“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.
