A Matatu ... and tears

Lots of emotions today… I am doing exactly what I want to be doing, but my heart is breaking as I hear the stories & see the lives of the people of Dandora.

Today started out with home visits to 3 children we had learned about through the grapevine… one child likely eligible for HOPE services, but not enrolled and two children with disabilities. Off with Zaire, a very dark, stout Muslim woman with beautiful gold draped clothing… who was a Care Team leader for her section of Dandora. She swept through the streets lined with garbage and running sewage and we walked quickly to keep up with her. She led us into a concrete block building and down a few steps into the pitch dark and down a corridor (I was only following by sound – I could see absolutely nothing & just hoped I didn’t step on or into anything… I had another of those “what in the world am I doing here?” moments). We came to a doorway (which I could not see), covered only by a sheet (which I only felt)& walked into a tiny room (home). Concrete block – no windows… the only light was a single open-flamed candle sitting on a shelf (no candle holder, no glass covering it... just an open candle). Inside was a stepmother with a young baby and a 9 year old boy, who was the orphan… he lost his mother several years ago, and had been out of school since he was seven – no money, no resources, no income, no light… never did my eyes adjust enough to see more than a dark outline of the family. Neither child had ever been registered at birth, so technically did not exist in the eyes of the Kenyan government. How hidden, literally & figuratively, can a child be? We took their information, will help the children get registered and will hopefully get Owen back in school – & into the daylight!

From there, Zaire took us to her home, which ironically was on the 6th floor of the same building Owen lived in – but somehow Zaire had resources… a locked from gate/door opened into a bright, spacious home…. she had multiple rooms in her home, comfortable furniture (each seat & back carefully covered with a white cloth)… she has children & grandchildren, a husband who was quite articulate and welcoming – and an interesting view… a large window in her living room gives a panoramic view of Dandora’s waste dump… all 30 acres of it… some areas smoking…others just raw waste… a little grass covering the older trash. She then took us up to the roof, where we could see everything… including women and children walking over the garbage, scavenging for food and items to use or sell… and another herd of the biggest pigs I have ever seen, galloping across the dump. Zaire pointed out a school adjacent to the dump – lots of children in the playground behind the school. There was a wall separating the schoolyard & dump, but Zaire told us it was relatively new… prior to the wall, the children used the dump as part of their playground. Charles pointed out a section of the dump that has a reputation for being a hot pit of smoldering, liquid trash… rumor has it that you can be lost forever if you step near that pit. And the Mugiki throw their enemies there. Creepy – I’ll stay away.

From that happy place, we went down the street & Zaire hailed a matatu for us – it was one of those days where I wanted to say, “wait… I was never going to do this!”… but seconds later I found myself in a matatu with a dozen other people & very thankful I knew the people on either side of me… we rode for about 10 minutes (the ride was as crazy as you might expect) and arrived to another site in Dandora, this time to visit a mother with two special needs children. This time, the home was again very small, simple wood & tin – but inside was bright & clean. Again, almost no room to sit – a bunk bed, sewing machine and small bench basically took up the entire floor space of the room. Here we met Jane and her two sons – and here was the first time I cried in Dandora. Jane was a beautiful woman in her 30’s, soft-spoken, a warm smile and tender spirit about her. Her oldest son was 17 and lying in almost a fetal position on the ground on a soft mat outside the door when we entered – he was unable to walk, sit or move himself; his hands & feet were severely contracted; but he greeted us with a smile and said hello. Her younger son, 7 years old, was able to walk, although his hands, feet & legs feet were distorted; he could not speak however and drooled continually; I would guess had some kind of retardation or developmental delays. She had been told that “neither boy cried immediately when they were born and that affected their brains”… I am guessing CP for the older boy, that plus something else for the younger son. The boys were both immaculately cared for. The older boy had no “bed sores” and despite the fact that he was also incontinent, his skin was soft & he was completely clean, even to his nails.

Jane told us her story – softly, no self-pity – her first husband abandoned her after it was apparent that their newborn son had problems - before the baby boy even came home from the hospital. When the medical bills grew, her own family shunned her. Just a few years later, she married again and had a daughter who is normal, in school and living outside Nairobi with other family members. Then she had her final son. When it became apparent that the younger son also had problems, this boy’s dad said “Your stomach is the one producing these things…” and he also abandoned her. Her struggles? Things like how to shop for food while carrying her 17 year old on her back (years ago an agency gave her a wheelchair, but it is now broken)… how to get schooling or medical help for her boys… how to grow her sewing business when she cannot leave the boys alone. She did not ask for food or money – she just wanted an opportunity to work in a way that would allow her to provide for her sons, whom she obviously loved deeply. The burdens of life in this slum just seem deeper & deeper… just when you think you’ve seen the worst, another person comes along with another story of life which, through no fault of their own (like Jane and her sons – or the little boy in the Ngara school who was not only a completely orphaned, waste dump/slum dweller, but also mentally retarded) is so utterly difficult that the disparity, the injustice is overwhelming. Why are their lives like their lives & why is mine like mine?

OK, more tears… but we are going back to see what business plan we can help Jane with… she showed us the things she sews – sweet clothing, diapers & mats for babies, carefully packed & tied for sale.

And then today, I also saw a mother cry – the first time I had seen tears in the slum. Her son is Victor. Interestingly I had seen Victor’s picture before I had even come to Kenya - early on, when I was googling all I could find about Dandora, I found a site by a professional photojournalist, who had evidently done some work with HOPE & had posted his pictures online. Victor’s picture was among those posted & I found him captivating and the story about his twisted legs compelling. Then, the very first day I was in Dandora, Victor (maybe 10-12 yo) walked in the office (using crutches) with a friend. Funny, bright, friendly. Makena wanted me to see his foot – so Victor took his sturdy school shoe off - & I didn’t even know what I was looking at – I quickly realized the black I was looking at was not part of the shoe, but his grossly swollen foot with a red, weeping center & what may have been bone – gruesome & the odor was sickening. I can’t imagine how he walked; it was either excruciating or the tissue was so dead the feeling was lost. He put his shoe back on & left as brightly & quickly as he had come.

Today, Victor’s mother was in… I think there are so many “issues” to deal with (food, shelter, clothing, school fees) that most people don’t ever get asked how they are feeling about things. Makena brought Victor’s mom in just to talk and soon this strong mother was in tears – not self-pity tears… more like grieving tears…not a lot, but enough to stop talking. No money, no answers from doctors, no hope for getting a second opinion…one surgery left Victor incontinent, so he stuffs rags in his clothing so he can continue in school. Kevin B will be here soon – so I could likely get him a medical assessment by one of the best – but I doubt this is a one antibiotic cure illness… and who will cover things after Kevin is gone? More deep & troubling questions… the value of a life. Makena left quickly after Victor’s mother left… I think she was crying too.

I go to bed somewhat heavy-hearted tonight, but eager to return tomorrow (so don’t worry about me, Frank!) ...and thinking about the remarkable strength and resilience of the people I am meeting.