In response to Bethany’s entry from last Sunday—this is Jill.

I am still haunted by what happened that morning. I still think about the woman following us on the deserted Sunday streets of Nairobi, her baby tied to her back, clutching a cup of coins. And I still feel sick when I think about our reaction. We were not lost in the shuffling crowd typical of downtown, but we could not hear her voice. We were not bound by Western standards of time and punctuality as we made our way to church, but we did not slow our pace. Our hurried steps maintained their stride as she desperately ran to catch up, circling us, shaking her meager earnings, repeating her words over and over. “Please. Some food for my baby.” Anything to get our attention. And we continued on our way. Eventually she gave up and changed directions. I watched her go, and wanted to call her back. But I didn’t.

We boarded the bus in silence and I spent the entire ride to Ngong unsuccessfully trying to hold back tears. I wanted so much to take back what had happened. I wanted to ask the woman’s name, how old her baby was, how often someone actually acknowledged her presence on a daily basis. As Will, Bethany, and I discussed the situation, we examined our excuses. We didn’t know how much money to give her. We weren’t confident that she would actually spend the money on food. We didn’t see any stores open to buy milk. We were late for church. And as soon as we spoke those words, we realized that none of these things could justify our actions. Maybe it wasn’t about giving the “right” amount of money or being able to buy food or worrying about what she would spend it on. Maybe it was about the love behind our actions. Maybe it was about any action at all.

So we made a pact. The next time an opportunity presented itself… we wouldn’t let the fear of not doing it exactly right keep us from not doing anything at all.

So Sunday night, one week later… On our way back to the orphanage from our weekend in Machakos, we stopped in Karen to pick up some essentials at the Nakumatt (toilet paper, water, bread). Stepping off the matatu, we were greeted by six small boys on the side of the road. They approached us in dirty, tattered clothes, speaking quickly. We stooped down to understand them and heard only, “We are hungry.” Will, Bethany, and I looked at each other and Will spoke the simple words in all of our eyes. “You’re hungry? Okay.” No questions asked.

The boys grabbed our hands as we made our way to the supermarket and Will went to find a taxi. We attempted to strike up conversation, with our limited Swahili. The boy next to me was slightly taller than my hip, and I asked him his age, expecting to hear seven or eight. When he told me he was 14, I almost didn’t believe him. His nine year old brother, who was noticeably taller, and seven year old brother were close behind. I asked him where he lived and he pointed to a general direction across town. He told me that he lived with his mother and that he didn’t have a dad. We walked into the Nakumatt and the boys led Bethany and I over to the bread aisle. We filled a cart with muffins, an enormous loaf of bread, two cartons of milk, and some chocolate bars. Will came back to meet us as we checked out, and the boys followed us to a grassy area outside the supermarket where we sat with them while they ate.

I have never seen so much food disappear so fast. The muffins were divided up, two for each. Some crammed both in their mouths; others shoved one in their pocket for later. The loaf of bread was torn open and they grabbed multiple pieces at a time, balling them up in their fists to devour them faster. They snatched the milk cartons away from each other, their small mouths still full of bread, spilling all over their clothes. Seeing the problems that would arise with the two chocolate bars, we divided the squares into six servings, and they all eagerly held out their hands.

I think the food was gone in under two minutes.

I asked one of them if they had eaten today. Between mouthfuls and gulps of milk, he told me that they hadn’t had breakfast, but they had some rice for lunch. We continued to ask them various questions about their life. Some questions were answered, others weren’t. We sat and watched them eat, wondering what their lives were like, having no way to really know. As they finished, they helped us pick up the trash and throw everything away. It was getting dark, and they asked for some money for a ride home. We gave them 60 shillings, 10 for each boy. They thanked us and ran off. We would probably never see them again, but this time felt much different. God presented us with another opportunity to show His love, and this time we embraced it.

Before the boys walked away, Will asked us, “How do we end this? Should we tell them why we did this?” I didn’t have an answer, and we said nothing. But as the group turned to walk away, we all waved goodbye, and I heard him say, “Nakupenda.” --I love you. I hope they heard. And if they didn’t, I hope they know.

“Sometimes we learn how to do things well by first having the courage to do them badly.” – Soul Graffiti

The Street Children of Nairobi

Hey everyone...

At some point, we will definitely collaborate on a blog that explains what exactly we are doing and why we are in Nairobi and not at YWAM any longer. The last week has been crazy and all three of us would like to communicate everything that has happened, as well as explain what we intend to do for the remainder of our time in Africa. Hopefully, we'll be able to post that later today so that we won't have to continue telling people in emails that we'll explain everything soon.
However, before doing that, I needed to write about what happened last night while it is still fresh on my memory. I had wanted the next post to be the explanation post, but at this point, I need to try and relate/comprehend all that happened last night and the insane story we were told at dinner.
Last night, Mrs. Wilson cooked Mexican food for everyone which was absolutely amazing. Being from Texas, I can definitely comment on Mexican food, and hers was absolutely wonderful. Last night was the first time I had seen cheese for about three and a half weeks. What a novelty! Dinner conversation started with the normal, "This is what I/we did today." "How was your day?" "Oh, that's cool." However, as the conversation progressed, I don't think that either Jill, Bethany, or I were prepared for what we were about to hear. As we ate, Mrs. Wilson began sharing what exactly she does on a weekly basis in relation to her mission work here in Kenya. The Wilsons are missionaries with the IMB (Southern Baptist Convention) and have lived in Africa for 25 years I think. They lived in Nigeria for 18 years and in Kenya for 7.
Mrs. Wilson told us that three days a week she works with the street children of Nairobi from 5am to 7am three days a week. We asked why it had to be so early, to which she responded, "Well, you have to get the kids early because they are most likely to be sober the earlier it is. Also, if you wait too long, the police will arrest any congregation of street kids on charges of vagrancy." There are no tickets in Kenya, so once arrested you go straight to jail. Bad deal. Most of the kids would not return from jail alive.
Mrs. Wilson continued on to tell us about the three mornings that she works with the kids. On Mondays, she and her group (apparently there are about four of them that work with the kids: a local pastor, a big Kenyan young man named Kevin, and a young Kenyan young lady) go to a street corner where most of the girls congregate. The street kids move in gang-like structures around a certain territory. Most of them work around a series of corners in Nairobi's industrial sector down by the river. She works in a place that is very close to the matatu stage (matatus are the local transport- fifteen passenger imported Nissan vans that are extremely cheap) where we were dropped off our first afternoon in Nairobi. That was somewhat of a culture shock because we didn't exactly get dropped off in an upscale neighborhood. Upon alighting, we were immediately surrounded by multiple men who reeked of alcohol and who asked for money as they tried to help me with my backpack. I definitely didn't want any of them touching my stuff. Though I wouldn't go there to go for a stroll, at this point it wouldn't be a big deal to go there because I would know where I was. We just weren't expecting it on Saturday. Thankfully, two Kenyan businessman (probably angels or something) quickly assessed the situation and quietly whispered in my ear that this was not a safe place (*sarcastically* no way!!!) and that we should follow them. They led us to a bus stop and helped us get on our way to where we are now.

Disclaimer** It is hard for me to write about all this because I'm still somewhat numb to what we were told because I don't know how else to react. Nevertheless, I really feel like people at home need to hear it so I'm just going to try and write what she told us. **

Anyway, back to the kids. So on Mondays, Mrs. Wilson works at a corner where most of the young girls are. I guess when she was talking, I assumed these would be young children somewhere between the ages of 7 and 14. However, she then went on to say that these were the young girls with infants... Most of them have AIDS/HIV which means that the babies are HIV positive as well. We found out that most of these girls are probably no older than 16 or 17 but look like they are late 20s or early 30s. There is no way to tell because none of them have birth certificates or identification of any kind. Many have no idea where or when they were born and where their families are, if they are still alive. Sandy (Mrs. Wilson) then told us that most of the girls will have a toddler and an infant with them. They sort of move together under certain gang leaders and many provide income to the gang leaders by way of prostitution, spreading AIDS and STDs like wildfire among the guys of the street gangs.
Sandy and her group meet with these girls every Monday early in the morning and pray for/with them as well as share with the girls about Christ. They then hang out, do basic first aid, and eventually feed them before they are forced to disperse as the shop vendors push them away. Apparently street kids are called chicoras (sp?), which means trash in Swahili. Because they are regarded as trash, you can arrest them for anything you want, treat them however you like, and ignore their existence. Sandy told us that if somebody shot one of them, no one would miss a step and would leave them to die, completely ignoring them. They are regarded as trash, and if Nairobi is one less (except multiply that by 1,ooos) street kid at the end of the day... well, good riddance. Therefore, they have to disperse as it becomes light. Sandy and her group do the same ministries on Wednesday and Friday, except in different locations and with groups that are mostly boys. The group ministers to the older kids because a lot of the younger ones don't make it, or are picked up by homes that pull street kids off the street. The homes do not take the older kids.
Sandy then began telling us about some stories of certain occurrences that she has seen or experienced while working with kids. As she told us about the basic first aid that they are able to administer, she shared some of the stories of medical issues that she's seen. She takes Vicks Vapor rub, cough medicine, neosporin, cold medicine, and some other ointments and bandages to help with basic medical problems.
She told us that earlier this year, she had a young man (15 0r 16) approach her complaining that his "chest hurt." He complained of the area around his heart hurting and she told him that he should see a doctor (not that he would have the means to do so) because she could not help with chest pains. He continued to ask and then pointed to the vapor rub while motioning that she should rub it around on his chest. She finally agreed thinking that it might help a bit anyway, and asked him to pull back his shirt. He opened up his shirt and "my jaw dropped because there was a bullet hole right above his heart. So I looked at his back and gasped as well because the exit hole was present as well. He just said his chest hurt. Then he began pointing to my neosporin and telling me to put it in the hole. I did what I could and never saw him again. One of his friends later said he made it and was ok."
I was speechless. And overwhelmed to say the least. I could not believe that some kid had been shot and had an open bullet hole in his chest. I just sit here imagining his eyes, his face, his open and bleeding chest as he tries to get the only medicine available. Wow.
She also told us of another boy who needed medical attention. She was administering first aid another time and a boy come up to her with a knife wound across his right cheekbone. Apparently it was a gaping slice and so she immediately said, "You've got to come with me so we can get some stitches." He refused because they hate going to the hospital because of the threat of being arrested. They don't have any papers or identification and so there is a risk of being arrested. In Kenya, there are no tickets. You just get arrested and sent to jail unless you can bribe your way out of it. If one of the street kids goes to jail, they most likely die. So he just asked her to put neosporin on the cut and pray that it would heal. She tried to get him to go with her but he kept insisting that all she had to do was pray for him. She ended up applying the neosporin and praying for him. Later, when she saw him again and saw that his face had healed completely with only a little scar she said that she felt, "Oh ye of little faith." Bad grammar- sorry.
As we were talking, she told us about the events of late. This past Monday there were not very many girls at the corner and she couldn't figure out why. I may not remember this exactly. She asked around to see what was going on and apparently they had had to run to another corner which is a pretty traumatic experience. She thinks that they ran because of the turf war that is occurring between some of the kids.
She described a little bit of the background about the turf war and why it is a big deal. A few weeks ago, a Masaii street kid and a Masaii guy from town got into a huge fight and apparently the Masaii kid from town was shot and killed. In Kenya, the Masaii are a big tribe from the south and they are known for their fierceness, bravery, and traditions. They have kept their traditions and remain very true to their heritage even with all the westernization. The Masaii are extremely hardcore warriors and have some pretty crazy rites of passage. Just to give you an idea of what is expected of them even today before they are allowed to pass to manhood, the rite of passage requires thirteen year old boys to stand in a line naked with their legs spread and their arms behind their backs. They must remain completely stationary and rigid as someone goes down the line and circumcises them while they are standing with no antiseptic. If they so much as flinch, they are not allowed to pass to manhood. I'd fail for sure.
Therefore, the Masaii are respected and feared by many people including the police. So, when Masaii begin fighting it's a big deal. Because the guy was killed, the other Masaii guys from town apparently conducted a big raid on the street kids one night. Somehow, the feared and mysterious Mungiki crime organization became involved as well. The Mungiki probably control many of the street kids. Even the police fear Mungiki because of their fierceness, ruthlessness, and organized structure. I have heard a lot about them and people are definitely afraid of them and their capabilities. Somehow the Mungiki are now fighting the Masaii and of course the police will not intervene because they are scared of both. I'm guessing the Mungiki are angry about the raid so they fought back.
All that goes to say that the girls fled and tried to go somewhere else because of the fighting. I don't know much more than that. Sandy (Mrs. Wilson) has been going for years and apparently doesn't feel too threatened when she's down there. She goes with some savvy Kenyans and a couple of big men who do a good job of protecting her. She told us that sometimes a fight will break out, and the street kids will surround her and protect her until the fight moves or passes. I don't think that my naive brain can begin to comprehend what exactly is going on, but I'm going with Sandy tomorrow morning so hopefully I will be able to take some pictures and figure out more of what is happening. If you read this before Thursday night in the US please pray for safety and that the kids will be ok. Also pray that the fight will be resolved as well.
She also told us more about the rest of the kids. They are able to buy shoe glue for about 25 shillings (3 cents) a bottle and stuff it up their sleeves so they can go around sniffing it all day. The glue makes them high and stifles their ravenous hunger so they begin to do it a lot so they don't have to eat as much. They would rather spend the 25 shillings on the glue than a loaf of bread that will only last a day. The glue will eventually rot their brains and I don't even want to know what the life expectancy is for these kids. They have no hope to ever get out of the situation because if they are still on the streets, they didn't get picked up by a children's home and they are too old and dangerous at this point. They don't know how old they are or have any sort of identification or birth certificates and will therefore never be able to go to school or get a job.
It is an endless cycle. The kids are probably there because their parents died of AIDS and they were orphaned, or they were tossed on the streets to beg because one parent died or both died and a relative couldn't take care of all the kids. When they are thrown out on the streets to beg, they normally decide to just become a street kid because they can do better on their own than trying to support the family by begging. They are there because of AIDS but have never gone to school and kids on the street at age fifteen high on glue don't make awesome decisions. Therefore, they just pass AIDS around to one another and the girls who sell themselves just pass it around to whoever will have them.
When I heard about these kids, my heart broke for them. It was interesting how we all reacted to the stories. I couldn't look at Jill at dinner because I knew I'd start crying. I knew she was having trouble. I really couldn't process the stories or even attempt to prevent the feeling of being overwhelmed while Sandy shared about these kids. I still can't really write about it very well. Sigh...
After dinner, the girls couldn't really handle much and went to their rooms to journal and be alone. I stayed in the kitchen to help with dishes but I had to first go to my room and pretty much turn myself off so that I could stay coherent and make it through the dishes. After finishing the dishes we all went to the porch and sat in silence for awhile. I couldn't think or even understand what I was feeling. I had tears and my eyes and got choked up when Jill came out to the porch because I could immediately see that she was having a lot of trouble as well. Bethany came out and responded in a third way.
In the about me section of this blog there is a little blurb about each of us. Bethany is the I hate the world so I'm going to change it, Jill is love wins, and I'm tall and think a lot. That was somewhat of an inside joke that came out as a joke a week or so ago. However, it is amazing how accurate that was. That is exactly how we all reacted to the story. Bethany was angry and said she just wanted to run away so that she wouldn't be so angry about the kids. Jill said, "My heart hurts" to me and began to cry because of the story. And I was somewhere in the middle: a mixture of unintelligible frustration, pain, sadness, confusion, and anger. I was angry at the world in general for allowing it to happen and about the fact that I am completely powerless to do anything. I am a big picture person and it drove me crazy that my brain realized that there was no immediate or even possible way to stop the endless cycle that these kids are stuck within. Jill and her love wins self was completely brokenhearted about the kids and wanted to try and understand the people aspect of the story. We all reacted differently and, incidentally, our reactions helped us to deal with the other's reactions and with our own. I immediately began processing the problems and how to fix them, which frustrated me because there is no way to do so. Grrrhhh... We sat talking for awhile and it was pretty rough to think straight because we were all hurting in our own way about the situation. Lord God, please help these kids.
I would go into my preliminary deconstruction of the situation but I do need to get some sleep before going in the morning. I will write later, probably with the girls about the situation as I see it and what we observe. Please pray for these kids.
Though I'll try and deconstruct later, I'll say this now... The problems are all twisted upon one another that there is no close solution to the problem. I struggle with choosing a worthwhile direction for my life sometimes and this really made me consider once again how I can help things in the world. Honestly, I'm at a loss as to how to begin to do something. Jill reminded me, "Will, you have to start changing the world one smile, one hug, one person at a time. Following Jesus is simple, but never easy." There are so many quotes from people like Mother Theresa and Shane Claiborn about that. Do little things with great love.
The political situation will probably not improve in the near future. The AIDS situation will get worse. If you pull a thousand of the kids off the street tomorrow, by Saturday there will be 1,500 that take the place of the 1,000. The girls will continue to contract AIDS from prostitution and there multiple kids will be HIV positive and will continue to spread the pandemic before they die. The country calls these kids chicora (trash) and therefore doesn't give a flip what happens to them. Who cares if they get shot, if they fry their brains on shoe glue, if they spread AIDS. They are trash anyway. Therefore, the problem is only going to get worse. The police just arrest them and don't do much about them whatsoever. My brain quickly thought all these things and wondered, "How do we begin? Where do I start?" Thankfully, Jill reminded me to start with one person, but my preliminary conclusion is probably oversimplified and much too cliche.

The CHURCH is the hope of the world. If it is not, then it is no CHURCH at all. We must be the solution. The love of Christ will be the only thing that will make a difference. We can help try and meet these kids' basic needs for survival and try to live out Jesus' love at the same time. I don't think politics or NGOs will ever do any good. The CHURCH has to be the hope and the love for these children.

More later after I've seen it but I just had to write about it... Record something and try to tell people at home about these kids. Sigh... Love is not against the law. I love you all and hopefully one of the girls will write something tomorrow or something.

In Him,
Will


"Love without courage and wisdom is sentimentality, as with the ordinary church member. Courage without love and wisdom is foolhardiness, as with the ordinary soldier. Wisdom without love and courage is cowardice, as with the ordinary intellectual. But the one who has love, courage, and wisdom moves the world."
-Ammon Hennacy, Catholic activist, 1893-1970


"Stones taught me to fly. Love taught me to cry. So come on courage, teach me to be shy. 'Cuz it's not hard to fall, when you float like a cannonball."
-Damien Rice