The Transition Artist

I arrived in Kenya last night after a two hour flight delay to the sun setting over the nature reserve that surrounds the airport. I gazed down over the beautiful terrain with so much excitement and anticipation, and entered the airport without any feelings of hesitation. It wasn’t until after leaving the airport and hopping into a taxi to the guest house that I realized I was a little out of my element.

I flew here with my boss and dear friend Emily, but realized quickly that her short time dropping me off here would quickly come to an end. She’s been mentally preparing me for her departure, for some time, giving me phone numbers, directions, and mental notes to remember when I’m here on my own. There are a lot of things that people can tell you about a place, but there’s really no way to truly understand it until you’re there. That is entirely true of Kenya.

This morning I got to meet my host parents, the founders of the Heritage Kenya Organization for HIV/AIDS, Monica and Peter Odero, who turned out to be as wonderful as everyone who’s met them has described. Peter is a sweet, aging little man with a smile that radiates so much love and kindness that I’m fairly sure anyone who meets him must automatically love him (like I did). Monica, an enthusiastic woman with a round, happy face and a big smile, is exactly the motherly African woman that you would hope to live with if you were in my position. She immediately made me feel at ease, holding my hand as she hugged me, giggled, and said “Hi, I’m your new momma!” Peter shook my hand too, and held it with both of his as he looked me in the eyes and said, “I’ve been imagining what you would be like, and I see you now and think you’re going to be just perfect for us.” Needless to say, I felt like they would be perfect for me, too.

After we sat and talked over tea and got properly acquainted, we called a taxi to come pick us up and take us into Kibera. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but just to prevent any future confusion: Kibera is the largest slum in Africa. It’s dirty, overpopulated (making up 1 million of the 4 million people living in Nairobi), and vastly imperfect. It also is a community with a great deal of love and hard work poured into it on a daily basis by people like Monica and Peter. This will be my home for the next 3 weeks.

When we sat down this morning, Monica and Peter explained their ministry from how they started to where they are now, and discussed some roles I might fill. I won’t launch into their whole story, but basically the two went from running youth programs in Kibera to helping promote awareness and education on HIV/AIDS and safe practices, to networking and getting those teachings to youth conferences and churches globally, to continuing those programs locally and starting support groups and nutrition counseling for women with HIV/AIDS, to founding a local school and running church ministries, to then juggling all of those things. So that’s where they are now, and they’ve asked me to help teach at the school during the week, go to church and help teach some of the children’s bible classes (since I told them I love kids and have taught in the past), and come to support group meetings with the ladies on Sunday. I’m looking forward to these tasks so much it’s unreal.

But the reality of their lifestyle, the one I’m about to live, didn’t really set in until I visited Kibera today. First of all, as I said, it’s massive, but with so many people living in such close quarters there’s still something very community oriented about it. There is poverty, yes, and lots of it, but today we spent a few hours in the home of one of the ladies in Monica and Peter’s HIV/AIDS support group, and she was so vibrant, lovely, and overflowing with love.

This woman’s home is the first place we visited. It was tucked into the slum through a little maze of winding alleyways. Everyone talks about the stench, and, yes, it smells a little, but it wasn’t unbearable. There’s dirty water and trash lining the alleyways leading up to her house, but the water has made tiny little rivulets that run down the middle of the alleys and they’re really easy to step around. The trash and debris (let’s be honest, it was expected) has been swept mostly to the sides, so it wasn’t repulsive by any means. We wound through tin doorways and passed chickens tethered to posts by houses and children peeping out of curtains covering doorways before we finally made it to Peris’ house, but once we got inside it was lovely. The room was probably 10 feet by 12 feet, with cement walls that had been painted pink. Two beds were crammed into the back corners, pushed up against one another at angles with clothes hanging on the walls around them, and the rest of the room was packed with some furniture (a couch, a small table, and a few chairs) and a tall shelving unit that held the rest of Peris and her daughter’s possessions. The little home was so tastefully arranged given the space, and it was clear that it was well cared for by its owner. Peris makes the most of her space and takes pride in what she has, and that made her home beautiful.

After chatting with Peris, her son, and Peter for a few hours and waiting out a mighty powerful rain storm (which I would call a monsoon, but apparently is normal by Kenyan standards), we left for Peter’s. I was most excited for this stop because it’s going to be my home for the next 3 weeks. We pulled up to a light blue gate with a tiny blue door, and walked into the compound. It consists of a little dirt front yard, a small, two bedroom white and blue house, and a little living accommodation on the side (where Monica’s 92-year-old father currently lives). Peter took us into a little living room full to the hilt with armchairs, a couch, a coffee table, and a book shelf off to the side. Almost hidden behind the bookshelf is the door to Monica and Peter’s room. I was taken into the little space to see the queen size bed nestled in among another big shelf full of pictures, books, and personal possessions, and piles of clothing covered in sheets of fabric. My room, which I found out I’ll be sharing with Serphine (Monica’s cousin who was adopted into their family after her father’s death) and Linette (another cousin who’s visiting while she waits on government paperwork), is a little room with a bunk bed on one wall and another twin bed against the other (with about a foot in between). The bathroom, a toilet with no seat and no door to separate you from the hallway, is adjacent to our room, and I’m not positive that there’s a shower.

I didn’t know before that Monica and Peter had two girls already living with them, but finding this out given the amount of hospitality they were extending to me just floored me. My understanding and appreciation of their hearts and the African culture of caring for family grew immensely. I’m also amazed that Seraphine and Linette, both in their 20s, are willing to share their small space with me. Peter told me that if I wanted the room to myself the other two were willing to give it up and I looked at them eyes wide and mouth agape. I ensured the them that I would never push them out of their own space, and that, if anything, I’d sleep on the couch if there was going to be any kicking out. The two are extremely quiet and shy (I’m sure in part because they don’t know me), but they finally looked me in the eye and smiled when I said that.

Peter told me that Linette and Serphine help run some youth programs at the church, and said that I might be able to help them with that if he didn’t need me. He also said that I’d be helping the girls cook the meals and tidy our space. I smiled at them and told them all that I’m here to help with whatever they need, and let them know that all I want is to do life with them and be as little a burden as possible. They seemed to like that and smiled at me again. Before I left, Seraphine shyly told me that she wanted me to know I was welcome and that they were glad to have me. I think I literally beamed at her because I was so excited that she had spoken a full sentence to me (of welcome, no less) and promised to be a good roommate.

I’ve went to camp for many years, have lived in a dorm for two, and have shared bedrooms with friends and family members before. All of that said, I can’t say I’m not nervous. This is unlike any of those experiences, and totally unlike anything I’ve ever done before. I’m totally out of my element, in a culture I’m working hard to understand. I’m doing my best not to let those things shake my confidence, though, and I’m trusting that, even though I might not have realized what I was getting myself into, God has a plan for me here. I came here for a reason. I prayed and hoped I might come to live with, serve with, and understand the people I’ve been serving from a distance, and here I am. I intend to make the most of the 3 weeks I have here, and all I can do is hope for the best.