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IF RESILIENCE WAS A BEING

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I do not consider myself a proud Kenyan nor do I say, ‘Navumilia kuwa Mkenya’. Let’s just say, Kenya has its moments. More like a love-hate relationship filled with spontaneous mood swings; 0-100 real quick! There’s a lot to be sad about and even more to be angry for. I mean, we are the kind of country whereby you study four years of Journalism only to spend the next three years searching for a job in the media while a comedian ends up swooping that same job you’ve been craving at a radio station. To be fair, the comedians also struggle in their own way to get where they get to but it becomes illogical when these opportunities are not fairly and equally spread out among the masses. Definitely, ours is the ‘survival is for the fittest’ kind of economy whereby the resources are so limited, we are all trying to grab this one opportunity available.

It is that kind of country you graduate Engineering with honours but end up selling water within your neighbourhood, or even worse, you have to stand with a placard at the middle of the highway, stating your qualifications so that hopefully, JUST HOPEFULLY, someone isn’t too busy complaining about the traffic jam or the poor water drainage system and reads your placard. Thereafter, this someone is placed within his/her the grace of the Lord and decides to help you in some way. Or rather, take your photo and tweet about it. The power of social media I tell you!

It is also the kind of country where someone with no education whatsoever could end up being more successful than you’d ever dream to be because they know someone who knows someone who is in power or, they are super talented at sucking money out of people’s bank accounts in open day light. Yes, corruption and conning is in our country, a job of its own calibre. I am still talking of the unemployment disaster because it is really really bad out here. I mean, REALLY bad. 

Now don’t get me started on the cost of living, the economy, the health industry, the plight of the lower class, the struggles of the youth…the list is endless. Kenyans are sufferers; at least the majority are. A few months back, the form fours completed their final examinations with shouts and screams of joy, spraying the walls and their uniform with colours; they just ended what they call ‘a stressful era’ and all Kenyans can think of is ‘Should we tell them the truth or should we wait wapumzike? *Insert many laughing emojis*’ I mean, that alone says a lot about the despair Kenyans are at. We are mostly hopeless of our country than we are hopeful.

But here’s the thing about Kenyans: we are the most resilient beings. It amazes me. It awes me. Kenyans make fun of their own misery such that it gives them strength to actually push on to the next day. Kenyans live on the spirit, ‘Our lives are so much a tragedy, it has become a comedy.’ We laugh a lot. We perhaps make the best come-backs, best replies on twitter and memes of every other event that happens. We make jokes about our ridiculous leaders. We joke about the cost of living. We joke when we are robbed, singing ‘bella Ciao’ like a bank didn’t just lose millions. We joke when we cry. We joke when we succeed. We joke when we fail and when everything seems to be at dead end. People would call us insane just by the way we react with laughter at E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G. Yet in my opinion, this kind of spirit is what makes Kenyans stand tall and walk through the storm despite the odds. We laugh because despite saying ‘this is life’, we still wake up the next morning to try again, make protests and demands on the streets, make noise, call out to the leaders, fail, fail miserably, yet we will do it again next morning.

Amidst all the despair and hopelessness, we create our own happiness. We see a man eating his githeri from a plastic bag throwing them into his mouth like groundnuts whilst waiting in queue to vote, and we decide ‘hey! That is something!’ And there came about the hashtag #GitheriMan who ended up uniting and bringing us laughter at a very tense period. We all tune in on TV to watch Eliud Kipchoge take on the ‘No Human is Limited’ challenge and we all leave everything aside, to watch history being made. To watch a fellow Kenyan shine because God knows, we desperately need a win. Soon after, we make ‘No Human is Limited’ memes because we are Kenyans and we thrive on laughter. We see our president look up in the sky at the planes being displayed during Mashujaa day at the revamped mama Ngina drive and we decide to quote it as ‘Na hii hapa juu, Mheshimiwa Rais, ni gharama ya maisha *Insert laughing emojis*’ We still retweet hilarious posts by fellow Kenyans with the hashtag #KenyaSihamiiii. We stand together with King Kaka as he performs his #WajingaNyinyi spoken word, giving us all something to ponder on.

We come together to mourn during tragedies and we celebrate our fellow Kenyans whenever we get a chance to. We left all our differences aside when Miriam Kighenda and her 4-year old daughter drowned at the Likoni Ferry tragedy, we prayed for them and mourned the loss. When the Ethiopian airlines crashed, we were devastated. The loss was unfathomable and we cried together. Just as much as we come together every Olympics and marathons to celebrate our very talented athletes, breaking records every now and then.

I don’t think we are at a good place as a country. The misery definitely supersedes the good done for Kenyans. However, we can’t close our eyes to how brilliant and strong Kenyans are. We fall, again and again and again. But we always, always find a way to survive. We innovate. We come together. We stand up for our rights. We make demands. We start our own businesses. We hope despite the hopelessness. We help when we can. We make a difference in our communities. Yet most importantly, we have learned how to find laughter even in the darkest of moments.

Life is definitely tough, not just for Kenyans but many other Africans as well. Politics is a dirty game. Our leaders are mostly a huge fail. Opportunities are like a blue moon. But if resilience was a human being, then Kenyans would be it!

***

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Future LOVE? (Part 1)

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via http://selfcharge.blogspot.co.ke

I used to believe in Love.

Now, am not so sure.

All I could think of when I heard the word was frankly something out of the Notebook, The fault in our stars or more relatable, the Vow. But what I didn’t consider was that Love doesn’t end there; with two partners and a life ahead of them; but also extends to partners we hold close to our hearts, those who we loosen up around and get awkward and downright mandazi (1) with them, those whom our love touch to care for and stand by, preferable over all others… you guessed it, Friends.

I’ve had my fair share of stories and experiences from others to amp the notion of ‘there is no such thing as “best friends”’ so for now am going to go with it. So that squad you’re willing to spend your quality time with, there is a connection that keeps you together and makes you prefer their company over anyone else’s. This connection exists regardless of there being any partner(s) involved or not; it’s a natural thing. There’s a clear line between a friend and an intimate munchkin pumpkin honey sweetie teddy bear cutie pie; you get my point. So you know who to go to when a little drama crosses your way. But you know, the thing about friendships, whether besties or accomplices, there is always the alpha of the group. The one whose needs comes first and whose likes are cherished to overrule that of the other(s). If you’ve never heard of this then ask yourself one question, would you go through all the trouble your friend(s) has gone through, favors done for you all to put a smile on their face?

If you don’t feel any entitlement to do all of them because hey, it was from their own free will, right? Yeah, know that you are the Alpha of that squad. If you’d do it all over again cause, come on, this is my squad you’re talking about here, well, am letting you know that your friend(s)’ amusement supercharges you to bend backwards and do things not less than amazing to achieve it. Let me rephrase, you’ll always be second priority. I know, unbelievable. But come to think about it….not really. I mean, do you even remember what you’d like to eat when you are in a restaurant, or is it cause your friend(s) also liked it at one point?
Please, don’t let me speak for you. Though am sure you know who you are between the two by now. As long as your friend(s) help(s) you forget about your struggles and keep(s) you smiling, it’s all good…right? #Food_for_thought

Hey, it’s okay. It’s simply how us humans were made. It’s totally normal for us to “serve” anyone we deem more awesome than ourselves, basic human psychology. No sweat. Except,  the Prophet aleyhi swalaatu wa salaam replied as such when he was asked who his best friend is, and he said, ‘Aisha’ (ra), who was her wife, and after being asked who followed, he added, ‘ Her father’, who was Abubakar (ra), referring him also from his wife. Now this is no special answer in the norm. But what’s fascinating about this reply is that Abubakar (ra), was the man who he travelled with after leaving his home town to another one, where they faced unlimited dangers and he even got stung by a scorpion for him. He was the man that accepted his message without a single ounce of hesitation when everyone around him scorned it. He was the man that believed the Prophet’s journey to the heavens and back in one night with no need of any proof. Scratch that, Abubakar (ra) was a very good friend of the prophet aleyhi salaam even before he became a prophet, and let’s not get into the number of battles he fought beside the prophet, upon him be peace. So what’s up? I mean, Bro, after all that?

What is up, is that even though their friendship was strong, Abubakar (ra) only met with him when they met, you know, see you when you see me. But his wife Aisha (ra), oh she met with him all the other times; not it be at his highest or lowest, happiest or saddest, be or not be. I mean she was inside his life just as deeply as he was in hers. See, the thing about marriage is that it takes you from the comforts of your house and privacy and puts you smack in the middle of someone else’s. Your personal space is not personal anymore, your schedule isn’t yours anymore, you have to worry about more than just you; cause you were just fine with how you were….In totality, you give up your previous life for this strange new one, with someone strange, all cooped up in a strange new space…Duude…But with time, with time a friendship brews. You start knowing each other, understanding, adapting, enduring…the displeasure, dislikes, repulsion of your opposite views slowly disintegrates as you battle life on each other’s side, standing by one another and being there for each other…It’s you Vs. the world, and alas, a bond more rigid than Love itself and its totality… a bond forged from the roots of Endurance, the stem of Friendship and the branches of Love… a bond soo unique the most richest of languages gave it its own name, Al Mawaddah(2), unbreakable…Subhanallah, praise be to the Most High.

Now you understand the Prophet aleyhi salaam’s answer, upon him be peace…Now you understand why he chose his wife over his life-long friend…Now you understand why she was his best friend…

Fascinated much?

This is the true meaning of friendship. Knowing each other to the core and having to deal, even if you don’t want to. And for this reason, is why, in this world of now, any other friendship will never be as equal sided, just like how 1400 years ago, a friendship that meant dying for one another could not match that of a wife, and her husband.

That bond, that is why I believed in love. I cannot still comprehend the intensity of the connection.

So, why halter in its belief now? I mean, what happened?

Stay tuned for Part 2 to find out…

Key
1. Used to mean crazy stuff
2. Affection, love, friendliness
3. (ra) : May Allah be pleased with him/her

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Inspiration

READ THIS WHEN YOU ARE TIRED

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Photo Courtesy: stuffpoint.com

Can you hear that?

Is that your ridiculously slow heartbeat? Beating like it is being forced to do so. Like a lazy kid being pushed to wake up?

Can you feel that?

Your head thumping even while you are not sick. Your body aches yet you are as fit as never before. Listen keenly. Feel. Observe. It is your heart. It is tired. It is fatigued. It is in excruciating pain. It is hurting…and so is the whole of you.

But don’t we all get tired sometimes? Physically, yes but it doesn’t always start there right?

It starts with how stressed, sad, depressed you are. It is how tired you are of life. How you want to go somewhere very far and live alone. How you just want to disappear. How you wish to shut out everyone and anyone. How food is no longer attractive, not even your favourite Cheese cake. How time seems to be taking a casual walk like a tortoise. How everything seems to be dragging. So everything around you drags too, including your heart and your body.

You just want to get away because no one seems to understand you. Your hormones are reacting worse than those of a pregnant woman. You have excessive feels again and again. Sleep seems to be out of your dictionary at the moment, and when you finally get into that wonderland, you can’t help but sleep for 16 or 20 hours. If possible, you would have slept for the whole week or three consecutive months or for eternity?

Yes, you are that tired and you don’t know how to get out of your misery. You don’t even know if you really want to get out of it. You just yearn for the quite impossible things at the moment. Like sleeping for 25/7 or staying away from job the whole year or going for a holiday twice a year, every six months. You are exhausted…

But sit up a moment. Think about it. How long are you going to let yourself drown in this? Remember, however long you stay sinking in your own storm, you are still the only one capable of pulling yourself out.

One thing that drug addicts refuse to admit is that however much of ‘relaxation’ or ‘highness’ they enjoy from drugs, one thing is never going to change; your misery will still stay put where it has always been. The problems will still be there even if you decide to be on drugs the whole week or month. Because once the soberness starts striking in your head, you wouldn’t have made the situation any better. Instead, you got yourself one more problem of hangovers and addiction.

It is the same thing with you, even when you don’t use drugs. You let yourself get lost in your frenzy world, over-eating or starving yourself, not sleeping or spending your entire time in sleep, worrying, worrying and always worrying. Thinking, thinking and more thinking. But you gotta wake up right? Soberness will creep in like a ghost, reminding you of all the piles and loads of undone work. You gotta shake that misery off. You gotta face your troubles. You gotta do what you have to.

Remember that not always will you have someone to rub off your tears while you cry an ocean or shove you under the cold shower when you can’t even talk or hug you when having a panic attack. Sometimes you are all you got; Yourself.

So wake up now. Someone needs you. You need YOU. Sit up and think straight. Think of how to face your problems with bravery, patience and perseverance. Fix what you can fix and leave the rest to God. Just don’t let yourself sink again. Don’t let yourself be the definition of tired. You are capable of standing up and being what you always have been; strong.

Keep having faith. Better things coming in shaa Allah ?

 

 

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Creative Non-Fiction

LIFE IN THE STREETS

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Featured Image: Salem_Beliegraphy

Slideshow by: Lubnah Abdulhalim

When I first started my work in Gladshouse (an NGO dealing with the homeless) in 2014 and saw the pathetic state of street life, I thought I wouldn’t make it to the end. Surprisingly, I was happier than usual and I gained weight. My mum always kept asking, ‘what are they feeding you there that’s made you gain? I think I should let you stay there always.’ Well I wasn’t surprised by her surprise. Everyone who knows me well, knows that I only gain weight when I am very much relaxed; something I’m not really good at. And ironically, out of all the places I’ve been, this depressing place made me happy. One of the first things I was asked when I joined the team was, ‘Ain’t you scared?’ Yes I was. My colleagues had already told me of the risks available; they lie. They steal sometimes. They can be flirty when high on glue and sometimes even without the glue. Nonetheless, they respect you when you respect them. Treat them like normal human beings, come down to their level and act like their mate to understand them.
Perhaps it is true when they say, for you to find happiness; you should first offer it to someone else. I didn’t have any specific post for I was a teacher, a social worker, a journalist and a marketer all at the same time. I wasn’t particularly a hero or anything, yet I worked with the real heroes who worked day and night to ensure the homeless are not forgotten. Volunteers from all over the work coming over just to make a difference in someone’s life. It was more of an exposure and adventure to me; something I had never seen in my life. Something worth seeing, experiencing and telling the world about.

Just the other day, one of my many bosses bumped into me as I headed to work and he offered me a lift as he too was heading there. We stopped in a store and my boss alighted. Just a few minutes after, one of the homeless boys I knew came and knocked on my window pane. I hesitated; I didn’t know how my boss would react when he sees me talking to him so I decided to step out of the car.
“Do you remember me?” I asked almost in a whisper but he didn’t reply. He was high on glue I noticed so I didn’t bother ask my question again. I remembered his name; they call him Mowgli, a very thin guy almost always walking with a stagger. He had escaped from the center several times as he went through rehabilitation and he was among the oldest survivors in the streets. He wasn’t really old in age, just old in the streets. I never knew his real name though. You never get to know because they keep changing their names as much as they change their stories of survival. I also never knew why they call him Mowgli, perhaps he was like the Mowgli we know of from the jungle book or he just liked the story? I never knew. Anyway my boss appeared shortly after that and quickly asked, ‘is everything okay?’ Mowgli went away…and my boss wanted to know more of his story. Several times in different times, I met several others on the streets in town. They come to beg for money and I realize they don’t remember me. They perhaps meet so many volunteers and perhaps we never really impacted their lives as we thought we did or perhaps they are just too busy surviving. (Call them survivors. They prefer that name).You can’t really blame them. But I never forgot them and I remember a few names still. I remember them for they impacted my life more than I did to theirs. And most of all, I really miss that place.

When you walk around town and meet those small children running about to beg for money, most of them are not homeless. For someone who has experience with street life you can almost identify and pinpoint exactly who is a beggar and who is homeless. Most people don’t understand that; Not all beggars are street children and not all street children are beggars. Most of the children begging in town have homes and sometimes, healthy parents who have just decided that the shortcut to survival is using the kids. So they come all the way from their homes and spread across town. The children are sometimes threatened to bring a certain amount of money, if not, they face the consequences. They never want to admit how they are forced of course but when persuaded they speak out. It can be so depressing listening to them. They will tell you that their mum is on the other street and their other siblings in other parts of the town. True that most are from very poor families and some have single parents, yet it doesn’t justify the use of blackmailing children to gain money. And these kids are really experts in convincing. When it is on a Friday they will tell you, ‘Leo ijumaa nisaidie nikale’ or how they would tell you of not having fare going back home and they can be so persistent in begging for the money. Wonder what the consequence is when they don’t meet the required amount. Perhaps no food tonight? Or being beaten? Or what other kind of punishment? I remember what one of my lecturers told me when we were approached by a boy who was begging. “Never entertain the habit of beggars. Perhaps if we all stop giving them whenever, then they will be forced to work like the rest of the world.” Of course there are those very genuine beggars who really deserve to be helped but not the ones who use their children as a source of money. For a while now, I detest walking in town, seeing all those children rushing to cars and people and insisting on getting something. I detest seeing them being used like that yet I am helpless so I just close my heart; (if there is anything like that), close my eyes and my ears. Walk as fast as I can as I still debate what exactly is the right thing to do; give them the money they are blackmailed for, or simply not entertain the bad habit of begging?

The homeless people on the other hand lead quite a different life. Some are beggars yes but when you go to the slum area where they live, you would see most of them hustling in one way or another. Some collecting garbage, some collecting bottles, some are conductors and many other of these petty jobs. You won’t believe this, but one fellow in the street even has a video room where they play movies and he charges his fellows for entrance. Some wear so neatly that you may never guess that they are homeless. The ladies are most of the times prostitutes and some give birth right in the street. I remember one of the very young girls in the street told me that the past three generations have lived in the streets; her grandmother, her mother and now her and her many siblings. Many girls are raped and used by men at very young age. It is so heart breaking when they tell you their journeys. Well some are very well-fabricated stories that can make you break down in tears. Damn they can lie! They know how to make you so empathetic and make you want to offer your entire life for their sake. But for the social workers they’ve known for years, they are able to play with their psychology and know their true stories. Some are so addicted to street life that they can no longer stay out of it. They are taken to centers for rehabilitation but end up running back to the street; they can’t live without the glue and many other of the practices only allowed in the street.

Years on after leaving the organization, I learnt that their ‘leader’ who used to take control of everything going on in their slum area (the place is called Maboxini because of the houses made of boxes I suppose) used to sodomize the young boys. I was shocked, perplexed, surprised, disgusted all at once. The same man whom we had trusted to take us around the slum area safely; the man everyone outside and inside the slum area had faith in. The same man who was considered the hero of slum land. The same man who was the hope of the children turned out to be a beast. I got to hear more of such heart breaking stories in the streets. Very small girls being made wives to big boys and of families separated by fate. Stories of boys and girls who couldn’t stay in foster care due to drug addiction. Stories of stigma and isolation by the society etc etc. There is a wall right at the end of the slum land; a huge wall separating them from a totally different world. On the other side is a playground where private school children come to play. And sometimes, standing on slum land, you could see the swings moving high up and down rhythmically. I used to wonder how it really feels for the street children who used to sit right on top of the trees and seeing all that; what are their thoughts in such moments? Perhaps, ‘this could be me?’ or ‘maybe some day this would be me in a private school, neat uniform and a huge smile as I swing and play?’ Sigh. But perhaps what made me relaxed with them was how happy they were despite their very sad state of living; how they play football of no rules. The games are quite funny, how the ball keeps going over the fence because some are high on glue and kick the ball with so much vigour and how the games are played with all age ranges and genders. How they would eat so excitedly and ask questions as they are taught the basics of education. How they would be concerned about their homeless mates who are locked up in cell. How they really really appreciate the food in their plates. How they never hesitated to show their gratitude to the volunteers who have dedicated their lives to help them. There were some good stories as well; like how one of the oldest boys in the street got to meet his mum after 20 years of separation by the efforts of Gladshouse, stories of street children going through rehabilitation and joining school again, stories of children being taken in foster homes and living well, stories of street world cup, stories of survival and hope. How they find joy and happiness in the smallest of things. By the time you leave that place, you know the real meaning of hope, struggle and perseverance. I remember talking to one dumb boy who was in the street world cup team. I interviewed him right before they left to Brazil. Can you believe it? Some people out there make it possible for street children all over the world to meet on a football tournament! and in Brazil!! You can imagine their excitement. So my interview with him was on written paper and in English because they are only taught in English in the special care schools. It was one of the cutest interviews I ever did I my life!

I made the above clip right before the world cup team left to Brazil for I was completing my attachment too. I remember how the CEO broke down in tears after seeing it. Amazing right? Amazing and amusing how someone who has dedicated her entire life to street children still cries for them. When I showed the clip to the boys, they were really excited about it. Well, majority don’t understand English so they didn’t really get what the clip was about but they kept laughing at their photos and shouting out the names of their colleagues. It made me overjoyed.

Working here, I saw humanity being restored. I saw love being painted on a dirty patch of white paper. I saw rainbows of hope and flowers of faith in a place where a seedling would never bloom. I learnt to appreciate life and most importantly, that no one should never under estimate what you can do for people less advantaged than us. Take part in restoring humanity today. Make a difference.

Still, I miss these beautiful souls.

#The best way to find yourself is in the service of others. -Mahatma Gandhi

If you liked this article then you might also like: “The tender forgotten side of the assumed devils” and ‘a ray of hope’ right here in my site. Don’t hesitate to ‘search’ for it.

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Deen (Religion)

MERCY OF ALL MERCIES

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Photo Courtesy: https://4.bp.blogspot.com/

 

I looked at the beautiful sea in front of me and took a deep sigh. This is going to be my last time to ever see this wonderful scenario. This is going to be the end of me, the end of all my sins, the end of everything…I took a step forward and climbed over the first metal rail of the bridge. The wind was softly slapping my face as the tears went on flowing. Then a soft little hand held my shoulder and said, “Don’t do it!”

I turned around in surprise and in front of me was a little girl. She looked so messy and in rags. I looked at her deep brown eyes which seemed so happy and content. Without a word, I turned back to the ocean ahead of me but the hand firmly pulled me aside.

Looking into my eyes, she said: “what could be the worst that could have happened?”

“You won’t understand little girl. Please let me do this peacefully.”

The little girl didn’t let me go and insisted to hear my answer.

“I have done a lot of sins and God will never forgive me…now, will you please let me go?”

“Allah (SW) says: “Say: “O ‘Ibadi (My slaves) who have transgressed against themselves (by committing evil deeds and sins)! Despair not of the Mercy of Allah, verily Allah forgives all sins. Truly, He is Oft-Forgiving, Most Merciful.” (az-zumar: 53)

“But my mother died because of me…I am to blame. She passed away after getting the news that I’m pregnant.”

“Allah (SW) says: “Everyone is going to taste death, and We shall make a trial of you with evil and with good, and to Us you will be returned.” (an-biya’a: 35)My mother died while giving birth to me, should I take the blame?”

I looked at her in more surprise.

“I regret all that happened and I want to repent but I don’t know where to start from. Will God ever forgive me?”

“Allah (SW) says: “…Then when you have taken a decision, put your trust in Allah, certainly, Allah loves those who put their trust (in Him).” (al-imran: 159)

“But I am so lonely, with no one at all.”

Allah (SW) says “ And indeed We have created man, and We know what his ownself whispers to him. And We are nearer to him than his jugular vein (by Our Knowledge).” (qaf: 16) I have been in the streets but I have never felt lonely because I know Allah is with me.”“Right now I am so restless and confused.”

“Allah (SW) says: “…Verily, in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest” (ar-rad: 28)“But I don’t know what to do anymore!”

“Allah (SW) says: “ And your Lord said: “Invoke Me, [i.e. believe in My Oneness (Islamic Monotheism)] (and ask Me for anything) I will respond to your (invocation)…” (ghafir: 60) and He also said: “Therefore remember Me (by praying, glorifying, etc.). I will remember you…” (baqarah: 152)

“Where will I live now? How? With what money? can you answer me that?”

“Allah (SW) says: “…And whosoever fears Allah and keeps his duty to Him, He will make a way for him to get out (from every difficulty).” (At-talaq: 2) I’ve been in the streets and I’ve never slept hungry.”

I was so touched by the girl’s words then I asked her,

“Where did you learn all this while you are in the streets?”

“From my father before he died too.”

I stood quietly for a moment. What had I done throughout my 18 years? I had all the love from my parents but I never appreciated it. I had all the wealth to help street children like these but I never did. I had all the chances to acquire such knowledge of my Lord but I never bothered and now, I have to hear it from a little girl like this, what a shame!”

The girl suddenly interrupted my thoughts,

“Go find your life, surely Allah (SW) has written a share of the world for you…and never forget, Allah (SW) says: “And those who, when they have committed Fahishah (illegal sexual intercourse etc.) or wronged themselves with evil, remember Allah and ask forgiveness for their sins; – and none can forgive sins but Allah – And do not persist in what (wrong) they have done, while they know.” (Al-imran: 135) Repent, pray, love, share and you’ll have all the happiness you need; just like me.” The little girl left without any other word and I just realized, there was a lot of good I could do to myself than committing suicide. I turned away from the ocean and looked ahead of me- God loves me and I know He will forgive me, guide me and grant me my needs with His will…

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Creative Fiction

A RAY OF HOPE

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A RAY OF HOPE

By: Lubnah Abdulhalim

Photo Courtesy: Salem_Beliegraphy

 

Early that morning, I rose up with the cock’s crowing so loudly just outside my grandmother’s grass thatched hut. It was a nice feeling being back at the village after ten years of studying in the city. I stood outside the hut for a while, letting the sun rays hit my face as I breathed in the cold fresh farm air.

“You woke up early mamma,” my grandma said as she went on grinding the maize. I could feel the loud thuds of the mortar and the pestle like I could hear my own heartbeats. There was that peace of mind in the village that I couldn’t find anywhere else.

“It is not early grandma…let me go fetch water.”

“No mamma…you are from the city, you don’t have the strength anymore to carry the calabash. I warned you from going to the city to study but you didn’t listen to my words…now look at how weak you seem!”

I laughed loudly at how my grandmother still took me as the little delicate baby she knew long ago. I ignored her words and rushed with a calabash to fetch water. As I walked away barefooted, I realized how much grandma had missed seeing me in her compound here in the village. I was glad I finally came to see her and that way; I would be able to do what had brought me to the village; be a teacher in one of the centers of street children. That had been my dream and here I was, many years later to fulfill it.

Today was my first day as a teacher at the center and I couldn’t help but get scared a bit. The director of the center welcomed me to the large and dusty compound with a number of mud and grass thatched rooms. I could see a number of boys playing football at a far end with what seemed to be a ball made of paper bags and dump ropes. Just nearer to me sat a young boy of eleven years, playing with sand and sticks. When he noticed my presence, he stood up and stared deeply at me. I smiled lightly before going to where he was. He shyly gave me his dirty and greasy hand. I looked at his dirty unkempt hair and his torn up oversized clothes without a word. He was just about to take back his hand when I gave him another smile and shook his hand gently. When the rest of the children saw me, they flocked around asking me all kind of questions. I couldn’t help but laugh at how eager they were to know whether I was from the city. I spent the entire day answering their questions and hearing their endless stories of the streets. That evening, as I went home through the thick bushes and plantations, I could feel tears slowly roll down my cheeks. I was glad that I had come to assist them in learning; they really needed me I realized.

The next day, I woke up earlier than usual. I already had a plan on how I was going to teach the boys at the center and I walked very fast to start my lessons with them. I started from teaching them how to read letters and how to write their names. I was so touched at how happy they were to learn. They then started to sing and dance the traditional songs for me as they merrily bet the drums and thumped their feet. The young girls wore old lesos at their waist as they danced to the tunes being made by the flutes. After I had ensured that their minds were already captivated, I started narrating to them an old story of the past; a story that meant a lot to me.

“Paukwa…”

“Pakawa,” they shouted back loudly. I took a long sigh before starting the narration.

“Gitonga, Musau and Muthoni came from a very rich family. They lived in one of the most beautiful houses in Karen. They had a big compound with a nice garden in it. Every evening from school, they would play around in the compound with their many toys, play hide and seek and many other games. Their parents were always busy with work and the three siblings would always find themselves alone in the huge house. They didn’t really mind being left alone for they had all they wanted and could do whatever they wanted, which included, messing the house upside down, disturb the house girls, and play with the water pipe, thus wasting a lot of water.

The three of them went to one of the best school in town. Every morning they would be picked by the school bus. The house girl would give each one of them their packed lunch and watch them leave. That was the same routine for them every day.  They had very little time with their parents.

Gitonga, who was twelve years, was the eldest. He was very playful at school. He always got punished for misbehaving in class. He would also ask his friends to join him in his mischief. His parents were always being summoned at school for his cases. They even tried to get him special tuition but Gitonga never improved in his studies.

Musau was the second born in the family. He was a quiet nine year old boy .He performed better than his older brother Gitonga at school. He would at times study but Gitonga would always ask him to join in the games. Muthoni was their baby sister. She was seven years old .Muthoni liked playing with her two brothers and she loved them very much.

The children grew up seeing their parents only on weekends. They spent most of their time with the house girls. They would bathe them, feed them and prepare them for school each day. But today, something unusual happened. Their parents came home earlier than usual. After they had all eaten dinner and showered, their father called all of them into his room. They stood there, anxious to know what was happening.

“Children, we have received some bad news,” their mother started.

The three of them stood in silence, listening. “Your grand mother is very sick at hospital. We have to live very early tomorrow morning to Mombasa,” their father continued.

“Mombasa?? Hurrah!” Gitonga rejoiced.

“We are coming with you right? It is going to be weekend anyway!” Musau said.

“Children….calm down. We will take you alone but you must understand this is not a holiday…”

“Yes we understand,” Gitonga cut in.

“Our first time to Mombasa! Hurrah!”  Musau exclaimed with joy.

“Okay, okay children …go to your rooms. Let the house girl help you pack for tomorrow.”

The three of them rushed out of the room, very excited. They were going to see their grandma after very long and Mombasa was new to them. They couldn’t wait for sunrise!

This particular day, Mr. and Mrs. Kimathi found their children awake very early. They were all set to leave for Mombasa. Immediately after breakfast, they boarded their car and started their journey. It was quite a long trip. The children were excited and they kept looking through the car windows. They pass through bushes and forestry areas. They saw elephants and giraffes grazing around. This made them jump up and down with joy. They saw heavy trucks moving on the smooth road. Their mother would give them snacks once in a while. Gitonga took many photos on the way.

When they finally arrived in Mombasa, it was getting past noon. The sun was heating and the roads were busy with all kinds of ‘biashara’. The children were a lot quieter than before. They were very tired and hungry. Their father led them into one of the best Swahili dishes restaurant for a late lunch. They were welcomed with the sweet aroma of fish and chicken being fried.

Gitonga and Musau were staring at the menu.

“What is mahamri, mum?”

“And what is vitumbua?” They kept asking in amazement.

“These are cultural foods of coasterians. You do know mahamri. It’s just the other name for maandazi. Let us have lunch now. We will order some of those for take away,” their mother said.

The family had a delicious meal of biriani and fish. Musau didn’t stop describing how tasty the food was. They had never tasted such a meal before and they just loved it. They had ‘matumbo’ as delicacy before leaving for grandma’s house.

Grandma’s house was huge as well. It was situated in a place called Nyali. The place was so calm and quiet. There were beautiful houses all around. The children couldn’t help but see the playgrounds full of swings on the way. But of course their parents wouldn’t let them go to the swings right now. They had to see grandma first.

There was no one at grandma’s place apart from a single house girl. She was cleaning up the rooms when they arrived. Mr. Kimathi assembled his children again. “We all go to shower now, have a rest then we will later on go see grandma.”

“Yes daddy,” they all answered in unison.

The children were just so tired and immediately went for a nap. Later that evening, they all prepared themselves to go to hospital. Mombasa night breeze was so cool and the roads were still busy as if it were midday. The hospital wasn’t so far either. It took them barely fifteen minutes.

Gitonga stared at the playground with swings once more. He couldn’t help but wish he was there. But right now they had already arrived at the hospital. One could immediately see the fear on Muthoni’s face as she saw the doctors and nurses walk past them.

“Don’t worry dear, we are just here to see grandma,” Mrs. Kimathi said, holding her hand tightly. But Muthoni still feared, and her eyes followed the doctors until they disappeared. Meanwhile, Gitonga and Musau were busy sliding at the slippery corridors. Their mother kept warning them to stop but Gitonga would never hear anyone’s words.

Grandma seemed in a critical state. She had pipes all over her and she couldn’t even talk. Gitonga and his two siblings were staring silently at grandma. Each one of them was thinking in their own way. Gitonga was thinking when grandma would wake up so they could go to swings. Musau was just feeling sorry for her and was wishing she would get up soon. Muthoni was busy remembering the stories grandma told her some two years ago.

For the time being, Mr. and Mrs. Kimathi were talking to the doctor. Gitonga tried listening to their conversation but he couldn’t hear anything. They were talking in very low tones. After about ten minutes, they were all walking out from the hospital doors.

The night was so calm and there was a full moon. The family had their dinner and they were off to bed very early that night. The children changed into pajamas and went to sleep. Gitonga just lay in his bed wishing and thinking of the swings. He quickly woke up and went to Musau’s bed.

“Musau! Musau! Musau! Wake up!” Gitonga shook Musau’s shoulder.

“What is it Gitonga?” he replied sleepily.

“Sit up! I have a brilliant idea!” Gitonga said excitedly.

“Mmmh… let me sleep!” but Gitonga kept on insisting. He lazily sat up with eyes half asleep.

“Let us go to the swings!”

“What do you mean? Can’t you see its night?” Musau said.

“Yes…but it’s just eight p.m! I saw at the gate it was written they are open until ten p.m.” Gitonga continued.

“But we can’t go without mum and dad.”

“No we can!” Gitonga said, “Come let me show you,” Gitonga pulled Musau out of the bed to the window. He then pointed to the two gate guards who were busy eating and chatting some few miles away.

“See we can easily sneak out without anybody noticing,” Gitonga whispered.

“Where do you want to go?” a tiny voice said behind them.

They both jumped in fright, only to see Muthoni behind them.

“What are you doing here?” Gitonga asked me quickly.

“Your movements woke me up….what are you two doing? What are you up to?”

“Just go to bed little sister. We were just looking at the beautiful full moon.”

“No! I heard you telling Musau about sneaking out. You have to take me with you or I will report you to mum and dad right away!” Muthoni was about to cry.

“We have to take her along. She will report us if we don’t,” Gitonga whispered to Musau.

“You don’t even know the way! This is not a good idea Gitonga!” Musau said.

“Listen Musau, grandma is suffering from malaria and it is very serious. Did you see all those pipes to provide food and water to her body? She can’t do anything now and she might not be out soon. Let’s take the chance now!” Gitonga said.

Musau sat silently, thinking about Gitonga’s words and Muthoni was just staring at the two.

“Let us go! We won’t take long I promise,” Gitonga said.

“Do you remember the path which we saw the playground?” Musau asked him.

“Yes! Let us go fast before it’s too late!” Gitonga said as he started changing into a t-shirt and jeans.

Musau without saying anything stood up and changed his clothes too. Gitonga quickly dressed up Muthoni while giving her warnings that she shouldn’t disturb or cause trouble. Muthoni nodded quickly, she didn’t want to be left behind.

The three of them slowly crept out of their room. They could hear the low whispers in their parent’s room. They could be talking about grandma’s critical situation and they might not notice our absence, Gitonga thought. Quietly and very carefully, they opened the front door which had not yet been locked. It was very quiet outside and getting even darker. The three walked through the backyard and behind the gate guards. Just as they were about to go past the gate, Muthoni cried out.

“Ouch!”

Musau and Gitonga quickly turned to Muthoni.

“What is it?!”

“I got pricked by a thorn,” Muthoni said.

“You will have us get caught Muthoni!” Gitonga whispered angrily.

Luckily for them, the gate guards were busy chatting and laughing loudly. They didn’t even feel their movement. Both Musau and Gitonga had carried their small bag packs which had some money, snacks and torches. Off they went. Gitonga led the way as he tried to remember and follow the path they had been driven at before.

They first walked past a petrol station, then a roundabout. Muthoni and Musau silently followed. They let Gitonga think clearly.

“Are you sure you remember the way?” Musau asked.

“Yes…don’t worry. We are almost there,” Gitonga said confidently.

They walked and walked but they never got to the swings. When Musau asked Gitonga again, he kept saying they are just about to arrive at the playground. Muthoni was already tired and her eyes were full of sleep. But they kept on walking, until they got to a certain point, Gitonga suddenly stopped.

“What is Gitonga?” Musau asked.

“I think …we are lost!” Gitonga said slowly.

“But you said you knew the way, Gitonga!”

“Yes I knew, but…I don’t know how we got lost!” Gitonga said slowly.

“I am tired, I am sleepy!” Muthoni said.

“Now what are we going to do?” Musau asked Gitonga.

Gitonga looked sadly at his siblings.

“I don’t know…maybe we ask for help from someone,” he said.

“Help from which person? Can’t you see the roads are clear? This is the silent part of the town,” Musau said.

“Let’s just walk back then. Maybe we’ll be lucky to get back to grandma’s home,” Gitonga replied.

Muthoni kept yawning and complaining that she is hungry, sleepy and tired. And now, Gitonga was getting fed up with her.

“Can’t you see are trying to find the way? Please be quiet and stop complaining. You followed us yourself!”

“But you said we’ll go to the swings…” Muthoni said sadly.

“Hey you two, stop it now! Let’s get moving,” Musau interrupted their argument.

They kept walking, holding each other’s hands tightly. They didn’t even need their torches because the street lights were well illuminating the roads. They took out their snacks and started eating them. But just suddenly, they found themselves in a narrow path. The path was muddy and the street lights weren’t there anymore.

“Where are we?” Muthoni whispered.

“We don’t know,” he said as the three of them stood still, looking at the place they were in right now.

There were many unpainted houses and huts all so close together. The path was so narrow and there was mud all over. One could barely walk comfortably in such a place. It was all smelly and dirty and there was a dumpsite nearby. This place was quite more alive than the other places. They could see some women cooking outside their homes. It was pretty dark and they all wondered how those people were living. They now removed their torches and continued walking in the muddy path.

After they had now walked past the weird neighbourhood, they got to a rather isolated path. But on the sides of the road, they could see some children crowded over something. They were all seated under a rotten roof.

“Let’s go see what is happening,” Musau suggested.

“Hey no! Can’t you see they all seem dirty and in torn rugs?” Gitonga protested.

“But maybe they will help us,” Musau continued.

Gitonga kept quiet for a moment and then nodded.

“Okay…let us go try.” They slowly walked towards them in deep fear and as they approached, they saw what they were fighting over. It was some food in a paper bag. The gang raised their eyes to look up at them.

“Hehehe…seems some good catch came over to us,” one of the older boys laughed.

“Mmmh and they seem rich kids! Look at what they wear,” another one followed.

The three were now more scared and Muthoni was already about to cry.

“Let us go!” Gitonga said quickly, leading their way back.

“Wait…wait,” the one who seemed to be the eldest said, “are you lost? Need some help?”

The three of them turned back, surprised. Still filled with fear, Gitonga spoke up.

“Yes we are lost…please help us.”

“Okay calm down. Where is your home?”

“It’s not our home, our grandma. We don’t even know where it is,” Gitonga said, already in tears.

“Don’t worry boy. Come here sit with us. We will find a way to get you home together,” the eldest boy said as he led them to where the group was. The only light available was that from the three torches. The gang no longer made fun of them. They were nearly seven children of different age. The youngest was nearly of the same age as Muthoni and he was wide awake. They continued scrambling for the food that was laid down on the floor.

“Welcome!” another young boy told them.

“Yeah, come here and eat with us,” the oldest boy said.

Gitonga, Musau and Muthoni just stared in amazement. Why were these children eating so little food together?

“By the way, my name is Bakari. I am the oldest here. This is Hassan, Omari, Fatuma, Maryam, Katana and Zena,” he said, pointing at one after another.

Gitonga and Musau just nodded, still surprised.

“And what are your names?” Bakari asked.

“I am … Gitonga. This is my brother Musau and our little sister, Muthoni.”

Bakari asked them to sit down at the pavement beside a road. The three of them were very quiet and they just watched as the gang licked their hands hungrily.

“Where are you coming from?” the youngest boy from the gang, Omari, asked.

“We are from Karen, Nairobi. We came to see our grandma who is very sick,” Musau said.

“Wow! You are from Karen! You live in a big house then!” Zena said with excitement.

“Yes it is a big house,” Musau answered.

Muthoni was already asleep on the cold floor. Bakari removed the shawl he was wearing and covered her well.

“Then you eat all that good food we see in the supermarkets?” Fatuma asked, her eyes popped out.

“Yes,” Gitonga said.

“You are so lucky then!” Omari said sadly.

Musau and Gitonga looked at each other in surprise.

“Why?” they both asked.

“We have no place to call home,” Omari said slowly.

“Where do you live then?” Musau asked.

“Here, at the streets,” Bakari answered.

“Here?!” Gitonga asked, very shocked. He looked around the dark and dirty place. The floor was cold and there was nothing to protect them from the sun and rain, apart from the old rotten roof above them.

“Yes, we have no other place to go,” Zena said, looking at the two brothers.

“Why? Where are your parents?” Gitonga asked.

“We have no parents, no home, no school, no food…we are just alone. This is our family,” Bakari said slowly.

“Some of us don’t even know who our parents are,” Omari said.

“Omari was born in the street so he doesn’t know anything about his family,” Bakari explained.

Musau and Gitonga sat silently listening. They had never imagined that there were children with no homes and no family.

“What about you Bakari?” Gitonga asked.

“I used to live with my old grandma. My parents died while I was very young. At the age of twelve, grandma died as well. I had to stop going to school… no one to take care of my studies or life. I was in class six by then.”

“Oh so sorry Bakari,” Musau said.

“What happened to your home?” Gitonga asked.

“I lived there for some time. I used to work here and there to get food… but one day a big rain came and swept it completely. I was left with no other place to go except here.”

The two were now even more shocked. They felt sad for them. It was getting darker now and Omari was already asleep.

“What about the others?” Musau asked.

“We all met here at the streets…and we became like a family. Each one of us has their own sad story. Some of us had their parents living in the streets as well, but they died just like Fatuma’s parents. Others had no other place to go after their parents’ death, like me. While others are like Omari, who were abandoned by their parents,” Bakari explained.

“We all had difficult times but Omari suffered a lot more,” Bakari continued.

“How?” Gitonga asked.

“He is always asking about his mother. He is always sad. He wishes he could know his family and ask them why they abandoned him,” Zena joined in.

No one spoke for a moment. They looked at the small boy Omari who was sound asleep.

“You should be grateful that you have parents and a home,” Hassan said.

Musau and Gitonga nodded slowly.

“None of us could go on with studies. I wanted to become a pilot… but that can never happen,” Bkari said slowly.

“And I wanted to become a nurse,” Zena murmured.

Silence filled the air once more.

“Let us all sleep now. It’s getting very late,” Bakari said suddenly.

“Are we going to sleep here?” Gitonga asked.

“Yes… sorry we don’t have a better place for you to sleep but we can’t help you in this darkness. We have to wait till sunrise,” Bakari told him.

“Okay… but will you help us find our grandma’s home?”

“Yes of course. All of us will help you tomorrow. Let us sleep now. We have a long day to come!” Bakari said as he lay on the floor and covered himself with a rug.

Both Musau and Gitonga were given old blankets and they all went to sleep.

The sunrise at the coast was marvelous. The rays are what awoke the children, one after the other. Bakari was already awake, earlier than anyone else. He was carrying two buckets and was tapping Omari lightly to wake up.

“Where are you going?” Gitonga asked as he sat upright.

“To fetch some water,” Bakari said.

“But where?” Musau asked, concerned.

“There is a lady who sells water, some distance away but she gives it to us for free,” Zena answered.

Muthoni now woke up. She looked around like she couldn’t remember where they were. Then she sat up and looked at Gitonga.

“You didn’t find grandma’s home?” she asked sadly.

“No dear, we are just going to fetch water then Bakari promised to help us out,” Musau told her.

Bakari asked Zena and Fatuma to stay behind while the rest went to fetch water. Each one of them carried an old bucket, half broken. Both Musau and Gitonga looked at the young boy Omari pitifully. He was also going to carry a bucket of water. The children started walking all together. The paths were real muddy and narrow. Bakari started explaining to them how difficult it is to acquire food for them. Sometimes they have to search in thrown away foods outside hotels and restaurants and sometimes they even had to steal. When they got sick, they either went to public hospitals, get medical care then run away so that they don’t pay.

“Many times we tell lies like ‘my mother is also sick at home, she couldn’t come with me’ to the doctors and nurses so that they may treat us. But most of the times, the doctors don’t agree to treat a child, dirty looking as we are and who just came alone to hospital. The nurses would sometimes pity us and handle us for free,” Bakari explained.

Musau and Gitonga were listening keenly. It was as if they were being told a story tale. Bakari continued narrating the challenges of living in the streets while others joined in at times to explain other things. The sun was getting pretty hot and the walk was quite long. Musau and Gitonga wondered how much longer they were going to take on the way. They didn’t dare complain, on seeing that the small boy Omari wasn’t complaining.

It was nearly midday when they finally arrived at the lady’s place. But what was worse, the tap was crowded with customers buying the water.

“You are quite late today boys!” the lady called to them.

“We slept very late yesterday,” Hassan said as they all approached the lady.

“And what were you doing till you slept that late?” she asked.

“We had some visitors,” Bakari said.

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed them! What are your good names?” the lady asked politely, looking at Musau and Gitonga.

“I am Gitonga and this is my younger brother Musau.”

“Okay and I am mama Asha,” she said with a big smile before she turned to Bakari.

“Take your friends into the house. Let me request my neighbour to attend to the customers then I’ll be right back!” she said.

Bakari led the whole group into the house. It was a fairly big house but of course not bigger than Gitonga’s home. It seemed very old and the walls had cracks all over. It was dark inside and one couldn’t see clearly. They all sat down at the torn mat before mama Asha rushed into the kitchen.

“So…where are the visitors from?” she asked from the kitchen.

“They are lost from their grandma’s home. They are new here. They just arrived from Nairobi the other day,” Bakari explained.

Mama Asha then went to them with a loaf of bread and some juice.

“This is all I have to give you today,” she said sadly.

“No thank you…we really appreciate,” Hassan said.

“I am very hungry!” Omari said as he quickly began to eat.

“But where is Zena and the remaining others today?” she asked, very concerned.

“We left them with the visitors’ younger sister. She would have gotten tired walking to this place,” Bakari said.

“Do they have something to eat?” she asked.

“Yes, I left Zena with some few coins that I had from yesterday.”

Mama Asha went back to the kitchen and was humming a song beautifully as she washed her utensils.

“So…Bakari, what were you planning to do to help your visitors?” mama Asha suddenly asked.

“Mmmh, I don’t know for sure. Maybe we’ll take them to Nyali and walk around, maybe luckily they might spot the place,” he answered as he went on eating.

“Why don’t we go to the police station? By now their parents must have noticed their absence and they would surely report it to the police,” mama Asha said.

Yes indeed, Gitonga’s parents were already awake by then. They had woken up very early so as to go see the grandma in the hospital but when Mrs. Kimathi went to wake up the kids, they were nowhere to be seen.

They searched all over the house, at the garden outside, everywhere! But the children could not be found. Mr. and Mrs. Kimathi got worried now. Where could the children have gone so early? They asked the house girl, the watchmen, the neighbours but no one had seen them since the previous night. Mrs. Kimathi was already in tears.

“We have to go and report to the police!” she said.

“Let us be patient a bit more. They couldn’t have gone so far in a new town. They might be back soon,” Mr. Kimathi said.

Mr. and Mrs. Kimathi no longer went to the hospital after the doctor called to inform them that grandma was progressing very well. They waited and waited, wondering where they had disappeared to.

“It must be Gitonga’ mischief and he took his siblings along!” Mrs. Kimathi said angrily.

“Calm down, we have to think where they could have probably gone,” Mr. Kimathi said.

“We have no more time to think! Let us go report to the police!” she insisted. They soon left for the police station.

Meanwhile, the young Omari gave a very good suggestion.

“What if we take them to the swings and maybe they will remember the way to their grandma’s home?” he said.

“Oh yes!” Hassan said, “It will be much easier that way. Didn’t you say your grandma’s home is not very far from the swing park?”

Both Gitonga and Musau nodded.

“Then let us go there first. If we don’t succeed I will take you to the police station to get help okay?” mama Asha asked.

“Will you come with us?” Musau asked.

“Yes of course! I can’t let you go to the police station alone. They might as well ignore you,” she said as she wore her head scarf and buibui, the traditional coast veil.

By that time, the crowd at the tap had cleared. They all filled their buckets and started the long walk. Mama Asha helped Omari and Musau carry the buckets.

When they finally arrived to where Muthoni and the rest were, it was quite hot. Maryam and the others were busy selling groundnuts for another woman who had employed them. Muthoni was seated aside, looking at them work.

Mama Asha was introduced to Muthoni and she confirmed whether they had eaten. Zena told her that they had eaten some mahamri and some black tea which they shared. Some of the children disappeared into the nearby bushes to wash up, while others helped Zena and the others sell the groundnuts and other snacks in turns.

After everyone had washed up and dressed in their normal rugs, mama Asha sent Bakari for two plates of coconut rice and stew from a nearby ‘kibanda’. Gitonga gave out the money he had carried so they may buy some juice to eat with. The children were so happy to eat once more. They all ate together the delicious meal and they soon set off to the swings.

At that time, Mr. and Mrs. Kimathi had already reported to the police and they had promised to call them if they got any news for them. They then decided to go to the hospital while they waited for information from the police. Mr. Kimathi went into the doctor’s office to talk more on his mother’s condition while Mrs. Kimathi waited outside. She was very worried and couldn’t stop crying. She kept thinking where the children could have gone. Just suddenly, she had an idea and couldn’t wait for her husband to come out from the office.

Mama Asha and the children were already checking the road path keenly. They stood outside the swings park, trying to figure out where the house could be.

“I remember we passed with the car, we went straight ahead…” Gitonga said.

“Just straight ahead? Are you sure?”Mama Asha asked.

Gitonga was quiet for a moment.

“There is a corner somewhere I think,” Musau said as he looked ahead.

Mr. Kimathi now came out from the office. His wife rushed to him and said, “I think I know where the children went!”

“Where?” he asked quickly.

“To the swings! Remember how much Gitonga kept asking about the swings and when they could go there?” she asked.

“Yes, I remember. Let us go try! Maybe they are still there,” Mr. Kimathi said as he quickly went out of the hospital door. Just as they drove away to the swings, Mrs. Kimathi called her husband.

“Kimathi?” she said.

“Yes, what is it?” he asked.

“When we finally find our children and go back home Nairobi, we will have to find more time to spend with them. I realized we had very little time with them, they still need our attention,” she said slowly.

Mr. Kimathi kept quiet for a moment.

“Yes, it is very true. We must make time for our children,” he replied as they got nearer to the swings.

Mama Asha and all the children were now seated outside the swings. They were all tired.

“Think well boys. Try to remember the colour of your grandma’s house, any shopping center nearby?” Mama Asha told Gitonga and Musau.

“I can’t remember anything like that. When we came to Mombasa we were already so tired. I didn’t notice anything except the swings,” Gitonga said sadly.

“But I think Grandma’s house is red-bricked,” Musau said.

“There are a lot of red-bricked houses. You must think of another sign or thing to lead us,” Bakari said.

Just then, Muthoni started crying out excitedly, “That’s mummy and daddy!”

They all looked up to the direction Muthoni was pointing at. And yes indeed, it was their parents in their grand car. Musau and Gitonga stood up, surprised but very happy. They couldn’t believe their eyes. They quickly rushed to the direction of the car, with mama Asha and the children behind them. Mr. and Mrs. Kimathi had already seen their children and they were overjoyed as well. Mr. Kimathi quickly packed the car and rushed to hug their children.

Mrs. Kimathi was filled with tears of joy as she hugged her children. Mama Asha and the group stood at a distance watching the happy family.

“Are you alright? Did something happen to you?” Mr. Kimathi asked them.

“We are okay dad,” Musau said, very happy.

“Mum and dad…I am very sorry…I won’t do such a mistake again,” Gitonga started saying before his mother interrupted him.

“Don’t worry son, we all learn from our mistakes. You will tell us later on what happened. For now, tell us, who are those children and the lady?” she asked.

“Oh yeah! They helped us throughout. You should hear their stories! They are now our new friends… but they live in the streets,” Gitonga said as they approached the street children.

Musau introduced them one by one to their parents. Mr. and Mrs. Kimathi were very grateful and thanked them so much. They were all sad that the three now had to leave. Just before they did, he gave the remaining money he had to Bakari together with the torches. He told Bakari, the torches were going to help them see at night and in the dark. Mrs. Kimathi hugged each of the children and gave them some coins she had. She then showed her great gratitude to Mama Asha for her help.

Soon enough, Mr. and Mrs. Kimathi drove away, with their children at the back seat of the car. They all talked excitedly explaining what happened and how kind the street children and Mama Asha had been to them. Mr. Kimathi called the police to inform them that they had found their children. He then thanked the police officer and hung up. The parents then promised to bring them to the swings before they left back to Nairobi.

The children were taken home, showered and ate before they left to see their grandma at the hospital. Grandma had now woken up and she no longer had as many pipes as before. The children were so happy to see her talk once more. The doctor told Mr. and Mrs. Kimathi that she was still very weak but much better than before. She has to stay in hospital for some few more days. The family spent the entire day at the hospital because they were going back to Nairobi the next morning.

Gitonga, Musau and Muthoni were still excited and they kept narrating what happened to them. They glorified how good the street children were and how sad their stories were. When dawn came, the family gave farewell to the grandma because Mr. and Mrs. Kimathi had to go back to their jobs. Gitonga, Musau and Muthoni had to go back to school too. They all knelt down and prayed for grandma before they left.

The children were taken to the swings as promised and when it got to nine p.m. they all left for home. The next early morning, they got set for their long journey back home. The children were sad that they couldn’t stay longer in Mombasa. They had all loved the place very much. They hoped they would come back someday soon.

It was now one month after the visit to Mombasa. Gitonga, Musau and Muthoni had very much changed after that. They had told all their friends at school on what had happened during their journey to Mombasa and the adventure they had. All in all, they were now obedient to their parents, they didn’t disturb the house girls anymore, and they didn’t play and waste water like before. They had learnt to appreciate what they had, for they realized not everyone had what they have.

Mr. and Mrs. Kimathi changed as well. They no longer went to job on weekends and they spent more time with their children. They took them to interesting places and had good family time.

One night, Mr. and Mrs. Kimathi called their children into their room. Mr. Kimathi cleared his throat and said, “As you all know, April holidays are coming…and we have decided to go to Mombasa again!”

The children were so happy. They jumped up and down with excitement.

“And we have some more good news for you,” their mother said.

“Do you remember my friend Mr. Okoko?” Mr. Kimathi asked.

“Yes!” they all answered.

“He had been planning to open up an orphanage for quite some time…and I thought of the street children in Mombasa. They will be sponsored for education, they will have a home now and people they can call parents and food is provided as well! I suggested my friend to take them and he agreed,” Mr. Kimathi said.

The children looked at each other in disbelief. They were now more excited than ever! They all hugged their father and kept on thanking him.

That night as they all went to sleep; Musau and Gitonga lay on their beds, imagining the glow on the faces of the street children when they tell them the news. They remembered Bakari and his dream of becoming a pilot, Zena, who wanted to be a nurse…and all the rest who had their own dreams. They couldn’t wait to meet them again. They couldn’t wait for the April holidays!”

I sat down silently for a minute and I could feel my eyes dropping tears to the blank paper that I was holding. The children looked at me strangely and in deep silence before a tiny boy stood up and said,

“How are you reading the story madam? The paper you are reading from is blank?!”

There was complete silence again and I couldn’t even utter a word.

The smallest girl from the class came to where I was seated and she sat next to me, just staring at my oily face.

“Are you the same madam Zena they mentioned in the story??” another boy asked loudly. The rest of the class all looked at me at once, as if waiting for an answer from me for that question.

“Yes…I am the Zena from the story and I was telling the story from my head. I am just like you; I lived in the streets.”

All the children looked at me in surprise and were busy murmuring to each other.

“Madam, continue with the story…what happened next??” they pleaded.

“The April holidays finally came and our three friends came back to Mombasa with their parents and their father’s friends, Mr. Okoko. We were all taken to school and had a place to call home finally. Bakari became the pilot he wanted to be. Omari was adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Kimathi, Fatuma is currently a doctor, Hassan is studying law and Maryam is happily married and now she has got two children…each one of them studied with a lot of hard work and I am proud of all of them.”

“Why didn’t you become a nurse anymore?” they asked anxiously.

“I decided I wanted to do something better.”

“And what is that?” the small girl next to me asked.

“To be here with you; I want you all to know how to read and write and to have a home like any other children. That is why I am here teaching you. I want you to have a bright future like the way I am having mine now.”

Before I realized it, all the children were surrounding me and they hugged me all at once.

“Thank you madam.”

“We love you teacher.”

I could smell their deep stench of glue right into my nose but I decided that is what I am here for; to help rehabilitate these children and give them a future worth living for.

That evening as I set to sleep on my mat next to grandma, I looked deeply at the candle lighting up the hut and then at grandma who was already asleep. I was so glad that Mr. and Mrs. Kimathi searched for my grandma for a long time and they ensured that they found her for me. I was happy that my dreams had come true and now, it was my turn to make the children’s dreams come true. I looked at the candle again like it was my ray of hope. I slowly blew it off and turned comfortably on the mat for a good night sleep.

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