Unspeakable things

A blog comes in handy when you have a subject that’s difficult to talk about out loud.

I knew there was poverty in Kenya, I knew that urban deprivation affected Nairobi in massive, permanent, well-documented ways.  But the real-life sights and sounds of people who have nothing today and won’t have anything tomorrow have... affected me.  Despite knowing, I was still unprepared.

In 2006, I was chatting with a Ghanaian guy about the trip Dan and I were planning to Uganda the following year, when he said, ‘On your first trip to Africa, you will be shocked by some of the poverty on the streets, you won’t believe your eyes.’  These words stayed with me as we spent a wonderful fortnight visiting our friend Albert.  We saw poverty in Uganda, but nothing that changed the way I saw the world.  Perhaps Albert shielded us, but whatever the reason, I had to come to Nairobi to be truly shocked.

Fellow volunteer Aurelia wrote a great piece on the hardship she’s seen and how when you see extreme poverty, it amost feels like you’re viewing it through a screen, or from a far distance – so removed is the life you see from your own.

But I can’t hide from it anymore.  I see things that shock me – sometimes I stare, or maybe I turn away.  But whatever my reaction, I’ve not been talking about it, not even with Dan.  I want to share what I’ve seen, because I’ve been hiding from it.  It’s time to face facts.

Things I know vs. Things I’ve seen

I knew there was poverty in Kenya. The Nairobi city centre after dark is loud, dirty, crowded and feels full of dangers.  We catch our bus from a part of town where the only other white people we see are each other.  Striding along at top speed, I see a bundle of rags outside a lively bar and assume it’s bedding ready for someone to sleep in, a frequent sight of homelessness in London.  But it’s not just bedding, it’s a small girl fast asleep on the pavement despite the urban chaos all around.

I knew there would be beggars. In the same area, a young woman sits on the pavement, beating an empty plastic container like a drum to accompanying her tuneless singing.  She sings strongly, I can clearly hear her as we approach, but the desperation is clear.  As we pass I see she is sitting amongst blankets, wrapped tight over her – wait - no - there are children. A small girl with her head in her mother’s lap, and a baby too, strapped to the front of the young woman.  It’s dark, it’s late and she’s begging for change.

I knew there were slums.  I look at the tin roofs of the slum shacks far below our living room window.  The rain hammers so hard we have to raise our voices to speak indoors.  I wonder how loud it is inside those shacks, and how much rain gets in?  I look back at our flat and wonder how many people we could fit in this safe, dry space.  How many families, how many children?

I knew there is no safety net for people with disability. Walking from the roundabout through the mud to my office, I pass a man with legs too emaciated to hold his weight.  He sits on the mud, moving backwards, dragging himself along like a baby learning to walk: bottom first then picking up his legs to follow.  He is alone, in the mud.  I wonder where is he going, and why.  Passing back in the opposite direction a few hours later, I see he has moved 100 metres down the path.

.............

The shock I’ve felt has made me feel naive, I know I’m very new to the developing world and had no exposure to homelessness back in the UK.  But I’m not ashamed to admit these sights make me feel... helpless – and shitty for hardening myself to this reality.  Take beggars, for example; as volunteers, we say no, we put on a stern face and we stride away, because -

Don't the parents of street children send them out to beg?  If everyone stopped giving, the parents would be more motivated to feed all their children, right?   

Some hotels ask guests not to give to the children who beg, because all you’re doing is keeping them from school.  The more you give, the less likely they are to get an education.  

Have you heard that the beggar outside the Yaya Centre makes 2000 shillings per day? (That’s twice the salary I’m paid here in Kenya)

This is what we hear, this is what we tell ourselves, but what’s the truth?  What’s the right thing to do?

Through my work at Kenya Union of the Blind (KUB), I am strengthening an organisation so it can better serve those who are blind and partially sighted.  Our members live in an inaccessible society, often denied education, or the chance to gain skills to earn a living.  With few choices, many Kenyans with visual impairment are forced to beg.  These people have nothing today but through the work of the KUB (educational grants, and microfinance programmes, for example) they might now have something tomorrow.  So I’m doing enough, right?  I firmly believe we are not here to share money, or food, or our flat – we’re here to share skills.  But still, the sight of Dan sternly saying ‘Hapana!’ (No) to a gang of hungry-looking seven-year-olds... affects me.

I know this isn’t groundbreaking stuff: western woman shocked by the harrowing poverty she sees – feels helpless and guilty.  But, maybe I’m here to tell you that this is a cliché for good reason.  It’s exactly how it feels.

We came to Kenya to experience the reality and get ‘under the skin’ of somewhere very different. The complexity of issues like poverty, disability, and the rights of women to control their own reproductive health astound me; I haven’t scratched the surface. And a child begging gives us yet another example of how the reality of a developing society is far from black-and-white.


This much I do know: no judgements can be made by living far away, by 'knowing' about the situation from a removed position.  We had to come here to experience how this feels and begin to understand these situations that seem so simple at first glance.