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.
