Kibera 101

Tuesday, February 7, 2006

I wish I could have taken you along today. I walked out our little cul-de-sac onto the main part of Karanja Road, by now becoming more and more familiar, along with Kaitlan, Jayla, Joe and Pastor Wycliffe the associate pastor from Calvary Evangelistic Fellowship which meets in the middle of Toi Market.

We walked along talking over the ever present “How are YOU?” from the local school children – no matter what time of day they seem to be there. We turned down a well worn path that quickly went from the width of the normal streets to little more than a footpath. The main streets are reasonably smooth but the side streets are treacherous on foot as Kibera is built on rocky soil that has been worn unevenly into ridges, bumps and trenches by excessive foot traffic and the recently absent rains, so I was looking down trying not to loose my footing. I looked up as we started going up a steep incline to the train tracks. I had heard about these tracks and seen them in pictures but this was my first time on them. They lead to downtown Nairobi to the left or past the length of Kibera to the right, but the most overwhelming view is straight ahead.

I stood there trying to force my western trained brain to understand what I was seeing. I had seen it in pictures. I thought I wouldn’t not be surprised. And yet the first time seeing the slum stretched nearly as far as I could see along the other side of the tracks, I found myself, with all my Africa research and background and slum mission trips tossed out the window. The rusted roofs and slap mud houses stood shoulder to shoulder with the laundry flapping from the narrow corridors between the houses. I don’t think I stood there more than a second when I realized that we as a group were moving on and there wasn’t time to stand there and soak it all in, even if we hadn’t had a place to be I still don’t know that there would have been time. How much time would it take to soak in the human suffering and degradation of 1.4 million people?

With a newly broken heart, I turned to follow the group down the tracks and suddenly was standing in a moving sea of people coming and going from Kibera and Nairobi and the local school children running home. The tracks are built on this high bank of earth that is only a few feet wider than the tracks on each side and yet desperate men and women had staked their claim on these scratches of earth and set up shops in a desperate attempt to escape the 40% unemployment that cripples this nation. One man had neatly lain out on a salvaged scrap of tarp an assortment of cell phone pieces, literally pieces. I smiled, feebly and wondered to myself how many people buy these pieces and how a phone could possibly be made from them. My heart broke for his desperation. Wondering if he was the man I’d seen digging in the garbage pit the day before along Kibera drive, knowing it was probably there or a similar location that he got his wares.

Beyond the people and “stores” the other feature of the Kibera landscape is the garbage. It seems that all plastic bags come to rest in this place. After walking a few hundred yards down the track the land around the track rose to meet it and we stepped of onto a street, not that it would ever be recognized as that in the US, as we turned we were smacked in the face by the stench. Having grown up on a farm I had thought that I had become desensitized to these smells but it was worse than any pig farm I have ever been on or near.

Once again I found myself looking at the ground. Along with the ever-present garbage was a near constant series of trenches from which the stench emanated. In places it was only 6 inches wide in others it took a leap of faith onto slippery ground I tried to block from my mind that the trench was filled with human waste and just kept walking. I quietly thanked the Lord that I had had the sudden urge right before leaving the house to change out of my sandals and into tennis shoes.

The ground was littered with the ever present plastic bags but also feathers from animals killed for food, food peels and wrappers and condoms. Remembering again the HIV incident rate in Kibera is around 60% I quietly prayed for our safety and for those of the children that seemed to be following us everywhere in a strange parade. Many of them were barefoot and walk these paths every day and my heart broke. I nearly lost it when we rounded a corner to find several small children playing in a wide and deep part of the trench – up to their elbows in this sewage, their arms stained black from it. The long rains haven’t come for 3 years so water is at a premium and I knew that there was going to be no bath to wash them off before their next meal. My stomach wretched and my heart broke again. I hadn’t gone 2 feet before another child reached out his hand to shake my hand. I thanked God silently as I shook the child’s hand without a moment’s hesitation and smiled that Jesus had not allowed my horror at the circumstances to prevent me from touching this precious child.

We rounded corner after corner and I became increasingly aware that the video camera I was carrying in my shoulder bag would never be safe to take out and was now a huge liability. We jumped the trench once again as it ran down the center of the smallest path yet, neither side really large enough to walk on and straddling the trench not an option. We clung to the side of the slap-mud house and finally made it to a cement foundation area that seemed strangely out of place. We rounded the back of the house and I again saw a panorama of Kibera – this time on all sides of me but on the hill in front of me there were other houses – those of government officials and others of means that were incongruously ostentations next to the shacks we were walking beside.

After a few more twists and turns we turned into a small walkway through a gate and came to a courtyard. The courtyard itself must not have been larger than 15 feet square and yet it was surrounded with12 or 15 small rooms that were in reality houses. Pastor Wycliffe led us to the corner door and welcomed us into his tiny home. His young wife and small child greeted us. We sat on a series of small wooden stools no doubt collected from around the neighborhood. Naomi, Pastor Wycliffe’s wife, welcomed us with steaming cups of Chai served with a small dish of sugar. Looking at the group, now gathered totaling 13, I took the cup offered and silently wondered what these people of such obviously limited means had to sacrifice to offer this generous welcome.

Pastor Humphrey, the senior pastor at CEF, began singing and tears sprung to my eyes. The words seemed so out of place, by the world’s standards and yet spoke the truth of Jesus: “My God is so Good, My God is so Good, My God is so good, He’s so good to me.” We sang along and then listened as he sang it in Kiswahili, Masaai, and then his own mother tongue. I was so humbled to be sitting in this small little room surrounded by all of Pastor Wycliffe’s possession sitting shoulder to shoulder to squeeze in 13 people and yet hearing them raise their voices to praise God for his favor. What could I possibly ever say? Who was the missionary here? I have so much to learn.

Pastor Wycliffe had invited us and Pastor Humphrey and Mama Erika (a lady leader in their church and Pastor Humphrey’s sister) to join him as he invited his neighbors to come and learn about the Lord. After more songs both in Swahili and English Pastor Humphrey began preaching on Jeremiah 1. He then went around and pointedly asked each neighbor if they believed in Jesus. When one responded that he was Catholic Pastor Humphrey wouldn’t let up – he began preaching the Gospel in a more powerful way than I have ever heard. Talking about the reason that he and Pastor Wycliffe have come to live in Kibera is because that is where the fish are. “There are not many fish in the cities where there is no water, when you go fishing you just go to the ocean where the fish are”, motioning around to Kibera. He then asked for testimonies from the each believer. Knowing my turn was coming I found myself flipping around wondering what I could possibly have to say. My eyes came to rest on the verses that have been so heavily on my heart since I left Chicago in Jeremiah 1:16-19 about God declaring that Jeremiah was his rock and that he should not be dismayed by the people around him because God was in charge. I don’t know what all I said or even if it made any sense.

When we wrapped up the gathering Naomi made a point to thank us all for coming to her home and to tell us that her door was always open. We prayed with and for them and turned to leave a bit reluctantly. As we turned one of the women who had come, Filistine asked us if we would come and pray for her home. Willingly we all filed into her house, nearly the same as Pastor Wycliffe’s and prayed a blessing on their home. Pastor Humphrey then asked if there were others we could pray for and Filistine motioned one way and Pastor Wycliffe another. We split into two groups and walked into two more humble homes. Mama Erika asked me to pray for the third home and I opened my mouth and found that I could barely speak. I prayed and we rejoined the group to walk back out of the slum.

Along the way there were more children, more “How are YOU” and more sights that broke my heart, but now I was less dismayed. God was in even this forsaken, hidden place. This is not a place to walk at night or alone and Pastor Humphrey and Pastor Wycliffe and Mama Erika escorted us out. When we got to the tracks the smell didn’t turn my stomach as much and as I walked along the narrow sides I looked again at Kibera. The houses and roofs had not changed, the laundry was still flapping in the wind, but what I saw were the people. If you looked close you could see men standing in doorways, women adjusting the laundry and children running about. That’s what God sees when he looks at Kibera. Not the rusted out tin roofs, or the crumbling mud wall or even the trenches of sewage. His heart breaks for the people who are there who are lost.

We said goodbye to Pastor Humphrey and Pastor Wycliffe as we turned off the tracks and they continued on to visit another member farther down the line. Mama Erika walked with us and we were soon swarmed by children getting out from the local schools. We came to Karanja road and turned to say goodbye to Mama Erika and were greeted by a young member of their congregation Gabby. Gabby is, I would guess, in his early 20’s and is passionate about the lord and wants to become a missionary with AIM, he is full of questions and I told him to come to the office to talk with Scott and I next week.

I turned again to say Goodbye to Mama Erika and she began telling Jayla and I how she wanted us to come to her home village to help her because there are children there with no parents who are starving and have no hope. Tears filled my eyes and I told her that that is why I came to Kenya. We have been praying for solid Christian believers to come along side us and be able to pour into these precious children we have been entrusted with and help us to make this orphanage what God intends for it to be. She responded with tears in her eyes that she had begun an orphanage in her home village but, due to finances had to “adopt” out the children to other families. Because she was able to help some others now come to hear daily to ask for help and she has no help to give.

I stood there listening to this Kenyan woman who is many, many years older than me, who I had never met before speak passionately her brokenness for these kids and found she was speaking my own heart. She lost her husband when her oldest of 4 kids was 3 years old. She had relatives who were willing to take the kids for 3 years to help but after the three years the children returned and they had nothing. They lived on the streets, they were not able to go to school. She has been there and she so desires to help those who are there now. God alone arranged our meeting. I asked if she would help us with the orphanage, to make it what the children most need…to help us to be able to help more kids. She grabbed me and hugged me and we both stood there, in the middle of the road surrounded by noisy school kids crying. Crying for the kids who are being lost, crying for finding a kindred spirit who shares the brokenness.

I walk away toward the house with my mind reeling and tears still streaming down my cheeks. How do I begin to process? Silently asking God to forgive me for my small view of Him – how I limit Him. I have seen Him so living and active in so many different places and yet seeing the faith of those who follow him in such hard circumstances humbles me. I never would have dreamed that I would come to Kibera and find a woman nearly twice my age who shares my hearts cry for these precious children. How could I not follow the God who gives Pastor Humphrey and Pastor Wycliffe and Naomi the faith to bring their families to the slum and live where no sane person with another option would ever live. That is the reckless abandonment that God calls us to. The wild trust. That what faith in action is – doing what the world thinks is flat out stupid because that is where God has called you to be. That’s what I want to learn. That’s the kind of fool I want to be, that God calls all of us to be.