The Slum Savior - creative non-fiction piece

“Sorry!” chirped Sister Marie Clementine as I picked myself up from the sticky mire I meant to cross over. My long, khaki skirt did not have enough give for me to fully extend my legs over that awaiting pit. One of my shoes was drenched in sewage, and only the fringe ends of my skirt got the rest of it. It’s almost needless to say that the sewage smelled like a gas stop bathroom multiplied by a hundred.

Sarah and I walked in between the two sisters. They were the barrier, the safe guard, between us and the world of Kibera- the largest slum in Africa and the second largest slum in the world. Impassioned by social justice and disgusted by poverty, I only dreamed of this day, when I could make one more step to save the world.

I managed to kick some of the slime off my shoe so I could carefully step down the boulder without slipping. I couldn’t believe such a path existed in a city in this contemporary world. It seemed very similar to the depiction I’ve seen in movies of Joseph leading Mary on a donkey, down a path, into Bethlehem. I was reminded of the Psalms where crooked and narrow paths with pits and muddy mires are often referenced. Now I had a slight idea what David was talking about. No wonder he asked God to make his paths straight.

I had to watch every single step as I treaded boulders, and crossed over hollow (or filled up) sewage creeks where the dogs and the hens made their home. Some of these “creeks” did have footbridges, which were hubcaps, sticks, broken banisters, thin sheets of metal. Every step I made mattered, and because of this, I seldom looked up around to observe the hot tin-roofed homes or the people. I didn’t take note of any advertising signs or activities. Nor did I notice anyone who begged for food or money. I only saw what my feet saw. As I passed by many people, I wanted to look up and acknowledge each person with my eyes. All I could do was glance quickly at a person, nod and say “habari yako[1]” and look back down before they had the chance to say “mzuri[2]!” I greeted children with an affectionate “Sasa[3]!” Sometimes they’d reply “Fite[4]!” Sometimes they’d run away. Sometimes, a child would spot us from down hill and cry “Wezungu[5]! Wezungu!” The other children playing around him, would share in his enthusiasm and join together in a “How are YOU!” chorus. We got about 100 How are YOU’s a day. Sarah and I would cry back, “Fine! I am Fine!” or “Good! How are you?” The sisters would laugh.

The sisters had absolutely no problem in their blue and white gowns to make it through our path. They had been completing this 30-minute hike (from the Missionaries of Charity compound) twice a day, everyday, with the exceptions of Thursdays and Sundays (those were their Rest days). They never seemed to grow tired or thirsty and had no problem looking up as they walked. Sr. Rose Marie looked each person in the eye as she greeted with a “Habari Yako!” and would hold that look until she got a reply. She would extend further into the initiated conversation in Kiswahili. I couldn’t follow the conversations having only etiquette knowledge of the East African language, but I imagined her to be asking them how their family was doing, how work was going for the day, etc. I loved watching the sisters interact with these people. There was nothing phony or pretentious about their interactions. I felt like such a fraud. But, no matter, they didn’t expect much of me. I wasn’t the only triumphing mzungu[6] they have brought through the slum.

We were just about to enter the bright blue gates of the school. A lady, doing her laundry, observed my wet foot. She said something, but I kept walking, looking straight ahead. Then I did a double take.

"Did she say something to me?" I asked Sister Marie Clementine.
“Yes. She asked if she could wash your shoe off.”
“Sho-should I say yes?”
“Ndiyo[7].”

I smiled, a little flustered. I knew we were late getting to the school. I shyly approached the lady and accepted her offer. She dunked her own, slightly clean rag into the soapy water and meticulously got all the mud off my shoe. She used her own water which was for her family’s clothes to wash my foot. I wondered how much water she actually had available for use. I wondered where her clean water came from. Most people don’t have running water in Kibera. She washed my shoe until the blackness of it shined, and then she went on to my other shoe, which was just a little dusty. I looked at her, into her black shining eyes and saw God. I thanked her.

“Asante Sana[8]! Mungu akubariki[9]!” My lips stuttered over this last word.

The Kenyans laughed. They get a kick out of Americans who learn their language.
She cried in excitement, “something something Kiswahili!?” I shook my head and laughed.

“I know only kidogo[10] Kiswahili!”
“Kidogo!!” The sisters and the lady had a good laugh over that one.

We were all laughing, as Sarah and I, armed with art supplies and our own inadequacy, marched through the gates of the school, to a hundred and something children playing jump rope, soccer, and the Kenyan “Down By the Banks” in their dusty, dirt-paved school yard.




[1]How are you?
[2] Good!
[3] Greeting to a child, less formal than “How are you?”
[4] Child’s response to "sasa", literally means “fit”
[5] White people
[6] White person
[7] Yes
[8] Thank you very much!
[9] God bless you!
[10] A little