Meeting Walter and Priscah
White skin means “money.” And though I'm not wealthy, not financially independent, not making much as a volunteer, I'm still way, way better off than the average Kenyan. Which is why they can't be blamed for seeing money when they see white skin, and why I'm getting used to Kenyans of all ilk approaching me for things. From the small school boy who doesn't hide his intent (he holds his hand out as I cycle by and says, “give me money”) to the grown men and women who have started non-profits to benefit their fellow countrymen. But there are also those who simply want to sell me something, anything.
On the way to lunch yesterday, an older woman stood in the road and stopped each passer-by, telling them she has a stand just around that corner (she points), so please stop by and see her Masai-made goods. Will you come after work, or tomorrow morning? What time are you leaving work? They'll pin you down quicker than the fastest sales guy in the West. They're good. I admire her marketing technique of standing at the intersection of two dirt roads and taking folks to her “shop.” And wanting to be open, to be seen as a neighbor and not a foreigner, I want to support the local merchants. I tell her I'll stop by on my way to work the next morning. And then I forget.
This morning, as I'm writing a workshop proposal in my office, Eric comes in and tells me I have a visitor. Upon arriving at the front of TICH, I recognize the face but can't recall from where. It's Priscah, come to root me out!! And that's alright. I tell her I'll meet her at the guard gate tomorrow at 12:30, so we can walk over to her stand and see what Masai-made goodies she has to offer. (Plus, my two sisters have birthdays coming up very, very soon!).
After emailing at the cyber center down town last night, I stuff my backpack with cereal, milk, peanut butter, bread, potatoes, carrots, and bananas from the Nakumatt and start walking home. At the end of Odinga Oginga Street I pass a young man and we speak. Because we're walking in the same direction at the same pace, trying to avoid the same speeding cars in the dark, we begin to talk. His name is Walter Odede and he started a non-profit three years ago, Pambazuko Youth AIDS Link Project. Pambakudo means “new horizons,” which is what he's trying to offer street boys. Once a victim of drugs (those are Walter's words), God spoke to his heart and told him to help others. And that's exactly what he does from his small, expensive office in Kisumu. Of course, the boys who are being helped live in the slum, not far from TICH.
Walter pulls an introduction letter from his pack, fills in my name and signs it as chairman of PYALP. We exchange emails addresses. As he's sitting and signing he asks, “Are you single?” I laugh out loud because no one else has cared to ask that question since I've arrived in Kenya. “Yes, I am,” I tell him. “And you're the first person here to ask me that.” “Well,” he replies, “you'll continue to be single whether I ask you if you are single or not. So I ask you.”
Like most Kenyans, Walter sees my white skin and thinks I can turn his organization into a top performer. If I don't give money, then I'll know how to write a proposal or get my friends to give money. He doesn't say it, for they seldom say it, but I know what he's thinking. And I don't say it, but what I'm thinking is, YES, I want to contribute in some way while I'm here—maybe with money, maybe with my time, maybe with writing proposals. It's important to me, however, to assess each organization, to make sure they're managed efficiently and the monies go directly to those who need it most. So I ask Walter if he will take me to the slums one day, so I can meet the boys he is helping. He readily agrees. I don't' want to go to the slums, but must. Otherwise, I'll never know how I can help. We part company in the night, on a dirt road with dim light barely showing his face. I will definitely meet Priscah tomorrow to view her wares, and I will definitely email Walter so we can walk through the slums. Deep down, I don't want to. But I must. And I definitely will.
On the way to lunch yesterday, an older woman stood in the road and stopped each passer-by, telling them she has a stand just around that corner (she points), so please stop by and see her Masai-made goods. Will you come after work, or tomorrow morning? What time are you leaving work? They'll pin you down quicker than the fastest sales guy in the West. They're good. I admire her marketing technique of standing at the intersection of two dirt roads and taking folks to her “shop.” And wanting to be open, to be seen as a neighbor and not a foreigner, I want to support the local merchants. I tell her I'll stop by on my way to work the next morning. And then I forget.
This morning, as I'm writing a workshop proposal in my office, Eric comes in and tells me I have a visitor. Upon arriving at the front of TICH, I recognize the face but can't recall from where. It's Priscah, come to root me out!! And that's alright. I tell her I'll meet her at the guard gate tomorrow at 12:30, so we can walk over to her stand and see what Masai-made goodies she has to offer. (Plus, my two sisters have birthdays coming up very, very soon!).
After emailing at the cyber center down town last night, I stuff my backpack with cereal, milk, peanut butter, bread, potatoes, carrots, and bananas from the Nakumatt and start walking home. At the end of Odinga Oginga Street I pass a young man and we speak. Because we're walking in the same direction at the same pace, trying to avoid the same speeding cars in the dark, we begin to talk. His name is Walter Odede and he started a non-profit three years ago, Pambazuko Youth AIDS Link Project. Pambakudo means “new horizons,” which is what he's trying to offer street boys. Once a victim of drugs (those are Walter's words), God spoke to his heart and told him to help others. And that's exactly what he does from his small, expensive office in Kisumu. Of course, the boys who are being helped live in the slum, not far from TICH.
Walter pulls an introduction letter from his pack, fills in my name and signs it as chairman of PYALP. We exchange emails addresses. As he's sitting and signing he asks, “Are you single?” I laugh out loud because no one else has cared to ask that question since I've arrived in Kenya. “Yes, I am,” I tell him. “And you're the first person here to ask me that.” “Well,” he replies, “you'll continue to be single whether I ask you if you are single or not. So I ask you.”
Like most Kenyans, Walter sees my white skin and thinks I can turn his organization into a top performer. If I don't give money, then I'll know how to write a proposal or get my friends to give money. He doesn't say it, for they seldom say it, but I know what he's thinking. And I don't say it, but what I'm thinking is, YES, I want to contribute in some way while I'm here—maybe with money, maybe with my time, maybe with writing proposals. It's important to me, however, to assess each organization, to make sure they're managed efficiently and the monies go directly to those who need it most. So I ask Walter if he will take me to the slums one day, so I can meet the boys he is helping. He readily agrees. I don't' want to go to the slums, but must. Otherwise, I'll never know how I can help. We part company in the night, on a dirt road with dim light barely showing his face. I will definitely meet Priscah tomorrow to view her wares, and I will definitely email Walter so we can walk through the slums. Deep down, I don't want to. But I must. And I definitely will.
posted by Cindi at 2:03 AM
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