Wednesday 16th November
I am writing this on Thursday, which is turning out to be the day from hell. Only because of money worries. So much need, so much I can do, so little money and more than half of it has gone. Ah for the days when I was constantly topping up my personal coffers with a heady mix of porn and motorbikes and I could just pay for everything here. Long long gone … Although if anyone wants a great TV series on either topic …
But it is nice to look back at Wednesday which was a lovely day filled with small random acts of kindness. One of which is ongoing … Feel free to pitch in.
I am all packed up and ready to part my flaps for the final time. Alan’s hairy back gets one final seeing to and David and I head to KAwangware to drop my stuff off at my new home before going on to pick up Doris and make for Kiambaa and its many wormy, scabby headed children.
It is cold. And raining. As we sploosh our way past Dagoretti MArket and up the hill past the enormous, fortress-like, electric wire fenced home of Feed The CHildren I see an old man walking. He is bent double. He is like a black, mud caked, barefoot version of the old paedo bloke in Family Guy. Literally walking with his torso parallel to the ground. In the rain and the cold. We drive on. In another show of how working with Mama B has changed David, he does not go crazy when I tell him to stop the car And turn around because we need to help the old man. We find him sitting at the brow of the hill. Beside another, much healthier old man. I buy him milk which he practically inhales, and some mandazi and some shoes. Which fit perfectly. Although his feet were so caked in mud he might go down a size if he ever washes. David and I bomb off in the Davidmobile to Dagoretti Market, not the friendliest of places when you are a mzungu, but we find a warm top, a waterproof jacket and a pair of warm trousers and head back. When we get there Njoroge (old chap) is wandering down the hill, barefooted. I head him off, offer him lunch and more milk and bring him back to where we left him. The other chap now has his shoes in a plastic bag. I get stuck in and wrest them back. God, the other old bloke tells me, has made him strong so that he might look after Njoroge’s things. I put the shoes back on Njoroge. Other bloke (Thiefy McTHiefface) now suggests I might give him kitu kidogo for his assistance. I tell him that if God is making him strong then he needs no help from me. I get Njoroge a huge slab of ugaly and cabbage with matumbo (offal). A crowd gathers to watch him clutch his new clothes and eat. I am, incidentally, wildly overcharged for the food. I let them know that I know. I ask a mama who has one of the stalls nearby if she can make sure no one else steals the stuff. Ahe knows Njoroge. He has “shida ya kitchwa” which covers anything from headaches and dizzy spells to paranoid schizophrenia. Njoroge is just what used to be called ‘soft in the head’ complicated by severe chest problems stemming from his work in a soap factory. He has a son, the mama says, who is just like his dad. They live in a nearby village (slum village) where there are seven disabled kids. Her own son is deaf. ANd there is a lot of CP. I agree to come back next week when I get back from Western and come down to the village to see what we can do.
We are now late for the medical in Kiambaa and it has started raining again. We speed off to meet Doris. I am so very glad we were late leaving Wildebeest, so that we saw Njoroge. It feels like a good thing has been done – especially as it has led to the disabled lot. I am very aware that a couple of tops, a pair of trousers and lunch is not exactly going to turn Njoroge’s life around, despite the word ‘miracle’ being bandied around the now quite impressive audience he has gathered. So the chance to go back and think about something more sustainable is excellent.
THe rain has scattered those waiting for the medical in Kiambaa. Your child might be riddled with worms and crusted with ringworm but heaven forfend it might get damp. And so Doris takes us out into the back of beyond to see one of our MAma B groups in action. We financed a group of lads to start their own building group. It is going really well and they have good steady work, but not so as they can exactly splash the cash in helping others. But they have decided to splash their expertise. They identify families in dire need, accommodation wise, and sort them out using begged and donated materials and their own time and building skills.
Here, in what could be an idyllic setting, I am introduced to the bane of humanity. I realise that sounds harsh. OK, along with First World Selfishness and Greed, organised religion, war and man’s general inhumanity to man, ONE of the banes of humanity. A little man who cannot see further than his own testicles seems entirely unconcerned that his beautiful (talk about out of his league ? How did THAT happen ??) wife is now breastfeeding his seventh child while the other six barefoot, raggedy, hungry fruit of his criminally fertile loins look on. At least no 7 is getting fed. Their ‘home’ is a kind of patchwork mabati (iron sheeting) hut : 40% rust, 30% holes, 10% plastic patching. You can see the place in all its glory in the pix below. There is no food to be seen. Our lads are going to remake the hovel so FAther of the Year can shelter his contribution to world hunger warmly and in the dry. “How do you feed your children ?” I ask Daddy. Daddy shrugs. “Kibarua”. Casual labouring that can pay a quid a day when he gets it. “WHat other business do you know?” I persevere, hoping for a chink of light in this family’s long dark tunnel. Even an oncoming train would be something. Nothing. And he appears unfazed by his complete inability to do anything but squirt sperm at waiting ova. I find myself, to be honest, angry rather than sympathetic. The sheer, total hopelessness, the apathy, the resignation. I am a little ashamed to say I contribute some money to the building fund and walk away. Without giving anything more. Now, writing this two days later I am a little remorseful. Still more angry than anything else. But I will send Doris some money to get them some food. And we will go back. But taking with us SOME form of contraception. My first choice would be a large pair of scissors.
However the building fund desperately needs contributions. So if you are less hard hearted than I am then please do help. It is a truly wonderful thing that the MAma B guys are doing for this family and I am so so chuffed that our group is so determined to give back any way they can. It is, fyi, cold and raining in Nairobi and environs.
Thursday 17th November
As previously mentioned, today is not a great day. We are collecting (if we can get the oman to agree to a price reduction) as many pairs of shoes as I can afford to go to Western for dejiggered feet. I get David to drop me at Junction so I can use the wifi (none at home) and try to work out the financials of the rest of the stay. I have brought 6000 with me but it is easy to see it will not last the three weeks and the cargo people do not accept cards (alarm bells anyone ? However, until I can find someone cheaper …) NOw we are minus the multi-talented and ever unflappable Zetta, when I am here, I am sans safety net of any kind. And this time it seems to be particularly stressful. I have sent a desperate text to see if she can and am hoping … However today is the day I get the message to say she cannot. The bank will not let her send anything as the card and the chequebook have been left with me when Zetta left us. Almost immediately I get a text from Julius in Western (where I am going tomorrow). I have asked for specifics about where I am sleeping and how much I will be charged. Julius has told the person I am lodging with to charge me 5000 shillings, he informs me. In quick succession I get texts from Jayne (when am I coming to Awendo, the people are ‘eager to greet me’), several of the people from the market (eh MAma … When are you coming … You promised to buy …) and Doris (can I meet Vicky tonight, she has come from the Coast to tell me how disappointed the people there are that I cannot come there this time).
I have a bit of a meltdown. In a sad display of a) poverty and b) patheticness I turn, not to tequila, as once i might have, but mint tea. Mint tea and misery. I send David off to buy shoes with a stern price limit, I do not go up to the market and I send blistering messages to Julius along the lines of ‘what do you think I am ?’ I am so utterly fed up. I whats app the shop only to find we have barely sold anything and there is little cash to send. My wonderful friend Malcolm (Hilarious Scripts-R-Me) has offered to send something for the airfare fund, but, as Janey ‘Trump is a Cunt’ Godley made the trip here possible, the money is still there. He agrees to divert and a Western Union is on its way as I type. David gets 29 pairs of really very decent trainers for about £70 and we go off into town to get dejiggering spray for Western. Half way through the traffic jam on the main road we are pulled over by a fat faced traffic cop. The nearside tyre on the Davidmobile resembles, I discover, a set of Michelin wets that have done twenty laps in the dry at Thruxton (translation : a rubber chewy toy that had fallen into a pit of wolves). Luckily, he has just that day renewed his insurance and has the badge in to bag to prove it, as the cop circles the car, piggy little eyes gleaming. He gets in the car, sneers and says ‘this is not a good car’ and starts asking David if he is a taxi driver. I butt in and explain that David is ‘my friend’. The cop is miffed that I can understand Swahili and switches to Kikkuyu, where I lose him. WE have agreed that I will not interfere so when David bungs fatso 500 bob I chew my cheeks and confine myself to the death stare. Which has absolutely no effect whatsoever. This does nothing for my mood.
We go home via Congo where I buy a couple of sanduku (big metal luggage boxes. There is a bloke who wants to buy them. Plus, they are great for carrying fragile stuff like the christmas calabash nativities. We drive on through a couple of slums where mainly Luhya people live and the air is thick with smoke from grilling chicken and fish. This is quite a dodgy area – especially when we get down to Moslem (a slum village) but even here, builders are flinging up huge apartment blocks and starting to make tarmac roads. The slumdwellers will simply be pushed further out.
I am still unsure of going to Western. Doris thinks it will be “a disaster”. But further texting agrees a much lower rate, no official involvement from local bigwigs and generalised lowering of expectations all round.
The one bright spot in the day is a little plate of pork I have at a stall beside the Naivasha Road on the way home. Bloody delicious. Best in Nairobi.
I pack and organise everything for the trip and find out from Roje how to let myself out t 6.30am.
These pix are of the family for whom our boys are rebuilding their home. Here we can see the family, back of the house, front of the house, Doris in the kitchen, main room, bedroom for seven and the happy family again.
