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Seventy-Five Dollars

Seventy-Five Dollars

Last updated on: October 6, 2007 at 6:43 pm by Cathleen Falsani

Seventy-Five Dollars 2007-10-06T18:43:00-07:00 Cathleen Falsani

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NAIROBI, Kenya — Around the corner from Grace’s house in an impoverished neighborhood on the north side of Nairobi, the woman selling small purple onions slapped my hand, shook it and grabbed my fingers, smiling excitedly.

I didn’t think anything of it until our traveling companion, Simon, said that the woman had told him in Swahili I was the first white person she’d ever met and touched.

In this part of the world, I am a mzungu — a white person. And in the poorest of the poor neighborhoods here, such as the Kibera slums where an estimated 1 million people live in abject poverty on a piece of land about twice the size of Grant Park, mzungus like me are an exotic breed.

As my husband and I left Grace’s house after she made us a cup of tea and told us a bit about herself, she presented us with a gift — a set of hand-knit baby clothes (complete with matching infant balaclava) for our family’s first grandchild, who is due to make his debut in late December.

We said it was too much, that we couldn’t possibly . . . but Grace, who supports her family by making the knit ensembles as well as colorful uniforms worn by all Kenyan school children, wasn’t having it.

“If people see you with them, maybe they will ask where they came from and you can tell them about me,” she said. “It is good for business.”

Had I any doubt about the curiosity of my presence in Nairobi’s poorer neighborhoods, it was confirmed when I heard children singing while walking in Kibera near a grammar school/orphanage (housed in a lopsided corrugated metal building painted a bold shade of azure.)

As I got closer to the school, I realized the “song” was more of a singsong chant a couple dozen children were yelling over a fence as they ran alongside us, some of them kicking an ersatz soccer ball made from a mound of plastic bags bound together with twine.

“Mzungu! Mzungu! How are you? How are you? Mzungu! Mzungu!” they sang at us, giggling and waving.

Apparently “How are you?” is one of the few English phrases known to most children here who speak Swahili as their primary language, even if they never attend school. And many children in Kibera do not because they cannot afford the uniforms that are compulsory even in Kenyan public schools.

A school uniform costs about 1,000 Kenyan shillings. That’s about $15. Last week, I wasted more than that on a glass of wine. Never again.

I spent the better part of two days in Kibera earlier this week and was deeply humbled by my experiences there. Sure, some people stared at us, but some also invited us into their homes to visit, to tell stories, to bless us.

It was in these homes that I understood just how mzungu I really am. Everything I see here, I am seeing with mzungu eyes. Everything I hear, I hear with mzungu ears. My challenge is to understand with a heart not colored by my nationality, class or skin tone.

While in Kibera, I met a number of women involved in a micro-investment program called Jikaze sponsored by the Chicago-based Global Alliance for Africa. Jikaze provides small loans to women in the slums who are trying to build small businesses that will enable them to feed their children, provide them with basic medical care and uniforms so they can attend school.

Mary sells dried corn and always puts an extra handful on top to keep customers coming back. Lilian sells carrots and other vegetables in Kibera’s open-air market, waking at 4 a.m. to take a bus one hour each way to get her wares for the day. Margaret, a mother of nine, makes traditional embroidered African clothing and travels more than 500 miles round trip to Uganda to buy material at the best price.

A typical Jikaze loan is about 5,000 Kenyan shillings, or about $75. The women are expected to repay the loan within a year or so and are required to keep immaculate financial records before they can qualify for another, larger loan.

The day I dropped by the Jikaze Weavers’ studio — an 8-by-8-foot storefront along Kibera’s main thoroughfare — Floice, a mother of four who also cares for two orphan children, was working on a geometric-patterned wool rug. When I admired it, she said she would finish it by the next day if I’d like to buy it. We agreed on a price — 2,500 Kenyan shillings.

It was only later that it dawned on me: What I bought as a souvenir without thinking twice is half of what Floice is hoping to get when her loan comes through sometime next year.

A throw rug for me. Food, clothing and an education for Floice’s children.

Through an interpreter, Floice, a soft-spoken woman who was wearing a T-shirt with a portrait of Mother Teresa and the words “Peace begins with a smile” on it, told me she has faith she will find a good market and all the rugs she makes will sell.

And she said she has hope that the loan will come through sooner rather than later, so her life and the lives of her family will change for the better.

Seventy-five dollars, mzungu.

Think about it.

GODSTUFF

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