Lost

I see him standing silently at the door and I know instantly that something is up. His face looks worried and his eyes are dewey. I walk over to him and offer a hand. His voice catches as he whispers 'I'm so sorry madam'...

I instantly guess what has happened as the electrical items for the school that I sent him to the market to collect are nowhere to be seen. 

'Did you loose the money?' I gently ask. 

He doesn't seem to comprehend that I have figured it out and starts to explain... 'I ran to the market and once I had collected everything at the counter I put my hand in my pocket and...' His voice trails off and he turns away and gulps. 

He tries again 'madam, I ran back as fast as I could and I have been searching...' 

'It's okay!' I try to reassure him, 'it is ok, it was an accident, I understand'.

I find my wallet and produce the required amount again. 'Here, you can take this and quickly go back before the shop shuts' 

He stands like a statute.

'It's not ok madam! 1000 shillings is a LOT of money'

He is physically shaking and I can tell this is a really big deal. 

I sit him down and decide to explain it out, I talk about how things happen for a reason, how we can learn from this that it is important to be careful, I get him to think about whoever finds the money and how happy they will be, maybe God knew they needed the money more than we did. 

He stops shaking but is still visibly upset. 

'Madam, when you struggle and struggle to get even 50 shillings... 1000 shillings is SO much money. I have never lost anything like that amount of money before!' 

Finally after much discussion he softly says 'it is okay madam' and gets up to return for the items. 

Later on I hear him at the door again. He comes in, puts the receipt on the counter. Looks at me with sad eyes and says again 'I'm so sorry madam'.

I feel like crying. 

Not because I care about the money. 

This upsetting event, this huge loss that he, an educated, hardworking 20 year old is grappling with, that has made him not want to eat, that has caused him to run kilometers in panic and that has shaken him so badly... is $12.60.

Twelve dollars sixty. In the scheme of things it is nothing. And yet here it is SO much. 

I can't wait. Cannot wait for the time where there is no more poverty.

"Even so, Come Lord Jesus". 

Health 'not so' professionals...

I am just sitting down to dinner when a girl pokes her head in the door- 'Tabby, can I see you for a minute?' 

I am a little surprised because I am visiting an area down at the coast and hence the kids here don't know me as well (or usually have many requests). I jump up immediately and as I reach the door I hear sobbing. Instinct kicks in and I race over to the young teenager -Mwongeli- who is clearly distressed, her entire hand is completely red with blood and it is pouring down her arm. 'I'm coming back' I call out and race to grab some first aid gear. 

The story soon comes out- she fell in the dark and landed on a glass bottle and there is still a large amount of glass inside her hand. By now the muscle has seized up around the glass and try as I might I can't get it out. I bandage it quickly to stop the blood and we decide to go to the nearest health centre that has night shift doctors. 

Myself, Jeremy (a local friend) and the two girls speed along the dirt road- fortunately Jeremy is an excellent driver and despite the dodgy roads and pitch blackness we arrive safely at the centre in less than 15 minutes. 

A 'doctor' approaches us and asks what's wrong, upon hearing he turns and walks away. We decide to take a seat, Mwongeli is still sobbing softly and recalling past waits and dramas with hospital experiences I fish around in my purse and find some painkillers for her. 

The doctor returns and is behaving so erratic it is soon apparent that he (and his two colleagues) are completely drunk. 

Initially he sees the bandage and says she has already been treated and hence we have no need for him. Jeremy explains the concept of first aid and finally he takes us through to a treatment room. I try to enter with her but the doctors refuse. Screaming and yelling ensues from the room and then the door bangs open and the doctors ask me to come in to 'console' her. 

The drunk doctor is holding a wad of bloody gauze and the hole in Mwongeli's hand is gaping open as he roughly wipes it out. I quickly put my arms around her head and arm, directing her not to look, telling her she is brave and that it will hurt less if she is still. 

The doctors are now more interested in my arrival than the wound and start asking my name, where I am from, my marital status and contact details. I try to direct attention back to the injury and ask if they have removed the glass. He says they have but decides to dig around a little more regardless. Mwongeli screams and writhes. 

I ask if they are going to use anaesthetic as it is obviously agonising... they seem to see the merit in this idea and a needle is produced and rammed into her hand so hard it snaps.

By now I am loosing patience and Mwongeli is beside herself in pain. Becoming frustrated I ask if they are even real doctors and the one about to stitch gets so offended he stops working. 

After a bit of placating towards the doctors and consoling towards Mwongeli finally we get it stitched up. The doctor remarks to me 'you are so good at consoling!' I feel like saying 'wish I could say the same about your doctor skills!' but I figure it is in everyone's best interests for me to bite my tongue. 

Painkillers are arbitrarily shaken into a bag and we are out of there. 

The relief of the pain and drama being over washes over us and we are fortunately all able to see some humour in the whole situation and have a good stress releasing giggle about the whole experience. 

Sometimes the Kenyan health system is surprisingly good, but other times I am vividly reminded that I am living in a developing country. This occasion is definitely the latter! 

Kalalani

One of the sponsored children.

The car is filled with the overpowering stench of goat- from the two in the back which we have been generously gifted with by the locals. The 'road' is so muddy we are constantly getting stuck or else sliding into the bushes- one of our tires has burst but we have pumped it up again with a bike pump and so far it is holding out. 

We pull up beside a Masai dressed in a traditional blanket, riding a motorbike- he explains that the 'road' is worse up ahead. The three local men in the car who are assisting with directions attempt to get out to assess which way we should go...I smile as they yoyo the electric window and tug on the cup-holder. I show them for the 7th time the lever to open the door and they quickly exit and start beating down bushes to make a way for us to pass through. 

Kalalani is remote. In the coastal region of Kenya but over a 2 hour drive from any reasonable sized town. We had decided to visit to meet with the people there and bring some food relief for sponsored families. We are told that this tribe are not as blessed as other tribes in Kenya. This region struggles for water. There are no rivers or water sources nearby. Now it is the rainy season so the roads are muddy but even so, most people don't have much water storage capacity so are required to walk long distances every day to collect. 

Hungry dogs watching on as kids eat rice with their hands.

The houses are mud and sticks and there are no toilets. Apparently it is traditional to just go in the bush. Despite the abject poverty the people are so generous. They are so excited to have a visit and prepare us a feast of rice and chicken, we are even given the privilege of spoons- everyone else makes do with their hands.

We had to borrow a local church to meet in as we don't have a meeting hall here yet. The children from this area used to walk from Friday to Sunday in order to come to church and for sponsorship relief, now that has changed and someone comes to visit their area fortnightly, meeting in a local school or a borrowed church. 

The 'church' we met with the families in.

So often in Kenya I am struck by the contrasts. The extreme poverty and hardship these people face is equally matched by their determination and generosity. The thought of children walking for two days to reach somewhere every week is mind-blowing. The love that is shown by the volunteers making the trek out here to provide relief every fortnight is equally inspiring. 

This is certainly a place where sponsorship is needed, well utilised and appreciated. 

The Funeral

Even though we are quite tired and more than ready for bed we decide the right thing to do is to go. Three of us climb into the car and I manoeuvre  down the dirt road. We drive for a couple of kilometres before the road turns into something resembling a goat track. I push on but after a while decide it is too much and we get out to cover the remaining couple of kms by foot. It is pitch back and we only have one small torch, lighting our path through the maize fields, over the hills, across a river and in the direction of the music. A clearing to the right of the road opens up into space where a crowd are seated in a semicircle facing a group of rhythmical dancers. The grieving family are surrounded by friends, neighbours and family, and selected people speak about how he was such a good dancer and singer and such an integral part of the church choir. A church member gives some encouraging words, bible passages are read and prayers are said. We stay until after midnight before bidding farewell and heading home to return in the morning.
 
Festus was only in his 20s, his family are extremely poor. He had decided to go to college to study masonry and was blessed enough to be sponsored to do so, however he complained of sickness which continued to worsen until he had to be hospitalised and then tragically last week he could fight no longer and cancer took him. 

There is a resounding thud as the first spadeful of dirt hits the tin covering the coffin at the bottom of the hole. My eyes well up as I watch the muscly lad in his 20s feverishly shovelling spadeful after spadeful of dirt into the hole, covering the body of his friend. He is working hard and fast as if the physical labour will provide a distraction from the pain inside. Earlier on in the funeral he spoke about how much he loved and will miss his friend... People in their 20s shouldn't be burying their friends! 

Why? Why? Why? I look around at the crowd of people gathered for his burial. His mentally disabled uncle, his shattered mother, stoic brothers and weeping classmates. Why would God take someone when they are so young and seemingly full of life!?! 

A wise king once said it is better to go to a funeral than a feast (Ecclesiastes 7:12). Today I feel I understand a little about what he meant. Funerals are a graphic reminder to us that our life now is short and every day we live is a gift from God. It really puts life into perspective and makes you motivated to act while you can.