And the Hits Just Keep on Comin'!
Casmos sits next to me at the cyber cafe, waiting for a computer. He asks me where in the states I am from, just like that. I say, “How did you know I'm from the states, don't I look the least bit European?” and he says, “I could tell by your face.” Turns out Casmos' brother lives in Houston and he wants to go there. He must 40 or so and is very animated when he talks, sounding much like a Westerner with his slight Kenyan accent. We each get a computer and work away, so when Casmos is leaving, he stops by to give me his business card. He asks if I'd like to get a coffee when I'm done.”I'll be here at least two hours,” I tell him and give him my email address.
Sunday morning, I'm back at the cyber cafe, just beginning to update the blog when Casmos stops by. “I sent you an email asking you to meet me here last night for dinner.” This is the first time I've checked emails and haven't even seen his note yet. He asks if I'd like to get a coffee and I, again, say, “I'll be here at least 2 or 3 hours.” (Turns out I'm here FOUR hours!) He says he'll check back around 1pm. Casmos dresses very nicely, he has a relaxed manner and his business card says he sells medical equipment. He wears his sun glasses pushed up on his head and nice athletic shoes. He's not in any real need, but he thinks I can get him to the states. He may have checked in on me at 1pm, but I am intent on the internet until 2:30, so he may have simply moved on. I'm sure to see him here again, or will get another email from him. I'm not sure I can help Casmos, as I told him the first day we met. Being his friend would be fun, but he thinks I'm his ticket to America.
Albert, the security guard at Kisumu Hotel, stops me as I walk by one evening. He says he'd like to discuss something with me, when will I be by again? I tell him I may be by the next evening since I have to pick something up in town before 6pm. Albert wants me to stop by then. I wonder what he wants to discuss. And then there's Victor, who caught up with me just after I leave Albert to head home. Victor is 18 and tells me his father passed away Friday at 1pm and they need money for a coffin. I'm shocked at this news, at the recency of his father's passing, and I stop walking and grab his sleeve. “Your father passed away this past Friday?!” I say, letting it sink in. My heart goes out to him.
But Victor asks for the 1,500 khsh for the coffin so quickly, without allowing me to digest this news. He asks so quickly that I doubt him. He appears earnest, but I tell him, at great pain, that I cannot help. He then tells me how thieves broke into his home and, when he woke up to discover them, they threw fire on him. He pulls up his left sleeve and shows me a horrendous scar on his forearm, at least one-half inch raised and massive. It is difficult not to be moved by such suffering, but the wound has obviously been healed for years. I recognize he is using his full arsenal to pull at my heart strings, and when I commiserate about his troubles, he says, “I do want your sympathize.” Which amuses me slightly because getting my “sympathize” is the exact persuasive tool he is using to get my help.
“If you can help me with the means to get back to my village where my father's body is.” Sorry, no. “I've never slept outside and I'm scared to be out tonight.” That's tough stuff for anyone to hear, but enough of me doubts his situation that I simply say no. He has walked with me about one-half mile and I worry he might follow me home or become angry and hit me. The thought passes quickly, however, and I walk confidently on, saying goodbye, turning left when he turns right. He says goodbye and moves away.
The trick, the trickiest part of this Kenyan life, is to keep a balance of openness and caution. For there are truly people in need and I want to meet them, hear their stories and help if possible. It's a fine line, this balance between self and others. I reserve the right to help and I reserve the right to refuse, depending on my own assessment and ability. It ain't easy, but my heart is learning to feel, just not to jump out of my chest at every cause. Discernment through (hopefully) good judgement. It ain't easy, especially when the hits just keep on comin'.
Sunday morning, I'm back at the cyber cafe, just beginning to update the blog when Casmos stops by. “I sent you an email asking you to meet me here last night for dinner.” This is the first time I've checked emails and haven't even seen his note yet. He asks if I'd like to get a coffee and I, again, say, “I'll be here at least 2 or 3 hours.” (Turns out I'm here FOUR hours!) He says he'll check back around 1pm. Casmos dresses very nicely, he has a relaxed manner and his business card says he sells medical equipment. He wears his sun glasses pushed up on his head and nice athletic shoes. He's not in any real need, but he thinks I can get him to the states. He may have checked in on me at 1pm, but I am intent on the internet until 2:30, so he may have simply moved on. I'm sure to see him here again, or will get another email from him. I'm not sure I can help Casmos, as I told him the first day we met. Being his friend would be fun, but he thinks I'm his ticket to America.
Albert, the security guard at Kisumu Hotel, stops me as I walk by one evening. He says he'd like to discuss something with me, when will I be by again? I tell him I may be by the next evening since I have to pick something up in town before 6pm. Albert wants me to stop by then. I wonder what he wants to discuss. And then there's Victor, who caught up with me just after I leave Albert to head home. Victor is 18 and tells me his father passed away Friday at 1pm and they need money for a coffin. I'm shocked at this news, at the recency of his father's passing, and I stop walking and grab his sleeve. “Your father passed away this past Friday?!” I say, letting it sink in. My heart goes out to him.
But Victor asks for the 1,500 khsh for the coffin so quickly, without allowing me to digest this news. He asks so quickly that I doubt him. He appears earnest, but I tell him, at great pain, that I cannot help. He then tells me how thieves broke into his home and, when he woke up to discover them, they threw fire on him. He pulls up his left sleeve and shows me a horrendous scar on his forearm, at least one-half inch raised and massive. It is difficult not to be moved by such suffering, but the wound has obviously been healed for years. I recognize he is using his full arsenal to pull at my heart strings, and when I commiserate about his troubles, he says, “I do want your sympathize.” Which amuses me slightly because getting my “sympathize” is the exact persuasive tool he is using to get my help.
“If you can help me with the means to get back to my village where my father's body is.” Sorry, no. “I've never slept outside and I'm scared to be out tonight.” That's tough stuff for anyone to hear, but enough of me doubts his situation that I simply say no. He has walked with me about one-half mile and I worry he might follow me home or become angry and hit me. The thought passes quickly, however, and I walk confidently on, saying goodbye, turning left when he turns right. He says goodbye and moves away.
The trick, the trickiest part of this Kenyan life, is to keep a balance of openness and caution. For there are truly people in need and I want to meet them, hear their stories and help if possible. It's a fine line, this balance between self and others. I reserve the right to help and I reserve the right to refuse, depending on my own assessment and ability. It ain't easy, but my heart is learning to feel, just not to jump out of my chest at every cause. Discernment through (hopefully) good judgement. It ain't easy, especially when the hits just keep on comin'.
posted by Cindi at 10:50 PM
1 Comments:
Wow, another eye opener to how lucky we are to be born and live in the USA when it is so easy for us to take it for granted.
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