindness, they offered me food and were open to tell me their story and to listen to my travel adventures across the globe.

The Streets Of Kibera

Once outside of the home, we continued to walk his neighborhood. We walked the lower part, at the base of the hill, where Jim previously lived. “Nowadays it’s dangerous even for me now to walk at night here if I come back late from work,” he admitted, “during the day it’s safe, but I’ll tell you when you can shoot some photos”.

The rest of the walk brought me close to a large construction site where new apartments were being built. Hopefully, they will allow some of the people of Kibera to move to more adequate housing.  I passed the Kibera Town Centre, which offers good toilets and hot showers for a few shillings. Progress is visible, but it seams to me that there’s much more that can be done for this area. 

I kept noticing people looking at me with a half-surprised, half-curious, expression on their face, but no one approached me in a threatening manner or was unkind. I actually felt perfectly safe. Those that were most curious – the children – did approach me. They were laughing, excited to see, touch and (I suppose) make fun of my strange skin and unusual physical features. I can’t recall how many hi-fives I exchanged with them. They screamed, “Mundungu Mundungu”. That’s the Swahili word for “white”.

Kibera, it’s a very lively city. Lots of people are walking around, a lot of people are working on the street or in small shops. It’s a city inside a city with its own beauty centers, butchers, dry fish sellers, clothing and grocery shops. They are all very small and fashioned out of sheet metal. The streets are fairly crowed and local scooter drivers can be dangerous for pedestrians. This liveliness, the movement of people going up and down at all times of day, people chatting – this is what surprised me the most about this area. Life.

My exploration ended at the football field where local kids were engaged in a game of football (soccer). I watched the game together with a few parents and local fans. The field was bare soil with many holes, but the kids didn’t care. Life at its simplest – run behind the ball, score, be happy! I remembered how I did the same for years and years on the asphalt streets of southern Italy or the city parks in the North. Nothing else mattered, just the ball. I just wanted to run and have fun as much as the children of Kibera.  

At 5pm,the game wasn’t finished yet but it was time for me to go (before sunset). Side by side, Jim and I walked back to the Yaya Centre where we first met. There I could easily catch an Uber. I tried to reserve one in Kibera while watching the kids play, but no driver would take the request.

When we made it to the Mall’s entrance, we stood facing each other for a few moments, both unsure on what to say. I finally spoke and thanked him for the unique opportunity he granted me – for the opportunity to learn about his family, his culture, his challenges and his way of life. I quickly hugged him, before shaking hands and departing in opposite directions. Me, toward my comfortable Airbnb (and soon back to Europe), him, toward Kibera and his loved ones.

It took me all night and the next day to fully absorb what I’d experienced. I looked through the pictures on my phone, and recalled the sounds, smells, and feelings over and over again. I am sure I learned something, even if I can’t quite express it in words. I may have even made a new friend, or at the very least started a conversation between worlds that sometimes seam eons apart. 

I’m still in contact with Jim. We speak every so often, and I sent him some gifts for Christmas. He’s a sweet guy who loves his family and works hard toward a better life. If you would like to support him and his children, drop me a line and we can do it together.

Salama!

edited by Kristen Llorca