Thursday was my most interesting day yet here in the great city of Nairobi. Our friends Michael and Mya are here visiting from the States, they have been so wonderful helping us out as we transition from the Dellamater’s home to our own apartment. So, back to Thursday, Michael and I started the day in Kibera at the Raila Educational Center where First Love works. After visiting some classrooms and playing tag with kids we headed to the Mitumba slum.
We were told that Mitumba was even more impoverished than Kibera, I thought “Is that possible?.” It is. Mitumba is much smaller and is tucked in between an airport runway strip and a middle class neighborhood called South C. The school where First Love assists consists of tin shacks (they are not allowed to build permanent structures) and very, very old wood. While Heather and Karen (First Love’s social worker) handed out uniforms, Michael and I went on a tour of the poorest village I have ever seen. Before we entered this small child came running over to us, I wanted to scoop him up immediately but before I did Heather’s words, “not all children are potty trained” (even though they don’t have diapers) echoed in my head. I couldn’t resist this child who I later learned was named Clinton and 4 years old. He was way too small to be 4, with some of the chubbiest cheeks I had ever seen…. Which is why when I picked him up, even with his urine soaked pants I couldn’t put him down. I carried him throughout our walk and just kept thinking I am the luckiest girl in
After giving the middle school age girls a pair of underwear and a pack of donated maxi pads, Karen gave the girls a demonstration on how to use the pads. I thought about how normally that is something a mom, big sister, or friend might show you how to do – but many of the women in their life have probably never had the privilege of using such sanitary products so they wouldn’t have a clue as to how to use them.
After Mitumba, I made my way to the women’s prison. Our first Sunday here, the church we attended highlighted a prison ministry for women. I was immediately intrigued as they talked about the women they visited on death row who had not had visitors in as long as 15 years. Capital punishment is against the law, so they are not really on death row, it is only a label for the most severe convicted offenders. I met the other women from the church outside the prison where we prayed for our time. As we entered the prison, I was almost brought to tears simply at the sight of the over 200 women gathered for our time. They were wearing hospital gown type uniforms, some gray some white. The women in white were awaiting trial for more petty crimes while the women in gray were awaiting trial for a murder arrest. We began our time of worship and unlike other prisons I had been to, I was trying to imagine the types of crimes they may had committed. I felt like the Lord slowly broke my heart more and more, as he said “Lydia, my heart breaks for these women, the world may see criminals, but I see one of my children who has been so broken and hurt that she was desperate enough to do the act that brought her here”. They looked so vulnerable in their gowns. I sat next to a few of them as we heard the lesson given on overcoming fear. After I learned their names and was able to pray with them before we had to leave. I could only say to myself “wow” after that day – I felt a little guilty grocery shopping for dinner that night – having the means to buy fresh food and cook in a kitchen bigger than most of the slum dweller’s homes. At the end of most days I have been exhausted, the good kind of exhausted where you feel like what you have seen and experienced is so out of the norm all you can do is think, pray, and sleep so that the next day you have the appropriate amount of strength to do it all over again.
