Living My Memories

How much of our lives do we simply allow to pass us by? How often are we actually thankful for each morning that we wake up, take in a deep breath, and get out of bed? How often do we forget that our time here on this earth is limited?

I don’t intend to sound morbid with this. But, for myself, I need to remember. I need to remind myself that my life is limited. My time is limited. And there is so much that I am missing.

This has been more and more on my mind as my time here in Kenya comes closer and closer to an end. I’m at the two month mark when I will board a plane and leave this beautiful place that has taken me in and become my home. My time here has been so short. Lately, I’ve found that I pause during some of the more ‘mundane’ aspects of my daily life here, and just pause to soak them in.

I find myself sitting at the dinner table with my host family and just staring at their faces as they talk and laugh and listen to the news.

I find myself on a matatu, listening intently to the blaring reggae music and gazing out the windows at the shops, vendors, and passersby of Kibera. 

I find myself standing at my friend’s vegetable stall after purchasing some produce, after the conversation has ended, simply looking at her face and the rest of her wares for sale.

I find myself thrilling at the normal, comforting sights, sounds, and smells of the streets in my neighborhood as women fry samosas, men laugh in the bars, and children run down the road.

I find myself enjoying the forced ‘study breaks’ when my little buddy, Fadhili, runs into my house to play.

And when I enter these moments, it feels as if the whole world slows down for a few seconds as I take everything in. A heaviness of emotion fills the air, and it’s almost as if I am seeing the heart of the moment, the truth behind the ordinariness of the scene. It’s as if I see it in its true form.

And when these things happen, I realize that I am living my memories. What is happening today will, in just a few short months, become a memory. And everything about this place, no matter how big or small, is worthy of a memory. I want to remember it all. I want to live these memories to the fullest that my heart and mind and soul are capable of. 

And I realize that there are countless moments that I have missed. There are thousands of memories that I have allowed to slip past me. Unseen, unnoticed. It's as if I've deemed certain moments of my life unworthy of remembering. 

And I don’t want to allow myself to do that anymore. This life that we are given is too short to take it for granted. It is said that Christ came to give us life, and to give us life abundantly. Have I been too nonchalant, too laissez-faire with the wonderful, priceless gift that I’ve been given? Lord, let it not be so!

So, while my time here is coming to an end, and I am striving to live all of the memories that it has to offer me, I pray that I won’t forget this. That I won’t forget the preciousness and the beauty of life in all that God created and intended it to be. And in all that He created and intended me to be in it. For He is far too good, and life is far too good, to be unlived and forgotten. 

Marvelous Monotony

Have you ever sat down and thought what you’re doing is not enough?  That somehow your soul has become sluggish and your heart has withered up like a leaf during the last throes of autumn.  That your motivation has evaporated and your dreams have become mirages on the distant horizon, just visible enough to make you believe that they’re still there and yet hazy enough to doubt their reality.

I have.

I find myself thinking thoughts like these from time to time.  Wondering what I’m doing, how I can go on in the same way day after day.  Wishing to be a part of something fantastical, something extraordinary, wanting to change the world.  Hoping against hope that someday, things will become dynamic, change will become apparent, and I will be freed from the monotony of everyday, stagnant living. 

But, if I’m honest with myself, I know it won’t.

And for a dreamer, for someone who sees the potential of the future, this is a hard reality to accept.  I wrestle with it in my innermost thoughts and in the depths of my soul that I so often try to avoid.  Dreaming, wishing, hoping that the utopia I’ve seen can become a reality and that I can be a part of the movement that brings it into being.  And yet knowing at the same time that it is beyond my grasp.  It becomes an unbearable irony, to have such hope for a new world and also seeing the impossibilities.

Sometimes it feels like a terrible burden.  To wake up in the morning knowing that it won’t be today.  That the next 24 hours will not mark the shift from an era of violence, inequality, corruption, poverty, and death to an era of peace, equity, justice, sustainability, and life.  And yet hoping against hope that it would.

It’s easy to become discouraged, seeing the negativity and darkness displayed in the news, on TV, in the papers.  To hear stories from friends about government corruption, police brutality, discrimination, and the loss of life.  It’s easy to fall into despair, believing that a new, brighter world couldn’t possibly come to being.

But then, I hear the excitement in the voice of a slum school manager as she talks about starting up a girls’ football (soccer) team in her community.  I see the joy in a friend’s face as she receives the small change needed to buy a snack from a nearby shop.  I hear the gratefulness from a sister at the promise of receiving a helping hand with her school assignments.  I witness the relief and excitement of a woman finally getting the legal rights to her land that she’s been fighting for over the last 5 years.

And I realize that life is not nearly as stagnant as I thought.  That each seemingly monotonous motion, each normal act of care and kindness is in fact a movement in and of itself.

It’s not a new thought, nor a very novel one.  Many people have said that change starts with the individual and through day-to-day living.  But, just because it is well said and well-known does not make it an easy thing to live by.  For the dreamers and visionaries, for those passionate about seeing the world change for the better, it can be a terribly hard notion to accept.  And with our ever globalizing world and achievement driven society, it’s hard not to want to be a part of something grandiose that will leave a mark on the world.

But the world is such a big place, such a large entity, sometimes difficult to comprehend.  With 7 continents, vast oceans, and billions of people, how can one person leave a visible mark?  We are each only one person in one specific place for such a short point in time.

And yet, that’s it, isn’t it?  We are each one person.  And the world is made up of people such as us.  What better way to leave a mark on the world than to leave a mark on the people around us. 

Thus, each monotonous motion, each normal act of care and kindness, each part of our seemingly stagnant lives becomes a movement.  A movement that takes place inside each of our souls.  It’s movement from believing that these simple actions are irrelevant to believing that each action sparks change, leaves a mark, and brightens up the world, even just a little bit, in that very place, in that very moment.

It’s a movement from seeing myself as the greatest agent of change to realizing that I am only a small cog in a far greater machine.  And that this is in fact better.  If there was only one person working towards a better world to come, it would never happen.  It would be impossible.  And that’s where the murmurs of my heart were true.  I can’t be a sole world changer.  And life won’t necessarily become anything that appears extraordinary from afar. But, with others equally desirous of such a future, working together, all of a sudden impossibilities become possibilities.  And monotony is no longer so monotonous.

See, the Kingdom of God is something we often talk about and believe to be in the distant future.  It’s easier to accept that it will not come until the End Times because then we are not responsible for doing anything about it now.  But, we also say that the Kingdom is present.  And I have seen this and know it to be true.  So instead of simply talking about the Kingdom being here, can we actually do something about it?  Can we abandon our selfish-ambition, our desire for notoriety, and humble ourselves to actually make a difference?  Will we choose to live a simple life with the people around us, as Jesus did, and impact others to create a better future?

I have to fight an internal battle daily.  I have to fight the feeling that makes me believe that my actions are insignificant and not fantastic enough to make a difference.  I have to struggle against my own ambition and pride and choose humility and service. I have to choose to believe that by being a positive impact in the lives of those around me, I am part of a movement towards a better world, towards making the Kingdom a reality. 

And while sometimes I lose the battle, on the days that I win, I can see the mirage slowly fade away, dreams come into focus, and the future become reality.  I see the Kingdom come to life both inside my own soul and in the souls of those around me.  In the marvelous monotony of everyday living. 

A Larger Family

It’s been far too long since my last blog – apologies! Life has been hectic, as my masters program comes closer and closer to an end. Only seven more months left of living in this wonderful place that I now consider home.

And I do consider this place a home. Having lived here for fully one year, it has taken on a unique familiarity that I wasn't sure would happen. Walking on the streets, the sounds and smells are familiar. Street vendors recognize me, and I know their names. I exchange greetings with acquaintances and friends as I go from one place to another. I have cravings for local foods and I've gotten so used to hearing the Muslim call to prayer, that I barely register it anymore. And when I've left Kibera for a while, when I’m returning and we reach a certain turn in the road, I feel internally a sense of calm contentment that only comes to you when you've arrived home.

I have family here. Genuine, loving family. I know which foods they love and which foods they hate. I know what time they’ll arrive home in the evening and what time they’ll leave in the morning. I know whose laundry is whose. I know all of their smiles, all of their laughs. And all because they opened their home and their lives to me. We've lived together for one year - eating together, cleaning together, traveling together, being sick together. We've cried together, laughed together, prayed together. We've shared our hopes and we've dreamed together. When I first came, I was a stranger in almost every way. Yet, they have warmly and graciously allowed me to become a part of their family, and I am overwhelmed by it daily.

This family, my family, along with many other friends that I have made, is what has so strongly endeared me to this place. The bonds we have made are much deeper than what I imagined when I initially moved into their small home a year ago. Although there is so much that could have separated us – language, culture, history, socioeconomics, lifestyle – there has been a beautiful openness and willingness to learn and grow together, to foster friendship and kinship, to love one another. And that simple, humble love has changed me.

While I love my family back in my Minnesota home immensely, my heart has expanded to love this family as a part of my own. But family is more than biology and genetics. It always has been. We are all part of the human family and as Christians we are part of the family of God. Recognizing and acknowledging that is one thing. To live it out is something completely different. My family here has shown me what it is to love as a part of a larger family, a family that has no boundaries defined by geography, ethnicity, culture, language, income, education, or social class. They've shown me something far more valuable and lasting than anything I have seen during my time here.

Family was always meant to be greater than the one that I was born to. Before, it was merely a theoretical concept, something my head understood, but my heart didn't. Now, that family has a face, it has a certain smile, it has a distinct laugh. That family has a heart - and it has stolen mine. 

Joy in Daily "Inconveniences"

Recently, I've been thinking about how living here is… well, comfortable. And some people might think that sounds strange, to say that living in the slums is comfortable. But, almost 9 months in, I can honestly say that this place feels like home. The things that used to be inconvenient I can now see some beauty… or humor in. Let me give you a little picture of the daily “inconveniences” that now make me feel at home here in Kibera.

1.      Bucket Baths

The infamous bucket baths. I would wager that almost everyone who’s ever been on a short-term mission trip overseas has encountered one of these. Most people, including myself, are initially shocked at how little water they have to bathe in and struggle to cup their hands appropriately in order to splash themselves with water without wasting any (this is an art form, trust me). This is what I do every day, and after about a week of it, I began to really appreciate my bucket baths. I don’t know about you, but sometimes I spend too much time in the shower, and this has been an excellent way to cut back on my daily “prep” time. Plus, there’s something that just feels good about conserving water use, and then reusing the water from my bucket bath the “flush” my squatty potty (thanks to my brother for inspiring and encouraging me to be more environmentally friendly with my life).

My bathroom: complete with cleaning supplies, "flush" bucket, squatty potty, and bathing basin.

2.      Squatty Potties

Like bucket baths, almost anyone who has ever been overseas has probably used one of these. Again, the technique takes some time to learn, but I have found that squatty potties are really pretty great! Not only does it take less time to use the restroom, it uses less water (because you pour it in yourself, instead of allowing a machine to automatically add more than is needed), AND it’s a workout for your legs! Be gone thunder thighs!

3.      Filling Water Buckets

For those back at home, it might be hard to think about not having access to running water. But for people in the slums, this is completely normal and almost universal. Initially, the downside was having to cart water to my house from the compound area in buckets (we have three: one for kitchen use, one for bathroom use, and one for bathing). But when you think about it, it’s actually not that bad. You’re using much less water than leaving the faucet running and again, you get a free workout! If you want to get rid of any arm flab, simply stop using running water – your arms will thank you.

4.      Unreliable Electricity

Here in Kibera, a lot of people use tapped electrical lines to obtain electricity. We don’t do that in my house, but regardless, my line is one of the worst for electrical reliability in my neighborhood. Just a week or so ago, we went 5 days without any electricity. It was kind of an inconvenience that time, but most times our electricity goes out it’s only for a day or two. But, you want to know what’s great about electrical outages? It’s actually quiet in the slums. No TVs are blaring, music isn't constantly in the background, and people actually talk to each other. Imagine everyone in your neighborhood’s electricity went off for a few days. You might actually get to know your neighbors a bit more, wouldn't you? Plus, it’s an excuse to have candle-lit dinners every night, for all of you romantics out there.

Life teaches you to be creative - Don't have candle holders? Tin coffee mugs do the trick!

5.      Matatus

If I haven’t mentioned matatus before, these are souped-up 15 passenger vans that are used as the main form of public transportation around Nairobi and Kenya. Initially, they’re kind of intimidating. There’s typically a man hanging from the door, shouting prices and locations, and it’s honestly confusing for the first few times. But, once you get the hang of it, matatus are great! It’s really cheap transportation (typically $0.11 – $0.57 per trip), you don’t have to drive, you don’t need to know exactly how to get there (which is great for directionally challenged people like me), and it’s usually pretty quick. Plus, you occasionally get to randomly meet your friends on the way, which doesn’t really happen if you’re driving your own separate cars.

6.      Shopping

Okay, I need to be honest. Shopping initially scared me here. First of all, I’m not a huge fan of shopping, but on top of that, I didn’t know what fair prices were or even where to find things. But now that I’ve been here for a while, I know all of those things and I’ve made friends with the shop vendors around my house. In the mornings, I barely have to walk more than 100 yards to get my milk and eggs. And Mama Lucy, the lady I always buy them from, knows exactly which brand of milk I prefer and how many eggs I typically need. Much better than driving to the grocery store and I’ve made a great friend as well!

7.      Unannounced Visitors

This might be the only thing that still sometimes feels like an inconvenience, but I’m really starting to appreciate this quirk about living in Kibera. In the U.S., we always call our friends and arrange a time to stop by and visit. In Kibera, people think you’re strange if you do that. Just come over! If I’m home, then that’s great. If not, I’ll probably be home in an hour, so just wait for me. That’s the general attitude of the people here, and it’s typically true. Women are usually in their homes or around nearby, and since I typically only visit women, this is often what I do. There is something wonderful about being able to just go and stop by your friend’s house without informing them. It makes the friendship seem that much more real and unconditional, that no matter the time of day, you are always welcome in your friend’s house. I often get sporadic visitors – my favorite being the little 2 year old from my host family, my immediate neighbors. He often just pops in during the day to say hello, laugh, and eat my oranges, if I have any.

Fadhili, my "little man"

So, there it is. Life in Kibera. The simplicity of living here is so refreshing, and while it may have seemed burdensome at first, the joy I find in living simply here with my new found friends and family is going to be the hardest part of saying goodbye, when the time comes. May you be encouraged to live simply where you are and to find beauty and humor in the “simple things”. 

Finding a Harmony

I had a wonderful epiphany a few weeks ago, and it all starts with a story from one of my first weeks living with my host family in Kibera.

It was evening in Kibera – the sky darkening in the twilight and the stars brightening the sky, even on the edge of the city. Everyone was home, relaxing after a long day of work and school. Enid, Masi and Maureen were engrossed in a Mexican soap opera on the television, Francis was reclining in his chair, listening to his radio, Agi was lying down, practically asleep on the couch, Mama Agi was drinking her tea with the typical three spoonfuls of sugar, and little Fadhili was pushing his toy car along the tile floor. We ate our late supper together and, feeling inspired, I pulled out a now well-worn notebook with a felt giraffe sewn onto the cover. Just as I sat down at the supper table after a majority of the dishes had been cleared, the electricity flashed off. Undeterred, I turned the small flashlight in my phone on and began to write. Unlike most times that I write poetry or lyrics, a melody came to me almost immediately. As I wrote, I sung and hummed along with the words that quickly appeared on the pages. Before I knew it, the whole song was written. Excited, I began to sing and within a matter of minutes, three of my host sisters appeared at my side.

“You can write music?”

“Will you sing it for us?”

“I want to hear what you wrote!”

Still slightly shy about sharing my music, I started hesitantly, but shared what I had just written. They all gave modest comments about my song and wanted to read and hear some of my other works. I let them browse through my notebook for a while and shared one other song I had written. At that point, Agi sat down next to me and said, “I want to learn your song. Would you sing it at church? I can arrange for it some Sunday! We could sing it together!” Encouraged by her enthusiasm, I began singing my song with Agi following along. After a while, she switched from copying my melody to creating a harmony to my song. In about 15 minutes, the song had been altered from mere words on paper to a melody with a complementing harmony.

Now that I’ve been here for a longer span of time, I have come to recognize that the life and culture here is not all excitement and novelty, but it’s also not all despairing and hopeless. It is a complicated and beautiful mixture of both. Some days I find myself overwhelmed with feelings of being so strange, uncomfortable, and out of place in this corner of the world. Other days, I can’t help but feel as though I was meant to be here, and it begins to feel like home.

In every moment, whether I am feeling ostracized or included into the fabric of life, I need to find the harmony.

Agi had it right when she started learning the song I had written. She began by learning the melody, the part that I was singing and had written with clear understanding. Once she had the basic idea, she then moved on to sing a complementary part, the harmony, to make the song fuller and more vibrant. In the same way, I need to be addressing life and culture here. I need to start by learning the basic melody, the basic aspect of culture and daily life. Then I need to find my complementary part to what is already happening here.

Because truthfully, I will never be able to sing the melody perfectly. I am not capable of ever truly becoming an insider here in Kibera. My skin color and hair, my access to wealth, and my upbringing in middle-class America will always separate me from my neighbors and friends. I may become so familiar with it that I no longer make faux pas and know the right things to say and do, but the community will always regard me as the outsider that decided to join them. And, if I’m honest with myself, there are aspects of my own culture that I will not be able to ever fully remove.

Instead of being saddened by this reality, I need to embrace it. I need to find the harmony that I can sing. How can I play a complementary role to the life and culture that I see around me? What can I offer to make life fuller and more vibrant for those that I come into contact with? For those parts of culture that are good and life-giving, like the emphasis on family and community, I can become a participant. As much as I am able and allowed to, I can participate in life as it happens around me. My harmony will be sweet and supportive, rising and falling with the melody. For those parts of culture that can corrupt or lead people astray, like the use of shamans or witchdoctors when medications and consultations don’t work, I can stand firmly against. My harmony will be discordant, dissonant, and sometimes harsh to the listener. Like many great compositions, my harmony should confront and then resolve with the melody at all times.

This is my task and this is my goal: to find the harmony to the life and culture of the people around me. And to do that, I need to first start with learning what I can of the melody from them, the original songwriters.

Stories of a Mzungu

For those who don’t know Kiswahili, “mzungu” means “white person” or “person of European ancestry”. This is what is constantly hollered after me by men, women, and children alike as I walk the streets of Kibera in Nairobi, Kenya. This is my new identity, and with it come many cultural experiences, both humorous, heartbreaking, and everything inbetween.  Here are a few of them.

The Chicken and the Rain

 

Yesterday, I spent most of the day with my host family, attending church with them, eating ugali for lunch, and then working on a bit of classwork. In the afternoon, one of my host sisters received a call from my host mom, asking her to come to the school she manages to grab the chicken for dinner that night, since she wouldn’t be retuning until later. I knew that my host mom’s school was in a part of the slum I hadn’t been to before, so I offered to go with her. In a few minutes, we were headed out the door. As soon as we stepped outside, we noticed a large number of dark clouds ahead. “We’re going to need to hurry to beat the rain!” So, off we went, almost skipping down the main road, turning off into an alleyway, hopping over the trash and on various rocks, walking across a branch bridge, and climbing up a hill to get to the school. When we had stepped inside and made it to my host mom’s office, the rain came pouring down. The roofs for most of the homes and buildings in Kibera are made of a tin-like substance or corrugated metal, making the rain sound like one hundred men were pounding on the ceiling. I looked around my host mom’s office, trying to see what her daily work would look like, and lo and behold! There, under the desk, was a rooster – our dinner. Slightly irritated by the rain, it crowed once and then began to shift from one leg to the other until it had resigned itself to a somewhat comfortable position amidst all of the stacks of items around the room. As it continued to rain, we soon discovered that there were a few slight leaks in the roof. We quickly scrambled to find some basins to catch the water in and sat down to wait out the rain. About an hour in, the rain became even harder – it turned out not to be rain, but hail! The hail began to crush the ceiling, and pieces of the cement and plaster around the ceiling and wooden supports broke off and fell on my head. We all laughed at this, although there was some concern about the ceiling withholding through the storm. While we were waiting for the rain to lighten, I found a world map and showed them where my home was in the United States and how large the country was. Then we looked at Kenya and where we were now and where their home village was. It was a great moment when I could share with them where I come from, see where they come from, and recognize how vast the distance and difference between us is. Within about two hours, the rains had ended and my host sister and I could take the chicken and some vegetables home with us. To carry the chicken, they grabbed a plastic grocery bag and tossed him in. Upon leaving the school, we were confronted with a very slippery, muddy hill to scale down. Almost half of the return journey, my host sister held my hand to steady my steps. While those of us who grew up in Minnesota learned how to walk carefully and without misstep on the icy ground, those who grow up in Kibera learn how to walk on the slippery, uneven, and often steep, muddy roads. We scaled down the hill, crossed the branch bridge, avoided the now running garbage and sewage, and made it back to our home. We rinsed off our feet and our shoes, and grabbed a warm cup of Kenyan tea. When I asked about the chicken, I was told that it was too late to prepare it for the evening. That rooster made for a late night and early morning for me – not only is chicken a rare meat for my host family and makes for a tasty meal, I am looking forward to that bird being silenced! (That picture is the actual chicken, in the corridor at my host home, which will be prepared for dinner in just a few hours!) 

Marriage Proposal

About a week or so ago, I made a new friend on my line (what they call residential streets in Kibera). Jane is an older lady who sells fruits and vegetables from a small, corrugated metal stand just 200 yards away from my host home. One night she greeted me on my way home, so I stopped and introduced myself. From that day forward, Jane has been a priceless friend – someone who I can practice my Kiswahili with, who shares fruit with me almost daily, and a friendly face in a sometimes difficult place. One day, on my way home, Jane offered to have me join her in her stand. I accepted, and she gave up her seat for me to be comfortable. After cutting a mango for me to snack on, a number of people came to buy produce and talk with Jane. I practiced my listening skills, testing myself on how much Kiswahili I understood. Then a young man approached, stopping abruptly upon seeing a “mzungu” in the stand. He greeted me and asked me for my name in Kiswahili. Seeing a perfect opportunity to practice, I quickly responded. He followed my response with a long stream of Kiswahili, from which I gleaned that he was Tanzanian and a Masai (the most well-known tribe of Kenya, although not the largest). After that, I lost everything that he said. Turning to Jane, I hoped she could translate some for me. Unfortunately, Jane’s English is fairly limited (this is great when I need to practice speaking in Kiswahili!) and she shook her head, signaling she couldn’t translate what he had said. I turned back to the young man, hoping he’d try again, but slower. He did say something else, but I had no idea what it was. Again, I turned to Jane, hoping against hope that she could give me a clue. Jane rubbed her hands over her face and then said, “You – wife!” Shocked, I turned slowly to the young man who was now grinning at me and told him in my basic Kiswahili, “hapana (no).” He turned, walked to his friend, said something to him and the two laughed and walked away. A few days later, I discovered that the same young man sells charcoal just across from Jane’s fruit stand and he has since been calling out to me every time I pass. I guess I have a consistent pursuer!

Spoiled Meat

The other night, one of my host sisters returned late from going out to get some food for supper. Once she arrived, my host father began to scold her and a heated debate arose in Kiswahili. After it ended, my host father apologized for the outburst and my host sister motioned to me that she would explain everything to me later. A few hours later, when I had gone to my room for a reprieve, my host sister followed me. Initially irritated that I wouldn’t have some time to myself, my host sister plopped down on my bed and began to share her story. Immediately, my irritation disappeared. “Two days ago I went to the butcher’s to get meat for supper. The meat I brought home was spoiled, so I couldn’t use it to cook. I thought it was just that one time, but tonight my cousin (who also lives with them) went to get the meat. She went to the same butcher, and the meat she had was also spoiled. I became so angry! My father can’t work and he wanted that meat for dinner, and now he couldn’t have it twice in a row. I hate it when injustice happens, so I went to the butcher’s. I asked the man if he had sold my cousin the meat and he said he couldn’t remember, that he’d sold thousands of kilos of meat. So, I asked to speak to his manager. The manager came and said that there was no way to prove the meat came from his shop, so he would do nothing about it. He refused to refund me the money and refused to give me another piece of meat. I became so mad that I took his books and ripped them. Then I was afraid that I might go to jail, since the police are just a few buildings away. He yelled at me, asking me to pay for the books. I yelled back, no, I will not pay for the books! You can use the 400 shillings that you should return to me for giving me spoiled meat to replace the books. And then I left quickly, fearing that the police would come. When injustice like that happens, I just get so mad and sometimes I don’t think about what I’m doing. You need to pray for me. But you know, I feel like I’m the only protector for my family. My father can’t do anything about it, my mother works all day, and my sisters don’t get upset and want to do anything about it. I’m the only one to defend my family.” My heart broke for her, only imagining the kind of burden she carried for her family. Tears filled her eyes, and I stood to give her a hug. Once my arms wrapped around her shoulders, she began to shake with soft sobs. She quickly pulled away, saying that she just couldn’t stand injustice. For a moment, I had been invited into her life and her heart, a “mzungu” from a place far from her home. We talked a bit more about injustice and corruption, how much that affects people in Kibera, and how limited her options were to do anything about it. Fortunately, I said, we have a God who hates injustice too and wants to see justice prevail. I hope that during my time here I can find an organization that deals with injustices in the slums and connect my host sister to them. Until then, I can only share in the sorrow and bring comfort in the small ways.

 

Learning to Live Dependently

Praise the Lord, I have arrived!!  Today marks day number six in Nairobi, Kenya and day number five in Kibera, the largest slum (more commonly called “informal settlement” here) of the country.  While there were a few bumps to get over during my flights and initial arrival at the airport, everything has gone very smoothly and I was placed with a host family on my second day here.

My host family is absolutely wonderful.  I am living with the Ouma family in Ayany, a neighborhood just within the edges of Kibera.  In all, the family counts nine members, two of which mostly live outside of the home.  Living there now are Mama Agi, Baba Francis, Sister Agi, Sister Masi and her son Fadili, Sister Enid, and Cousin Maureen.  Sister Forsi and Brother Christopher are outside the home, Sister Forsi working as cabin crew for an airline and Brother Christopher living in another neighborhood nearby.  In adding me to their household, all of the girls in the house moved into a single bedroom, allowing me to have a space of my own.  Their home is a very comfortable size, with a small mud courtyard for their many containers of water and occasional grilling, a small kitchen, a room for Mama Agi and Baba Francis, a room for the girls, a sitting room, a small bathing room and toilet room, my bedroom, and a small dining area. I have quickly grown to feel comfortable in their home and I am extremely grateful for a space of my own to work on my assignments and to reflect at the end of the day.

With only having spent six days here in Kibera, I have quickly learned that practically all of my independence that I have been taught and that I have cultivated over my 22 years of life has been stripped away.  Here, I feel comparable to the two-year old child in my host home – I can just barely walk on my own, I am just starting to form words, and I am learning how to perform basic daily tasks on my own.  My family acts as my parents did for me at that age, teaching me new words every day, being patient with me when I ask how to do seemingly simple tasks, and often helping me to perform these tasks in spite of teaching me.  Without them, I am sure that I would be struggling to live at an even basic level.  For me, this is a very new, and sometimes uncomfortable, situation.  I often feel guilty for making more work for them, as I very often don’t understand what is needed or how to do things.  I often feel frustrated that I can’t communicate with them in their native language and force them to use English, even when speaking with one another so that the conversation can be mutually understood.  And, I often feel useless, and in a sense spoiled, with how much they provide and take care of me.  But today, I realize that I am actually learning a very beautiful thing – I am learning how to live dependently.

In our American culture, we stress the importance of independence.  It is the reason our country was formed, to gain independence from Great Britain, to freely worship and express our ideas, opinions, and desires; to provide others with freedom and independence from their own struggles with restriction and authority.  It is essential, in our day and age, to demonstrate our independence by graduating from college, finding a place to live on our own, obtaining a good-paying job, purchasing a car, and traveling the world on our own.  There are many wonderful things that we can gain from independent living, such as an understanding to do many necessary tasks on our own, learning new information outside of our home and comfort zone, and creating brand new experiences and worldviews.  But there are plenty of things that we miss as well.  We miss the beauty of deep and lasting family connections in close vicinities.  We lose the love and security of knowing that someone else is there to provide and take care of you when life becomes difficult.  And we lose the incredible understanding that life can be richer and fuller when shared, when lived, with others.  As my dependence on independence is taken from me, my appreciation and understanding of living in a state of dependency with others is heightened and strengthened.

To answer some questions a few of you might have for me right now, I will try to give you a picture of daily life here, in Ayany.  Each day, the family wakes up at around 8am, takes a bucket bath, and enjoys a breakfast of bread, bananas, and Kenyan chai.  From here, those who have school or work leave the home, while some stay home to take care of the 1.5 year old Fadili and Baba Ouma, who has been blind for 19 years.  Dishes are washed, the home is cleaned as needed, and at around noon, afternoon tea, consisting of more bread and chai, is served.  Lunch is then prepared and served around 2pm, usually being ugali (a Kenyan staple food made of corn flour and boiling water used as a vehicle for stew and cooked vegetables).  Tea time comes again around 5-6pm and dinner is not served until 10pm, usually consisting of ugali or a rice and vegetable dish.  Most evenings are marked by watching an international soap dubbed in English and watching little Fadili dance to some music.  Everyone is in bed by midnight, and the next morning everything is repeated.

The family I am living with has been so kind and generous to me, making me feel at home in their home, showing me how to bathe properly, and teaching me many words in Swahili.  The Nairobi Coordinator, Joshua along with Josephine, who is in charge of the host family arrangements, have been wonderful teachers on how to use the local transportation called matatus (mini vans transformed into public transportation or buses), obtain Kenyan phones, internet, and arranging for our Swahili school here in Nairobi.  While I have had some moments of nervousness and just a few pangs of homesickness, I have felt extremely welcomed and taken care of since arriving.  I am truly excited about the things to come during my time here.

Pole pole, nina jifunza! (Slowly, I am learning!)