A Saturday in Mathare

 “The guillotine is the concretion of the law; it is called vindicte; it is not neutral and does not permit you to remain neutral.”

     -Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

Pulling into the parking lot, my eyes are irresistibly drawn to the bright light of the blow torch.  My sunglasses do little to protect my eyes, but despite the pain and my best efforts, each new burst brings fresh temptation to look right into the flame that forms the burning heart of this outdoor metal shop where craftsmen make decorative bars for windows and other pieces of useful, industrial art.

Past the metal shop is a concrete block of a building, some three stories tall, with several shops lining the ground level advertising mobile telephone airtime, produce, and Coca-Cola.  To my left is a butcher shop, a leg of beef hanging in the window.  We park and proceed into an unlit hallway between two of the shops, stepping over puddles created by water flow.  Later, when we leave, I see people washing dishes with this water, using one of the larger pools as a basin, filling the others with soapy foam as the dirty water flows away.

We turn left and emerge into a dim room, where goat is being cooked over one of the small charcoal grills so common here.  To my right is a large door open to the outside.  Exchanging greetings and handshakes with the many people in the room, we make our way through the room toward the door.

Now on the other side of the concrete building, we hop down to the packed dirt street—the building is apparently built into a slight hill.  In front of me are two double lines of children, holding plates and spoons.  At the head of each line, adults serve them a creamy looking soup with beans and some of the already cooked goat meat.  At the back, the line bends to avoid a large pile of rocks.  I climb up it just enough to peer over.  The other side runs steeply downhill into the Mathare Valley, filled with a sea of corrugated metal roofs.

For a while, I stand, nearly frozen, trying to take it all in. Eventually, I am interrupted by a small child in a yellow shirt, perhaps about four years old.  He comes up and takes hold of my leg, looking up and smiling.  I smile back and ask him his name, but get no response—it seems he speaks about as much English as I do Kiswahili.  After a while, he points at my sunglasses, now hanging from my shirt.  I kneel down and put them on him.  He smiles wider; my host father notices and snaps a quick picture. 

Within moments, the other children also notice.  They come over, each wanting a turn with the glasses.  Each child who puts them on is greeted by smiles and a chorus of “Mizungu!” (white-person).  Soon, however, they press a bit too tightly and begin to fight over the glasses.  Reluctantly I stand and extract them from the crowd.  Music has started, and the children quickly disperse and begin to dance.  My yellow-shirted friend looks at me, betrayed.

I look away, toward the source of the music and see that speakers and an amp have emerged from the room.  Painted around the door is a brightly colored mural showcasing the vibrancy of the community.  At the top, framed by two arms holding hands, is the name of the organization we are visiting: “Inspiration Ministry.”

One of the leaders of Inspiration Ministry has recently been married, and today is celebrating his wedding with the children he serves.  I get the chance to speak to him a bit and discover that he grew up in this neighborhood, and was one of few to have the opportunity to attend school and university.  Now he leads this organization, ministering specifically to the children who are ignored by many of the other churches in the settlement, seeking to give them hope for a future unrestricted by the hard conditions of their upbringing. He tells me that many of the children there are being raised by single mothers, so he provides child care and a free lunch so their mothers can go to work. He tells me that many of the families survive on less than a dollar a day. 

I wonder if they know the glasses I briefly let them play with could feed them for a month.