Everything we do in life is meant to be in pursuit of happiness, right? We work hard to earn more money so it could buy us the stuff we want, we go to those exotic holidays, not to look for the dark spot in life, but to be happy, we have terms like retail therapy which, apparently, makes a sad heart giddy with happiness. All the above is well and good, but methinks, the human heart is also designed to look for ways to feel sad once in a while - probably to tip the scales. How else would you explain the fact that, some people, like me, constantly make myself sad everyday just by the fact that I am involved in a charity that gives me more heartache than satisfaction?
For those who do not know, here is a little back ground on Hope for Cancer Kids. It was started in 2008 by family and friends of children admitted at Kenyatta National Hospital with Cancer. The aim was to have a support group, and to raise funds from friends to help pay for NHIF cover and atrocious and mammoth hospital bills. To date, HCK helps over 50 families in KNH, and there are future plans to spread to other government hospitals.
Charity should make me happy, shouldn't it? It should, except the fact that 80% of the children, due to a combination of several facts, die. True story. This is how bad it is - in the developed world, cancer survival rates amongst children is 80%. In Kenya, survival rates is 10%, meaning, every ten children who are admitted into the wards, nine of them die. How terrible is that?
I have stopped crying for those children we loose, I realized my crying does not help, but actually, I deceive myself. I might not cry physically, but my insides tear into tiny shreds every time I am informed that we have lost another one. A couple of weeks ago, we lost a little girl called Margaret. Margaret and Lucy are sisters, a year apart (9 and 10). They both had leukemia, and were both admitted at KNH. Margeret lost her battle, Lucy is doing very badly as we speak.To highlight the plight of childhood cancer in Kenya, I had done a feature for Nation's Living magazine that featured the two angels - the response was good, but we humans have a way of forgetting things pretty quickly - nobody asks about them anymore. Sometimes I wonder what the point is....
A couple of days ago, another boy I had done a feature on Passion Magazine passed on. His name is (I cannot bring myself to write was) Sammy Isenjia. Sammy is a special case, and part of the reason I am awake at 3am updating a blog I haven't touched in months. Give me a few minutes as I enlighten you on why Sammy hurts me more than other deaths;
Below is some excerpts on the feature I did for Passion Magazine. Please read on, make sure you have a hankie handy.
"Sammy Isenjia is only seven years old. He should be full of energy, running around chasing footballs and playing hide and seek in his back yard or at the estate like other kids his age, but Sammy is not like other children his age. He loves to play football, but he quickly runs out of energy and needs regular breaks. Also, Sammy is holed up at Kenyatta National Hospital Ward 3A; he has leukemia, cancer of the blood that affects 25% of children diagnosed with cancer the world over. During the interview, his mother, 27 year old Selina Mutile watches him helplessly as she narrates their story; there is little she can do to lessen her son’s suffering.
Selina noticed abnormalities in her son’s body in January 2011. “The lymph nodes on his neck were swollen, so was his stomach.” She recalls. “As soon as I could, I took him to Shika Adabu dispensary in Likoni where they diagnosed and treated him for tuberculosis.” The only problem was that there was no improvement to her son’s condition even after taking the strong TB drugs. In fact, Sammy’s woes seemed to increase as he started complaining of ear ache. “Soon, he lost his hearing, so I took him back to the dispensary.”
Selina might be unhappy about her son being misdiagnosed the first time, but she is one of the lucky ones because, when she took him back to the dispensary, they referred her son to Coast General Hospital. “The doctor on duty gave my son one look and admitted us immediately. The following day, they ran some tests, including x-rays that revealed nothing, but after a week, of which we were still admitted at the hospital, the bone marrow test came back positive for acute lymphocytic leukemia.” Why Selina is one of the luckier ones is because most children cancers are diagnosed when it is too late, but the fact that they caught it when it was still in incubation, as it were, gives her son a chance of quick recovery.
That she was lucky in some people’s books did not make it easy for her to accept her son’s fate. “I did not even know the details of the disease; it is just the fact that they mentioned ‘cancer’. I went into denial – why? Why me? Why my son at such a tender age, what had he done to deserve this?” The doctors at Coast General wanted her to immediately go to Kenyatta National Hospital for treatment, but for two days, she would not listen or even discuss her son’s diagnosis. Finally, they convinced her about the urgency of her son’s condition – the sooner she went to KNH, the better chance her son had of recovery. She did not know anybody in Nairobi, but she took the bus and asked for directions to Kenyatta National Hospital.
Sammy, who has undergone six chemotherapy sessions, was doing fine until two weeks ago when he started having serious headaches. They had to stop the chemo as they investigated the headaches and are still running tests, but the doctors have had to drain some water from his backbone to ease pressure from the brain, which gives him some relief. Unfortunately too, the chemotherapy did not seem to have worked because he still has cancer cells in his blood. He has to go through the same routine of chemotherapy.
Sammy is shielded from the enormity of the situation by his innocence, as long as he can play for twenty minutes, he is a happy boy, but the same could not be said for his mother. She is a single mother of two; her daughter is nine years old. When Sammy was baby, she separated with her husband who left her and her two young children in Ujamaa, Likoni and went back to Kakamega where he was born. They never kept in touch, and she survived by washing clothes for people to keep food on the table; she is lucky too as she gets assistance from her elder sister and younger brother. “If it weren’t for them, I do not know what would have happened to me and my children.” Laments the standard four drop out.
When her son was diagnosed with cancer, she got in touch with him and informed him. “His sister came to KNH several times to see us, but she started insisting that Sammy did not have cancer, that it was witchcraft. The family wanted us to discharge ourselves from the hospital and consult witchdoctors of their choice – I refused, especially because I could see the big positive changes in my son’s condition.” Her refusal earned her further ostracizing – she was told not to contact them under any circumstances, and that was the last she saw of anyone from that family.
Some well wishers, through Hope for Cancer Kids, an organization that works with KNH to provide National Hospital Insurance Fund (NHIF) cover for families such as Selinas, were willing to pay for her cover, but that is looking impossible by the minute. “I have never held a national identity card which I need to process my son’s birth certificate, which is mandatory before you get an NHIF cover. When I tried to get one last month, they asked me for my parents’ identity cards, but my parents are both dead, and in 1997, our house burned down with every document including their identity cards and burial permits. I have nothing. The people in id offices told me I could use my husband’s card, but I am no longer married to him and he is not cooperative. What am I supposed to do?”................END OF EXCERPTS
- In the feature, I had indicated that Selina and Sammy are lucky, clearly, not anymore because Sammy is no more. This leaves Selina with a bill of Ksh4,000,000 - yes, four million Kenya Shillings, to settle to KNH. It gets worse; it means they cannot release the body to Selina because she has not identity to proove she is the mother - don't ask, I know they admitted her but I guess red tape sets in when you are in the hospital, not before you are admitted. This also means, in three months, Sammy, along with other unclaimed bodies, will be burried in Langata is some unmarked graves, mass graves. I am terribly sad, and I am just hoping that out there, there is someone with Ksh 4,000,000 to spare....is it too much to dream?
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Saturday, April 9, 2011
The O-six, or is it the O-fourtysomething?
I have tried, without success, to ignore the Hague/Ocampo six or whatever you choose to call them, and the brouhaha that is the grotesque debauchery on our silver screens and newspapers, by the six and their loyal supporters. In a bid to ignore the saga, I have even taken to learning Luo, beautiful language by all means, ero kamano, but this ‘pregnant’ feeling just will not go away. So I have decided to do what I usually do when something is bugging the bejesus out of me, WRITE! Writing, to me, is a sense of relief – I express myself better through writing (some people choose to differ, accusing me of being the worst writer in history, others accuse me of talking more than I write but, I digress). Before putting something down into words, I always have a pregnant feeling, like I need to push and push, and the minute I write it down, the relief, to say the least, is out of this world, so bear with me as I push!
So yeah, the Ocampo six. Hard to ignore, seeing as, the same media I work for is pretty much obsessed, and one would think there is nothing else going on in Kenya, or the world for that matter. The starving Kenyans have been put in ‘pending tray’, so have the IDPs, so has the inflation which has been predicted to hit 15% in December – meaning, it is bad enough that bread, which cost Ksh30 only three months ago, now costs fourtysomething bob, depending on where you do your shopping. Imagine how much it is going to cost in December. Kenol/Kobil might be doing their bit in reducing their fuel prices, but even they will not help us much in December!
My final need to ‘push’, so to speak, was triggered by reading that my MP Peter Mwathi (Limuru), who is clearly the resident big mouth –is in part of the group that has travelled to Hague to give moral support to the O-six. No kidding! He actually thinks he was being funny when he said that he would have walked to the Hague were it not for the water expanse that separates Africa and Europe. Sir, are you high on something? I remember reading somewhere that, each person travelling to the Hague will use no less than Ksh500,000 to stay there, that is, if they do budge travel, and I highly doubt any of them will agree to such kind of travel. Now, I do not know how much money the IDPs need to be resettled, but if you multiply 500,000 x 40 (at least), you get 20,000,000, that’s a whooping 20 million shillings, on the lower side. Already, it is being whispered that one of the O-six used Ksh5million…okay, this math is giving me a headache, let us stick to Ksh20million. How much, dare I ask, would be done for the IDPs using this kind of money? Clearly, something happens to our MPs heads when they get to parliament – for starters, priorities are turned upside down, their common sense tumbles like a house of cards, not to mention, the humane side of their brains gets terribly distorted. Perhaps, we should not blame them; it must be the air in parliament! How else do you explain their behavior?
The Ksh20million (at least) is not all. Plans are in high gear to organize a homecoming party for the O-six! No prizes for guesses on how much is going down at this ‘bash’. What irks me more here is, one of my best friend’s father is actually in this committee – sir, if you read this, shame on you! The respect I had for you is quickly being corroded by your luck of sensitivity to those who lost their lives during the post election violence, their relatives, those who are still languishing in camps in Kenya and Uganda, those who lost their livelihoods, children who still have not gone back to school and just for effect, the Mau Narok! I will never look at you the same way again because, clearly, you have lost the plot big time. If there was a disease called ‘decadence’, you would be suffering from it big time!
True, the six are innocent until proven guilty, but does that mean we should ignore that they might actually be guilty of what they are being accused of? Why should six people, six rich boys I might add, hold the country at ransom? Guilty or not, this is a matter that does not call for any sort of celebration or public display. If you are innocent, shut up and let the evidence (or thereof lack of) speak for you. If you are guilty, praying and exchanging words will not make you innocent – it just makes us rather suspicious of your intentions. Next time you hold prayers, pray for the IDPs, they need the prayers more than you do, believe you me. Next time you hold a public rally, do not play the victim, surprise us and talk about the CDF projects – you are all so predictable I could make your speeches word for word without looking at the teleprompter (do you use those?)
The media circus that is the Hague is embarrassing to sane Kenyans. For lack of family friendly word, you look like idiots, wearing those flag dresses and including a Masai or two for (bad) effects. You are not doing tourism any favors by your displays and if I were the minister of tourism, I would be loudly protesting – oh, wait, it might actually do some ‘good’ for the tourism sector – how about a package that reads something like ‘have you ever wondered what a country led by morons looks like?....’
And while we are at it, somebody put a duct tape on one Esther Murugi – woman, you are embarrassing!
Note: I feel less pregnant, but I sort of feel that I was pregnant with twins, and there is one more on the way……PUUUUUSH!
So yeah, the Ocampo six. Hard to ignore, seeing as, the same media I work for is pretty much obsessed, and one would think there is nothing else going on in Kenya, or the world for that matter. The starving Kenyans have been put in ‘pending tray’, so have the IDPs, so has the inflation which has been predicted to hit 15% in December – meaning, it is bad enough that bread, which cost Ksh30 only three months ago, now costs fourtysomething bob, depending on where you do your shopping. Imagine how much it is going to cost in December. Kenol/Kobil might be doing their bit in reducing their fuel prices, but even they will not help us much in December!
My final need to ‘push’, so to speak, was triggered by reading that my MP Peter Mwathi (Limuru), who is clearly the resident big mouth –is in part of the group that has travelled to Hague to give moral support to the O-six. No kidding! He actually thinks he was being funny when he said that he would have walked to the Hague were it not for the water expanse that separates Africa and Europe. Sir, are you high on something? I remember reading somewhere that, each person travelling to the Hague will use no less than Ksh500,000 to stay there, that is, if they do budge travel, and I highly doubt any of them will agree to such kind of travel. Now, I do not know how much money the IDPs need to be resettled, but if you multiply 500,000 x 40 (at least), you get 20,000,000, that’s a whooping 20 million shillings, on the lower side. Already, it is being whispered that one of the O-six used Ksh5million…okay, this math is giving me a headache, let us stick to Ksh20million. How much, dare I ask, would be done for the IDPs using this kind of money? Clearly, something happens to our MPs heads when they get to parliament – for starters, priorities are turned upside down, their common sense tumbles like a house of cards, not to mention, the humane side of their brains gets terribly distorted. Perhaps, we should not blame them; it must be the air in parliament! How else do you explain their behavior?
The Ksh20million (at least) is not all. Plans are in high gear to organize a homecoming party for the O-six! No prizes for guesses on how much is going down at this ‘bash’. What irks me more here is, one of my best friend’s father is actually in this committee – sir, if you read this, shame on you! The respect I had for you is quickly being corroded by your luck of sensitivity to those who lost their lives during the post election violence, their relatives, those who are still languishing in camps in Kenya and Uganda, those who lost their livelihoods, children who still have not gone back to school and just for effect, the Mau Narok! I will never look at you the same way again because, clearly, you have lost the plot big time. If there was a disease called ‘decadence’, you would be suffering from it big time!
True, the six are innocent until proven guilty, but does that mean we should ignore that they might actually be guilty of what they are being accused of? Why should six people, six rich boys I might add, hold the country at ransom? Guilty or not, this is a matter that does not call for any sort of celebration or public display. If you are innocent, shut up and let the evidence (or thereof lack of) speak for you. If you are guilty, praying and exchanging words will not make you innocent – it just makes us rather suspicious of your intentions. Next time you hold prayers, pray for the IDPs, they need the prayers more than you do, believe you me. Next time you hold a public rally, do not play the victim, surprise us and talk about the CDF projects – you are all so predictable I could make your speeches word for word without looking at the teleprompter (do you use those?)
The media circus that is the Hague is embarrassing to sane Kenyans. For lack of family friendly word, you look like idiots, wearing those flag dresses and including a Masai or two for (bad) effects. You are not doing tourism any favors by your displays and if I were the minister of tourism, I would be loudly protesting – oh, wait, it might actually do some ‘good’ for the tourism sector – how about a package that reads something like ‘have you ever wondered what a country led by morons looks like?....’
And while we are at it, somebody put a duct tape on one Esther Murugi – woman, you are embarrassing!
Note: I feel less pregnant, but I sort of feel that I was pregnant with twins, and there is one more on the way……PUUUUUSH!
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Slummy Bummy!
A foreign journalist contacted me, asking whether I could be his ‘local fixer’ as he wanted to do a few human interest stories in Kenya. I agreed. As is usual with foreign journalists, they always want to do something about the slums; I am usually undecided on what to think about the ‘romance’ attached to poverty, and I spoke to him about my misgivings. He assured me that he would have a different angle. I took his word, and as soon as we found a fixer in Mathare, we were off.
We drove to Mlango Kubwa, the access point to Mathare Valley, and waited in the car for the ‘Mathare Valley fixer’, who arrived within five minutes accompanied by four young men who would be our security in the slum. The more the merrier, I thought as I shook their hands and introduced myself. Although this was told to me off record, you can only get into the slum in the company of a slum veteran. Being born and growing up in the slums does not necessarily make you a ‘veteran’, but you would have to be a feared ‘slummer’ with clout and reputation of sorts. I could guess what ‘feared’ meant, but courage to ask them what they did for a living failed me.
And so we were off, sandwiched between our ‘security personnel’, going down the valley. Predictably, we attracted a lot of attention. The foreign journalist was a White man; little children, the youth, old people, all shouted ‘hawayu’ to him. At first, he did not realize ‘hawayu’ was our version of ‘how are you’, but he proved a fast learner. A few unprintable words were directed at me, but I was in no position to protest.
As soon as we started descending into the valley, I knew I should have asked about the dress code. The open sewers welcomed my poor sandals-clad feet. It was too late to turn back and get some sensible shoes, so I soldiered on; stepping on liquid concoction I did not want to imagine the recipe stopped bothering me after a hundred meters. The deeper into the valley we walked, the more aware I became about my dress-code. You see, when I was leaving the house, I was dressed for a hot day ahead. My black top was see through but covered all my essentials, my skinny jeans were visibly new, my Erica Badu head-gear was meant to prevent direct heat from the scorching sun (and my locks need a hair doctor asap), and my stunners are rather expensive. I looked at the people around me, many of them barefooted, more with dirty feet and faces, even more with tattered clothes. WHAT WAS I THINKING, WEARING LIKE THIS???
But, as soon as I asked myself that question, I realized really, apart from wearing sensible shoes, there was no other way I could have dressed, that would have been pretentious. I am not Bruce Parry of the Tribe, I am under no obligation to live like they do, but it didn’t make me feel better about myself.
My wardrobe malfunctions (for lack of better word) were forgotten as soon as we delved into the slum epicenter. The stench! OMG! At first, I thought someone must have let off a really bad stinker, but then it went on for too long. One ‘body guard’ must have noticed my folded face; he casually told me to get used to it. That is what slums smell like! Not an easy thing to do, but I soldiered on. Soon after we entered the house of our target family which, if that were possible, smelled worse – my eyes started watering; it could have been from the tragedy in my face, or from the smell. It was like somebody had done a poop and didn’t bother to remove it, but I soon found out it was because the house was next to the ‘public’ toilet. The toilet was a tiny room with a hole and a drum dug into the middle of the ground. A pipe has been fixed to transport the poop and all its glory into the river – the same river those without Ksh5 for the bathroom use as a communal bath. To use the toilet, you pay five shillings; for tissue, there are some old newspapers for that. Next to the toilet is the guy who sells water – yes, water for drinking. I couldn’t help thinking how dirty their water containers were on the outside, what were the chances that they were cleaner inside? For a 20ltr container, you needed five shillings. Next to the water ‘depot’ was the bathroom – five shillings to use that, thank you very much. The people who run these businesses could potentially make a lot of money, but the oxymoron of the situation, if I may, was that the bathroom landlord was the dirtiest of them all.
Back to our ‘target family’. A woman who could have been anywhere between 18 and 50 years old. I guessed she was in her early twenties, but poverty had obviously ravaged her youth. She had two children; a five year old who should have been in school, and a nine month old who whined and cried constantly. We later learned that the little one was unwell; apparently, she gets ill every three weeks if she is lucky. Usually, every week she had a sort of disease – if it is not diarrhea, it is a cold, or vomiting, or something else. On this particular day, she had a bad throat infection and nothing stayed in the tummy – this, after a healthy period of 3 days that followed a bad diarrhea period! As soon as we were through interviewing her, she told us, she would be heading to a hospital, and she did not even have money which she needed to buy medicine bottles. Kudos to our government for free health-care for children under five, but the same children miss out on medicine because they do not have Ksh10 for a medicine bottle. I made a note to give her Shs200 after the interview.
The five year old girl appeared rather healthy, but the mother told us that sometimes they go for days without food; how could she look so healthy? All this while, her husband was seated on the bed, the only bed in the room (okay, so who sleeps where?). He was quiet, his head between his hands and I caught him nodding a couple of times. Who could blame him? He had a bad hang-over, a result of a kill-me-quick brews available at any time of the day in the slums. Mututho, over to you sir! I dare you to go into Mathare Valley and arrest the brewers and the drinkers for breaking every law in your set of laws. AS IF! The husband, who finally shook himself to talk to us, fetches water for the richer slum dwellers for which he gets paid five shillings for every 20ltr container. The only problem is, he first takes care of his thirsty throat before either feeding himself, and his family. They are lucky if he has ten shillings left on him at the end of the day. He, of course, expects to eat and sleep – rent is Ksh300. The wife, so to say, is the sole bread winner, but she is unable to wash clothes for Eastleigh residents for Ksh300 everyday as sometimes there is no one to leave her two little ones with!
They do not have a stove or any utensils. How do they cook, I hear you ask? Well, they don’t, they use the services of the local ‘hotelier’. The food is about Ksh30 per plate – on a good day, she will get two plates but usually, a plate is enough for everybody in the family – and that’s all they get for 24hours. A cup of porridge is Ksh10 – that is what her kids have for breakfast while she has nothing.
Soon as the wife was off to the hospital with the little one on the back and the bigger on in tow, shoe-less, the husband took us to his local ‘pub’. The pub is own by an elderly lady, and it doubles as her resident. The bar owner’s English would have made my English teacher very proud. Her house on the outside is like any other slum house, but on the inside, one needed to ‘acclimatize’. It was clean and well lit, with a good set of sofas accessorized with table clothes, at the corner was a good bed with clean bed clothes, she had a colour TV, a coffee table, a Meco gas cooker etc etc. She was obviously doing well, no surprise there as she told us in a day, she sells about four drums of muratina wine. Each glass is Ksh10, I went dizzy trying to do the math, but at the end of the day, she has more or less Ksh3,000 profit. Do the math. Off the record, she told me she has properties and other businesses outside the slum; she also told me that there was no way she would like the slum life to be done with – now there is a surprise, NOT! How many Kenyans make Ksh3,000 on a daily basis? May I remind you that it is tax free?
For the visual story, you would need to keep tuned here, the documentary was commissioned by an international news media, I will let you know when it airs in a few months. But did I learn anything in the slums? Certainly. That I need to appreciate more what I have and stop whining at the little things in life. That there are some people who will never let slums ‘die’, it is their BIG daily bread. That you could get killed for Ksh200 and your killer will not blink an eye. Did we, as journalists, think we did anything to help? Well, I gave her Ksh200, so at least she got her baby’s medicines that day, and they probably had two plates of food that day. My colleague gave them food items worth over Ksh2,000 – but someone told us not to be surprised if the husband sold it to get some drinking money. My colleague also paid school fees for the five year old, promising to always do so but directly to the school, but I could not help wondering whether, on hungry days, the child would be able to learn. I hope the documentary, when it is aired, would highlight the plight, but then, hundreds of other documentaries have been aired, I do not know whether they have made any difference. Some of the locals were obviously disgruntled as they kept telling us that, all we do is Film! Film! Film! But they never see any results of the filming. Maybe it is true, but my consolation is, because we went to film that day, that family did not sleep hungry, their daughter got her medication, they got food for a month (here is hoping), the other child would go to school. It is not the big donor money that makes the difference (cue Kibera and the NGOs that milk the cash cow that it is in the name of helping), it is the small things that matter, like targeting individual families. Like my friend Nduchu Ngugi told me recently, Kenya should not be on the Guinness Book of Records for harboring the biggest slum on this side of the continent!
Let us all try and do something, however small!
We drove to Mlango Kubwa, the access point to Mathare Valley, and waited in the car for the ‘Mathare Valley fixer’, who arrived within five minutes accompanied by four young men who would be our security in the slum. The more the merrier, I thought as I shook their hands and introduced myself. Although this was told to me off record, you can only get into the slum in the company of a slum veteran. Being born and growing up in the slums does not necessarily make you a ‘veteran’, but you would have to be a feared ‘slummer’ with clout and reputation of sorts. I could guess what ‘feared’ meant, but courage to ask them what they did for a living failed me.
And so we were off, sandwiched between our ‘security personnel’, going down the valley. Predictably, we attracted a lot of attention. The foreign journalist was a White man; little children, the youth, old people, all shouted ‘hawayu’ to him. At first, he did not realize ‘hawayu’ was our version of ‘how are you’, but he proved a fast learner. A few unprintable words were directed at me, but I was in no position to protest.
As soon as we started descending into the valley, I knew I should have asked about the dress code. The open sewers welcomed my poor sandals-clad feet. It was too late to turn back and get some sensible shoes, so I soldiered on; stepping on liquid concoction I did not want to imagine the recipe stopped bothering me after a hundred meters. The deeper into the valley we walked, the more aware I became about my dress-code. You see, when I was leaving the house, I was dressed for a hot day ahead. My black top was see through but covered all my essentials, my skinny jeans were visibly new, my Erica Badu head-gear was meant to prevent direct heat from the scorching sun (and my locks need a hair doctor asap), and my stunners are rather expensive. I looked at the people around me, many of them barefooted, more with dirty feet and faces, even more with tattered clothes. WHAT WAS I THINKING, WEARING LIKE THIS???
But, as soon as I asked myself that question, I realized really, apart from wearing sensible shoes, there was no other way I could have dressed, that would have been pretentious. I am not Bruce Parry of the Tribe, I am under no obligation to live like they do, but it didn’t make me feel better about myself.
My wardrobe malfunctions (for lack of better word) were forgotten as soon as we delved into the slum epicenter. The stench! OMG! At first, I thought someone must have let off a really bad stinker, but then it went on for too long. One ‘body guard’ must have noticed my folded face; he casually told me to get used to it. That is what slums smell like! Not an easy thing to do, but I soldiered on. Soon after we entered the house of our target family which, if that were possible, smelled worse – my eyes started watering; it could have been from the tragedy in my face, or from the smell. It was like somebody had done a poop and didn’t bother to remove it, but I soon found out it was because the house was next to the ‘public’ toilet. The toilet was a tiny room with a hole and a drum dug into the middle of the ground. A pipe has been fixed to transport the poop and all its glory into the river – the same river those without Ksh5 for the bathroom use as a communal bath. To use the toilet, you pay five shillings; for tissue, there are some old newspapers for that. Next to the toilet is the guy who sells water – yes, water for drinking. I couldn’t help thinking how dirty their water containers were on the outside, what were the chances that they were cleaner inside? For a 20ltr container, you needed five shillings. Next to the water ‘depot’ was the bathroom – five shillings to use that, thank you very much. The people who run these businesses could potentially make a lot of money, but the oxymoron of the situation, if I may, was that the bathroom landlord was the dirtiest of them all.
Back to our ‘target family’. A woman who could have been anywhere between 18 and 50 years old. I guessed she was in her early twenties, but poverty had obviously ravaged her youth. She had two children; a five year old who should have been in school, and a nine month old who whined and cried constantly. We later learned that the little one was unwell; apparently, she gets ill every three weeks if she is lucky. Usually, every week she had a sort of disease – if it is not diarrhea, it is a cold, or vomiting, or something else. On this particular day, she had a bad throat infection and nothing stayed in the tummy – this, after a healthy period of 3 days that followed a bad diarrhea period! As soon as we were through interviewing her, she told us, she would be heading to a hospital, and she did not even have money which she needed to buy medicine bottles. Kudos to our government for free health-care for children under five, but the same children miss out on medicine because they do not have Ksh10 for a medicine bottle. I made a note to give her Shs200 after the interview.
The five year old girl appeared rather healthy, but the mother told us that sometimes they go for days without food; how could she look so healthy? All this while, her husband was seated on the bed, the only bed in the room (okay, so who sleeps where?). He was quiet, his head between his hands and I caught him nodding a couple of times. Who could blame him? He had a bad hang-over, a result of a kill-me-quick brews available at any time of the day in the slums. Mututho, over to you sir! I dare you to go into Mathare Valley and arrest the brewers and the drinkers for breaking every law in your set of laws. AS IF! The husband, who finally shook himself to talk to us, fetches water for the richer slum dwellers for which he gets paid five shillings for every 20ltr container. The only problem is, he first takes care of his thirsty throat before either feeding himself, and his family. They are lucky if he has ten shillings left on him at the end of the day. He, of course, expects to eat and sleep – rent is Ksh300. The wife, so to say, is the sole bread winner, but she is unable to wash clothes for Eastleigh residents for Ksh300 everyday as sometimes there is no one to leave her two little ones with!
They do not have a stove or any utensils. How do they cook, I hear you ask? Well, they don’t, they use the services of the local ‘hotelier’. The food is about Ksh30 per plate – on a good day, she will get two plates but usually, a plate is enough for everybody in the family – and that’s all they get for 24hours. A cup of porridge is Ksh10 – that is what her kids have for breakfast while she has nothing.
Soon as the wife was off to the hospital with the little one on the back and the bigger on in tow, shoe-less, the husband took us to his local ‘pub’. The pub is own by an elderly lady, and it doubles as her resident. The bar owner’s English would have made my English teacher very proud. Her house on the outside is like any other slum house, but on the inside, one needed to ‘acclimatize’. It was clean and well lit, with a good set of sofas accessorized with table clothes, at the corner was a good bed with clean bed clothes, she had a colour TV, a coffee table, a Meco gas cooker etc etc. She was obviously doing well, no surprise there as she told us in a day, she sells about four drums of muratina wine. Each glass is Ksh10, I went dizzy trying to do the math, but at the end of the day, she has more or less Ksh3,000 profit. Do the math. Off the record, she told me she has properties and other businesses outside the slum; she also told me that there was no way she would like the slum life to be done with – now there is a surprise, NOT! How many Kenyans make Ksh3,000 on a daily basis? May I remind you that it is tax free?
For the visual story, you would need to keep tuned here, the documentary was commissioned by an international news media, I will let you know when it airs in a few months. But did I learn anything in the slums? Certainly. That I need to appreciate more what I have and stop whining at the little things in life. That there are some people who will never let slums ‘die’, it is their BIG daily bread. That you could get killed for Ksh200 and your killer will not blink an eye. Did we, as journalists, think we did anything to help? Well, I gave her Ksh200, so at least she got her baby’s medicines that day, and they probably had two plates of food that day. My colleague gave them food items worth over Ksh2,000 – but someone told us not to be surprised if the husband sold it to get some drinking money. My colleague also paid school fees for the five year old, promising to always do so but directly to the school, but I could not help wondering whether, on hungry days, the child would be able to learn. I hope the documentary, when it is aired, would highlight the plight, but then, hundreds of other documentaries have been aired, I do not know whether they have made any difference. Some of the locals were obviously disgruntled as they kept telling us that, all we do is Film! Film! Film! But they never see any results of the filming. Maybe it is true, but my consolation is, because we went to film that day, that family did not sleep hungry, their daughter got her medication, they got food for a month (here is hoping), the other child would go to school. It is not the big donor money that makes the difference (cue Kibera and the NGOs that milk the cash cow that it is in the name of helping), it is the small things that matter, like targeting individual families. Like my friend Nduchu Ngugi told me recently, Kenya should not be on the Guinness Book of Records for harboring the biggest slum on this side of the continent!
Let us all try and do something, however small!
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
When I made a total Ass of Me
Yesterday I made a total ass of myself, but this really should be the last paragraph, so let me start from the beginning.
I do not really like shopping at Tuskys. As a result, I have been accused of several misdemeanors including 'feeling' (note not 'being') too posh, but last week, my witty brother-in-law put it into perspective; Tuskys is full of normal people! At Tuskys, you are unlikely to bump into somebody with green hair or a teenager buying an energy drink on his skates. Admittedly, I am attracted to eccentrics, and no wonder Tuskys does nothing for my excitement gene!
It so happens that the most convenient supermarket on my way home is none other than Tuskys. I could do Nakumatt only 200 metres further, but sometimes I am lazy like that. So yesterday I walked into Tuskys, full of normal people, did my shopping with the normal people, and while at the till waiting for the jamaa at the end of the till to pack my stuff (really, why do they imagine I cannot pack my own stuff? Or is it job creation?) I remembered I needed to go to the open market to buy potatoes et al!
Wearing my sweetest smile, I asked the 'packer' if he could be so kind and put in an extra plastic bag for me. My smile did not obviously melt him as with a stony stare, he informed me that "hatupeani makaratasi ovyo ovyo". My face instantly went hot, and if you are light skinned, you know what a blush does to your skin colour.
I said, "Can I buy it?" Duh! But I didn't know what else to tell him.
"Hatuuzi". Came an answer in form of a growl!
That was when I did something I consider below me (I told you about being accused of feeling too posh). I grabbed a plastic bag and stuffed in my my handbag. I seriously do not know what came over me prior to this action, but I plead temporary insanity. My actions were totally beyond me. But really, with all the shopping I unwillingly do there, and all the 'macoins' I have left there because I refuse to take their Tropicals (how come other supermarkets can get coins? Nkt!), surely one miserable plastic bag will not drive Tuskys under!
Then the stand-off! Of course he dared not enter my handbag to retrieve the miserable piece of plastic, but I could see him weighing options of what I would do if he tried. Good decision not to, I tell ya! Thing was, he was holding on to the shopping I just paid for! All these for one miserable plastic bag! I could bring them all the miserable plastic bags in my house, I don't know what to do with them I cannot recycle them enough! Nkt!
Anyhooo, I held my ground. He held his! Boss came, confirmed that they did not dish out makaratasi ovyo ovyo! Twat! Mumbles (rightfully so) from the customers on queue! Bigger boss comes, confirms the same thing. Idiot! One miserable plastic bag! At this point, I knew I didn't want the plastic bag that much to cause a scene, but it is a matter of principle sometimes.
Sso I didn't give in. As calmly as I could (trying to save whatever dignity, it is a plastic bag remember), I told them I would not be returning the bag, and if they wanted to keep my shopping, sawa! My daughter would just have to go without her Weetabix tomorrow - I was tempted to use my 'I am a journalist' card but I changed my mind!
Tighter rope they were on. Customers were asking 'kwani karatasi ni nini', 'tunachelewa bwana' or 'ile pesa ya sweeti si mnunue karatasi'. The security guard was close by (one of these days I will be on first name basis with security guards) but I suspect he was also wondering what the fuss is all about. They grudgingly gave me my bag, I quiped (in my head of course), said thank you (not meant, of course), walked out with my head held high but still red in the face, and most importantly, a resolve; I am never shopping in Tuskys, any Tuskys! It is full of normal people
I still felt like a total ass!
I do not really like shopping at Tuskys. As a result, I have been accused of several misdemeanors including 'feeling' (note not 'being') too posh, but last week, my witty brother-in-law put it into perspective; Tuskys is full of normal people! At Tuskys, you are unlikely to bump into somebody with green hair or a teenager buying an energy drink on his skates. Admittedly, I am attracted to eccentrics, and no wonder Tuskys does nothing for my excitement gene!
It so happens that the most convenient supermarket on my way home is none other than Tuskys. I could do Nakumatt only 200 metres further, but sometimes I am lazy like that. So yesterday I walked into Tuskys, full of normal people, did my shopping with the normal people, and while at the till waiting for the jamaa at the end of the till to pack my stuff (really, why do they imagine I cannot pack my own stuff? Or is it job creation?) I remembered I needed to go to the open market to buy potatoes et al!
Wearing my sweetest smile, I asked the 'packer' if he could be so kind and put in an extra plastic bag for me. My smile did not obviously melt him as with a stony stare, he informed me that "hatupeani makaratasi ovyo ovyo". My face instantly went hot, and if you are light skinned, you know what a blush does to your skin colour.
I said, "Can I buy it?" Duh! But I didn't know what else to tell him.
"Hatuuzi". Came an answer in form of a growl!
That was when I did something I consider below me (I told you about being accused of feeling too posh). I grabbed a plastic bag and stuffed in my my handbag. I seriously do not know what came over me prior to this action, but I plead temporary insanity. My actions were totally beyond me. But really, with all the shopping I unwillingly do there, and all the 'macoins' I have left there because I refuse to take their Tropicals (how come other supermarkets can get coins? Nkt!), surely one miserable plastic bag will not drive Tuskys under!
Then the stand-off! Of course he dared not enter my handbag to retrieve the miserable piece of plastic, but I could see him weighing options of what I would do if he tried. Good decision not to, I tell ya! Thing was, he was holding on to the shopping I just paid for! All these for one miserable plastic bag! I could bring them all the miserable plastic bags in my house, I don't know what to do with them I cannot recycle them enough! Nkt!
Anyhooo, I held my ground. He held his! Boss came, confirmed that they did not dish out makaratasi ovyo ovyo! Twat! Mumbles (rightfully so) from the customers on queue! Bigger boss comes, confirms the same thing. Idiot! One miserable plastic bag! At this point, I knew I didn't want the plastic bag that much to cause a scene, but it is a matter of principle sometimes.
Sso I didn't give in. As calmly as I could (trying to save whatever dignity, it is a plastic bag remember), I told them I would not be returning the bag, and if they wanted to keep my shopping, sawa! My daughter would just have to go without her Weetabix tomorrow - I was tempted to use my 'I am a journalist' card but I changed my mind!
Tighter rope they were on. Customers were asking 'kwani karatasi ni nini', 'tunachelewa bwana' or 'ile pesa ya sweeti si mnunue karatasi'. The security guard was close by (one of these days I will be on first name basis with security guards) but I suspect he was also wondering what the fuss is all about. They grudgingly gave me my bag, I quiped (in my head of course), said thank you (not meant, of course), walked out with my head held high but still red in the face, and most importantly, a resolve; I am never shopping in Tuskys, any Tuskys! It is full of normal people
I still felt like a total ass!
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
JACK OF ALL TRADES
I am a jack of all trades (still cannot tell what trade I am a master at; sigh…). In my life, I have cleaned houses for richer humans, I have stacked shelves in a supermarket, I have looked (more than looked, I tell you) after old people in old people’s homes, I have looked after people’s children (loved some, hated some), I have been a receptionist, a personal assistant, a marketing manager (talk about climbing the corporate ladder!) and now, I am a writer. Beat that!
In between all that, I have worked as a tour guide (truth be told, I know jerk about the flora and fauna of Kenya but I tell you, hats off for all tour van drivers – they are f&f dictionaries). I particularly loved the tour gig, mainly because I got to do something I totally enjoy – tour our beautiful countries for free.
This job afforded me the opportunity to meet different characters who were unfortunately not always nice, or sensitive. I sucked up a lot, I held my quick mouth a lot when things were said and left me thinking ; ‘they just didn’t…’
I vividly remember one particular trip we made to Mt Kenya. On our way to the mountain, we passed and stopped by some deprived villages. In my naivety, I imagined they wanted to stop by the villages so they could give the poor some loose foreign currency or clothes but no!.. no!.. no!…to them, it was a chance to see the Africa they seen on CNN and a photo opportunity of a lifetime!
I am famously a sucker for children – every time I see a child who is not living the way they should (not in poverty, that is), it breaks my heart. I want to take them away, wash them, clothe and feed them and finish with a big bear hug.
In front of us stood about 10 children aged between 2 and 10 years. Runny noses, dirty bodies, torn clothes but most were naked. They obviously had not had a proper meal in a long time and in my head, I thought this was their chance to have some money to get a good meal. They were crying for salvation, so to speak.
They knew no better life, perhaps why they were in such high spirits. Excitedly they were screaming ‘mzungu mzungu’ (although I have several times been called mzungu in my life, I doubted they were referring to me, hehe)…so anyway, screaming ‘mzungu mzungu, tupige picha’ (White man please take a picture of us).
I smiled while I stood in the background, but truth be told, I was using my smile to mask the utter despair the situation left me in. I had a big urge to cry, but instead I brought out my ‘tough’ and fixed a glassy smile instead – this after all, was my job and I was not allowed to let emotions take over.
For the children, this was the highlight of their day. They saw mzungus and the mzungus had gadget like things that were digital cameras. So they posed as my clients happily clicked away, taking turns to pose with the children as they declared ‘how cute they were….’ WHAT? BITE MY ……
The kids in front of us were anything but cute! Don’t get me wrong, I do not think anyone is born ugly, money, or lack of it, dictates how ugly or beautiful one turns out; how else do you explain the ugly. Poor (literally) duckling in your childhood days who suddenly became absolutely drop dead gorgeous when they got a job? Do the math!
So yeah, ugly kids and obviously visually challenged tourists. I wished I was their Facebook friends, then I would have placed a bet for the first time in my life, that those pictures would be uploaded on their Facebook page as soon as were back to civilization.
That way, they would be able to tell and prove to their friends that they know how bad things are in Africa – they have been there and they got the pictures to show, ey? Of course, they will conveniently forget how ‘rather polished’ I am, how the middle class in Kenya lives much better than the western middle class (I have been there, I know) – that would not make a good story at the pub, would it?
But what to do?!
Jeez, does the end of this article sound like an anticlimax or is it just me?
In between all that, I have worked as a tour guide (truth be told, I know jerk about the flora and fauna of Kenya but I tell you, hats off for all tour van drivers – they are f&f dictionaries). I particularly loved the tour gig, mainly because I got to do something I totally enjoy – tour our beautiful countries for free.
This job afforded me the opportunity to meet different characters who were unfortunately not always nice, or sensitive. I sucked up a lot, I held my quick mouth a lot when things were said and left me thinking ; ‘they just didn’t…’
I vividly remember one particular trip we made to Mt Kenya. On our way to the mountain, we passed and stopped by some deprived villages. In my naivety, I imagined they wanted to stop by the villages so they could give the poor some loose foreign currency or clothes but no!.. no!.. no!…to them, it was a chance to see the Africa they seen on CNN and a photo opportunity of a lifetime!
I am famously a sucker for children – every time I see a child who is not living the way they should (not in poverty, that is), it breaks my heart. I want to take them away, wash them, clothe and feed them and finish with a big bear hug.
In front of us stood about 10 children aged between 2 and 10 years. Runny noses, dirty bodies, torn clothes but most were naked. They obviously had not had a proper meal in a long time and in my head, I thought this was their chance to have some money to get a good meal. They were crying for salvation, so to speak.
They knew no better life, perhaps why they were in such high spirits. Excitedly they were screaming ‘mzungu mzungu’ (although I have several times been called mzungu in my life, I doubted they were referring to me, hehe)…so anyway, screaming ‘mzungu mzungu, tupige picha’ (White man please take a picture of us).
I smiled while I stood in the background, but truth be told, I was using my smile to mask the utter despair the situation left me in. I had a big urge to cry, but instead I brought out my ‘tough’ and fixed a glassy smile instead – this after all, was my job and I was not allowed to let emotions take over.
For the children, this was the highlight of their day. They saw mzungus and the mzungus had gadget like things that were digital cameras. So they posed as my clients happily clicked away, taking turns to pose with the children as they declared ‘how cute they were….’ WHAT? BITE MY ……
The kids in front of us were anything but cute! Don’t get me wrong, I do not think anyone is born ugly, money, or lack of it, dictates how ugly or beautiful one turns out; how else do you explain the ugly. Poor (literally) duckling in your childhood days who suddenly became absolutely drop dead gorgeous when they got a job? Do the math!
So yeah, ugly kids and obviously visually challenged tourists. I wished I was their Facebook friends, then I would have placed a bet for the first time in my life, that those pictures would be uploaded on their Facebook page as soon as were back to civilization.
That way, they would be able to tell and prove to their friends that they know how bad things are in Africa – they have been there and they got the pictures to show, ey? Of course, they will conveniently forget how ‘rather polished’ I am, how the middle class in Kenya lives much better than the western middle class (I have been there, I know) – that would not make a good story at the pub, would it?
But what to do?!
Jeez, does the end of this article sound like an anticlimax or is it just me?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Sad Day
Tuesday the 25th May, 2010, was a very sad and emotionally draining day for me. By evening, the hubby wanted to know whether I was ill – my usual loud self was away, my responses to my ever so energetic daughter were all rather on auto pilot.
Just to put you in the picture, I am in charge of publicity and fundraising for Hope for Cancer Kids, a charitable organization that looks to ‘wholistically’ take care of children with cancer and their families. Our job is to raise both awareness and funds, at the same time fight the stigma that comes attached with childhood cancer so parents are on the look out so as to arrest the cancers before they become incurable. Our long term goal is to have 80% child cancer survival rater, in line with the developed world statistics, as opposed to the current 10%.
My director, whose child was diagnosed with cancer 3 years ago when he was only 3 years old, had lost his son two weeks ago. On 25th was the first day I spoke to him one on one about the death of his son Lee. He, always strong, narrated how he held his son’s hand as he took his last breadth. Not an easy thing even for the strongest of the strong. He did not once cry as he told me about it, I suppose he has done all the crying while his son was ill – it was almost a relief when he passed on, as it had become obvious that he was not going to get better, but his pain was unbearable.
Just after he finished narrating his story, a woman we both know walked into the office. Her son, 5 years old, has been a ‘resident’ of KNH children cancer ward for the last two years. He, sadly, had lost his battle about the same time with Lee – they had been friends. Unfortunately for the woman who stood in front of us, she has not been able to burry her son. In the two years he has been at the hospital, his hospital bill had risen to Kshs600,000. Unfortunately, and you cannot blame them really, KNH requires her to settle at least half of the bill before the body is released. This, for a woman who received the sad news of his son’s demise while she was at a burial site burying her father, whose body had been held hostage at City Mortuary because they could not raise about Ksh50,000 to settle mortuary bills.
I have never met a woman more resigned to fate than the woman who stood in front of us.
It frustrated me and I could not help feeling partly responsible that her mourning period was being extended. If I was doing my job right, surely her son would not be at the mortuary accumulating bills! I know it is silly to feel like that, but I still feel terrible.
On the 18th June, we are holding a fundraising dinner at the Panafric Hotel. The aim of the dinner is to raise at least Ksh1.5 million. Not anywhere near what we require, as currently, we have over 120 children at the wards with bills ranging from Ksh20,000 to Ksh700,000, totaling to about Ksh15million. The Ksh1.5million however will help us take NHIF covers for every child at the ward currently, and in the future. We will need more money as it is a continuous process, but we have to start somewhere.
The idea of the insurance scheme is to involve both NHIF and KNH, who have both agreed to join our bid, NHIF especially as a part of their social responsibility. We have several other corporate like Safaricom, Magnate Venures,NMG already on board, and others interested and we can only hope they will join us. Individuals are welcome as well, either as volunteers or donors, and donations do not have to come in cash, there is always use for clothes, books, old fridges, heaters etc, get in touch with me I will be happy to help.
Back to the dinner, any corporate willing to join will pay Ksh50,000 for 7 people, individuals Ksh 10,000 but this is for two people. If you like flying solo, Ksh5,000 is enough. The money is just enough to pay for the dinner and insurance for 1 ½ families. Please join us so we can tell you why we so desperately need your help.
As for the woman who came to the office , we only promised to try, but cannot make any concrete promises. We shall present her case to the KNH but we are not holding our breadths – only last week, they offset a bill for another patient of Kshs500,000.
We need financial help especially. If you cannot join us for the dinner, we can still use your donations, whatever amount it is. We have an M-pesa account, 511100, you can send through bill section, or alternatively inbox me (ciku@hope4cancerkids.org) and I can direct you how to help, financially or otherwise.
Please visit our website www.hope4cancerkids.org and get to know us better and get acquainted with our projects.
Thank you
Just to put you in the picture, I am in charge of publicity and fundraising for Hope for Cancer Kids, a charitable organization that looks to ‘wholistically’ take care of children with cancer and their families. Our job is to raise both awareness and funds, at the same time fight the stigma that comes attached with childhood cancer so parents are on the look out so as to arrest the cancers before they become incurable. Our long term goal is to have 80% child cancer survival rater, in line with the developed world statistics, as opposed to the current 10%.
My director, whose child was diagnosed with cancer 3 years ago when he was only 3 years old, had lost his son two weeks ago. On 25th was the first day I spoke to him one on one about the death of his son Lee. He, always strong, narrated how he held his son’s hand as he took his last breadth. Not an easy thing even for the strongest of the strong. He did not once cry as he told me about it, I suppose he has done all the crying while his son was ill – it was almost a relief when he passed on, as it had become obvious that he was not going to get better, but his pain was unbearable.
Just after he finished narrating his story, a woman we both know walked into the office. Her son, 5 years old, has been a ‘resident’ of KNH children cancer ward for the last two years. He, sadly, had lost his battle about the same time with Lee – they had been friends. Unfortunately for the woman who stood in front of us, she has not been able to burry her son. In the two years he has been at the hospital, his hospital bill had risen to Kshs600,000. Unfortunately, and you cannot blame them really, KNH requires her to settle at least half of the bill before the body is released. This, for a woman who received the sad news of his son’s demise while she was at a burial site burying her father, whose body had been held hostage at City Mortuary because they could not raise about Ksh50,000 to settle mortuary bills.
I have never met a woman more resigned to fate than the woman who stood in front of us.
It frustrated me and I could not help feeling partly responsible that her mourning period was being extended. If I was doing my job right, surely her son would not be at the mortuary accumulating bills! I know it is silly to feel like that, but I still feel terrible.
On the 18th June, we are holding a fundraising dinner at the Panafric Hotel. The aim of the dinner is to raise at least Ksh1.5 million. Not anywhere near what we require, as currently, we have over 120 children at the wards with bills ranging from Ksh20,000 to Ksh700,000, totaling to about Ksh15million. The Ksh1.5million however will help us take NHIF covers for every child at the ward currently, and in the future. We will need more money as it is a continuous process, but we have to start somewhere.
The idea of the insurance scheme is to involve both NHIF and KNH, who have both agreed to join our bid, NHIF especially as a part of their social responsibility. We have several other corporate like Safaricom, Magnate Venures,NMG already on board, and others interested and we can only hope they will join us. Individuals are welcome as well, either as volunteers or donors, and donations do not have to come in cash, there is always use for clothes, books, old fridges, heaters etc, get in touch with me I will be happy to help.
Back to the dinner, any corporate willing to join will pay Ksh50,000 for 7 people, individuals Ksh 10,000 but this is for two people. If you like flying solo, Ksh5,000 is enough. The money is just enough to pay for the dinner and insurance for 1 ½ families. Please join us so we can tell you why we so desperately need your help.
As for the woman who came to the office , we only promised to try, but cannot make any concrete promises. We shall present her case to the KNH but we are not holding our breadths – only last week, they offset a bill for another patient of Kshs500,000.
We need financial help especially. If you cannot join us for the dinner, we can still use your donations, whatever amount it is. We have an M-pesa account, 511100, you can send through bill section, or alternatively inbox me (ciku@hope4cancerkids.org) and I can direct you how to help, financially or otherwise.
Please visit our website www.hope4cancerkids.org and get to know us better and get acquainted with our projects.
Thank you
Friday, April 30, 2010
I WANT TO BE A CHINA MAN!
When a thief got more than he bargained for
When I tell people that I do not like to venture into downtown Nairobi unless it is a grave matter of life and death, I am usually accused of being posh; let me set the record straight, I am not posh, I am a villager and crowds who push and shove scare the living day lights out of me. I have also been mugged several times and it is always when I am a part of a crowd, and once (or twice) beaten, twice (or thrice) shy!
One of the few times it was a matter of life and death (ok, so I exaggerate, nobody was dying really) and I had to walk to Machakos Bus Station. I was terribly tense, I did not look at anyone straight in the face and I held myself so together that my joints ached from all the tension. However, I did not fail to notice an oriental man walking infront of me with all the swagger in the world. Unlike my hubby, I cannot differentiate between a Chinese and a Japanese – so shoot me, but I digress. Because of the event that followed, I am convinced he was Chinese.
I noticed him for several reasons; one, he was the only non Black in the vicinity and two, he was carrying a rather expensive looking camera and clicking away (see, I know he was Chinese). I was debating on whether to warn him about the danger zone when an unscrupulous fellow came from nowhere and grabbed his camera, taking off at a very high speed.
Oooh…how I had seen that one coming! I took a deep breadth, readying myself to shout ‘mwizi’, when the most amazing thing happened; the China man flew, and I mean, he flew like a bird! His feet were not touching the ground (I must insert that I have a bad eye sight so there is room for error). His offender was a tall man by any standards and obviously used to running for his life, the China man, not more than 4 feet, I tell you. The China man did a ‘0 to 60’ in 5 seconds flat. This is no exaggeration!
Things happened so fast I could not, even if I wanted, describe in detail, but within 20 seconds, there were 4 bloody men on the ground, the China man, just like in the movies, had one foot on top of the main offender’s chest, and he had his camera. All intact!
Where did the other 3 men come from? I hear you ask. Well, obviously, the thief had back-up, and they had tried to save their friend. Even they did not know what had hit them, a fact confirmed by how they looked around, bloody faces and confused and dazed eyes!
Whenever one of the tried to get up, he would get a kick straight from a Jackie Chan movie. The China man kept speaking in a strange tongue (tehehee), obviously very agitated, wagging his finger at the 4 more. We all guessed he was reprimanding the 4 sinners on the floor.
By this time, a crowd, that included yours truly, had gathered, and we were all clapping for the China man. A few minutes later, the cops led the limping offenders away.
At that point, I really wished I was Chinese! Honest. I thought abut all those times I could have sorted several thugs in 10 seconds or less, just like the China man, then I realized I only had myself to blame – not because I am not Chinese, that one I blame my parents, but because, when I was in college, I took martial arts.
Yes I did you doubting Thomases!
I am officially a brown belt and I should be able to kick a lot of people’s ass silly. Only problem is, I have not been to a karate gym in more than 10 years, and the other day I tried to do a high kick and only succeeded in looking totally ridiculous and landing flat on my tush! It hurt, and it was not attractive!
My instructor was the gentlest of souls, a man called Mwangi, and stood only up to my chest (when you are training, you tend to stand very close to your instructor so get your mind off the gutter). I was his best female student, and I suppose he would be really disappointed I wasted my talent.
I might not be so young and agile anymore, but I guess, if I started training again, I could save my smart phone.
Haiya!
When I tell people that I do not like to venture into downtown Nairobi unless it is a grave matter of life and death, I am usually accused of being posh; let me set the record straight, I am not posh, I am a villager and crowds who push and shove scare the living day lights out of me. I have also been mugged several times and it is always when I am a part of a crowd, and once (or twice) beaten, twice (or thrice) shy!
One of the few times it was a matter of life and death (ok, so I exaggerate, nobody was dying really) and I had to walk to Machakos Bus Station. I was terribly tense, I did not look at anyone straight in the face and I held myself so together that my joints ached from all the tension. However, I did not fail to notice an oriental man walking infront of me with all the swagger in the world. Unlike my hubby, I cannot differentiate between a Chinese and a Japanese – so shoot me, but I digress. Because of the event that followed, I am convinced he was Chinese.
I noticed him for several reasons; one, he was the only non Black in the vicinity and two, he was carrying a rather expensive looking camera and clicking away (see, I know he was Chinese). I was debating on whether to warn him about the danger zone when an unscrupulous fellow came from nowhere and grabbed his camera, taking off at a very high speed.
Oooh…how I had seen that one coming! I took a deep breadth, readying myself to shout ‘mwizi’, when the most amazing thing happened; the China man flew, and I mean, he flew like a bird! His feet were not touching the ground (I must insert that I have a bad eye sight so there is room for error). His offender was a tall man by any standards and obviously used to running for his life, the China man, not more than 4 feet, I tell you. The China man did a ‘0 to 60’ in 5 seconds flat. This is no exaggeration!
Things happened so fast I could not, even if I wanted, describe in detail, but within 20 seconds, there were 4 bloody men on the ground, the China man, just like in the movies, had one foot on top of the main offender’s chest, and he had his camera. All intact!
Where did the other 3 men come from? I hear you ask. Well, obviously, the thief had back-up, and they had tried to save their friend. Even they did not know what had hit them, a fact confirmed by how they looked around, bloody faces and confused and dazed eyes!
Whenever one of the tried to get up, he would get a kick straight from a Jackie Chan movie. The China man kept speaking in a strange tongue (tehehee), obviously very agitated, wagging his finger at the 4 more. We all guessed he was reprimanding the 4 sinners on the floor.
By this time, a crowd, that included yours truly, had gathered, and we were all clapping for the China man. A few minutes later, the cops led the limping offenders away.
At that point, I really wished I was Chinese! Honest. I thought abut all those times I could have sorted several thugs in 10 seconds or less, just like the China man, then I realized I only had myself to blame – not because I am not Chinese, that one I blame my parents, but because, when I was in college, I took martial arts.
Yes I did you doubting Thomases!
I am officially a brown belt and I should be able to kick a lot of people’s ass silly. Only problem is, I have not been to a karate gym in more than 10 years, and the other day I tried to do a high kick and only succeeded in looking totally ridiculous and landing flat on my tush! It hurt, and it was not attractive!
My instructor was the gentlest of souls, a man called Mwangi, and stood only up to my chest (when you are training, you tend to stand very close to your instructor so get your mind off the gutter). I was his best female student, and I suppose he would be really disappointed I wasted my talent.
I might not be so young and agile anymore, but I guess, if I started training again, I could save my smart phone.
Haiya!
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