Looking out of the front window of Jessica’s apartment, I see
first a Jacaranda tree with beautiful fuchsia flowers and then a little further
out, I see a group of elderly men sitting on a pile of concrete slabs and
hammering on them in the heat and dust of the roadway, and then just beyond
that a wall behind which I can see the silhouette of a young boy in a
tree. The distance between me and
the boy is not physically far, but between our worlds, there is no measurement
that could possibly quantify that distance. I am a relatively well educated, well off, healthy white
woman and he is a very young, never schooled, homeless and poverty-stricken
street boy. His story, and that of several others, follows:
“My name is Double. I am 6 years old.” In broken English and with the help of
a translator, the beautiful little African boy stood in front of me to relay
the story of his life.
The scene was a small room in a house across the dirt road
from Jessica’s apartment in Ngong, Kenya. There were 21 of us packed like
sardines with no ventilation. Jessica and I had brought them bags of groceries
– staples like rice, flour, sugar, milk along with some juice and biscuits
[sweet crackers]. We also brought blankets made by women at Bethlehem Lutheran
church in the Midway in St. Paul.
They had no blankets and only recently had acquired some mattresses from
a generous donor.
They each received a cup of juice and a biscuit. I watched
in awe as they each sat patiently while everyone was served. No one even tried
to taste a cracker. Then all was silent as one of the little boys began to
pray. It went something like this:
Dear Heavenly Father,
we thank you for these biscuits and juice. We thank you for taking care of us. Thanks for the visitors who have come.
Bless those who have nothing. In the name of the Father, Son, Holy Spirit,
Amen.
As this was being prayed, a little girl was snuggling into
my side and rubbing my leg. She was also 6 and also beautiful and also starved
for affection. When the prayer was over it was difficult for me to look up
because I was ashamed of my tears – and more so, ashamed of all the times I
have felt needs or wants or felt sorry for myself or felt slighted etc etc.
Tracy, the 23-year-old Kenyan woman who took in these
children [after Jessica found the house] is an amazing woman of faith who talks
about how God provides for them. Every Sunday she hauls all 18 children to
church and prays that God will send money for transportation costs for the
whole group. And He does! She was
beyond delighted when Jessica presented her with a computer that Hal Spann
donated and then the food and blankets were an extra bonus. I asked if I could hear some of the
children’s stories. Here are the first of many:
Double’s Story: Age 6
Double ended up on the street because his younger sister got
cancer and was hospitalized. His mother was unable to pay the bill and so she
has been detained by the hospital for 2 years!!! [We have since been told by
some missionary doctors that hospitals are not allowed to do this, so not sure
what the real story is here]. He was taken in by a drug peddler who uses young
street children to beg for drugs. Double slept in some stalls in the
marketplace and there he met Mikey and Peter and the three boys stuck together
and heard about a project in Nairobi and that they could receive free food on
Wednesdays. After going to the project, they met Tracy who took them in.
Mikey’s Story: Age 8
Mikey was a street boy because his mother had an accident
and died, and his father was a drunk and an addict. He begged at Nakkumat
Junction, a popular location for tourists. He also slept in market stalls. One
day a man came to him and talked of a big house and told him many lies, such as
the fact that he would buy him donuts. Mikey followed him to the house to find
it was a vacant building. The man continued to hound Mikey and ended up molesting
and raping him. Then Mikey began
hanging out with 5 other boys. One night the old man brought 5 other men to
rape the 6 boys, but the boys had found a dog who they named Scooby, who barked
enough to give them time to escape from the men. Tracy found the boys and took them to the hospital. This is
currently a police case.
Charles’ Story: Age
14
Charles’ mother beat him, and so to avoid that daily ordeal,
he went to the streets. He lived by collecting and selling scrap metal. On the
streets he met Martin and several other boys who worked and slept together. He
and the other boys sometimes resorted to using drugs or sniffing glue to keep
from being too hungry or cold. He also found out about the project and then met
Tracy and came to live with her.
Martin’s Story: Age
14
Martin lived with his grandmother in Kapsebit [probably 6
hours from Nairobi] but at 14 decided to go to Nairobi and find his mother. He
was able to get a ride from a police officer. When he got to Nairobi he was
amazed at the size and number of buildings. He saw his mom on the street one
day. She was a maid in Westlands but would not acknowledge him because she was
ashamed of him. She finally took him home but would not tell him who his father
was and brought different men home every night and beat Martin. He finally left
to “struggle” on the streets. He collected metals and begged. Sometimes he was
given shoes or bread by generous passers by. He met a group of boys who worked
and slept together and eventually met Tracy. He says now, “I am thanking God. I have a new family and I call Tracy, “mom”.”
There were two boys who were not present to tell THEIR
stories because prior to their being admitted to the “house” they were spending
the night in a ditch when they overheard some men breaking in to a stall across
the road. They rose up in the ditch and called out the men’s names. In
response, the men came after them and murdered them on the spot. Who would know
that they are gone? By whom are they missed? Without ever having met them, I
will remember them forever…
Jess and I came back across the alley, climbed the stairs,
unlocked the doors, and sat and wept.
And I thought back to the days when I graduated from college and chose
to live in the little shack in eastern Kentucky and asked my mother where God
was and why there was such inequality in the world. Now 40 years later, I am
still asking that question…
Today we will go with Tracy to look for another house
because she cannot afford to pay the rent here. Tomorrow I will go with some Swiss
missionaries to a day care they help to sponsor and perhaps I can offer some
very small witness of Christ’s love in my tenderness to the babies.
Today is the end of my first week in Kenya and even at my
age, I have learned some valuable lessons. And I know why Jessica is here, and
I am in awe of her in this setting, and although my motherly concerns will
never cease, my sense of God’s call to her and His blessings on her are
stronger than ever.
