"Mere Mortals"

They’re called Twilight Girls. In the Kenyan city of Eldoret, they are indistinguishable from other young girls. They draw water from the family ground well with infants strapped to their backs. They squat over small, open-flame stoves to warm a pan of githeri (maize and beans) or mukimo (mashed green peas and potatoes). They wash soiled laundry in basins filled with water the color of sand and hang them out on clotheslines to dry.

Then at night, they sell their bodies to strangers for a few shillings to feed their families. In this HIV-infested environment, many take no safety precautions, exposing themselves to a disease that has claimed tens of thousands of lives.

Men who prey on them ruthlessly exploit or harm them. They walk around with concealed welts and bruises. In the slums, neighbors spurn and subject them to all sorts of indignities and virulent name-calling. Yet, they know no other way out of their lot. So they continue to offer their tortured bodies to strange men until they contract AIDS — or until a children’s charity intervenes and rescues them.

 

***

 

My sisters, Helen Wanjiki and Dora Wamboi, were twilight girls, although I was not.

Mama wasn’t a twilight girl, although later as an adult she, too, entertained strangers to make money. My father left our family when I turned 4. To support us, Mama traveled to Uganda to purchase plantains (bananas), then returned to Eldoret and sold them at the market. Our tribe’s ability to eke livelihoods off the land had always been its gift. The Kikuyu, according to many, came from west Africa. My ancestors, who settled Mt. Kenya, were resourceful agriculturalists. They farmed the fertile volcanic soils and intermarried with other tribes.

Decades later, the British arrived and gradually spread across the region, claiming the best lands for themselves and reaping the bounties. Our people lost much of their prized possessions to the new landowners. But our tribe never lost its gift. Throughout the years, foreign reaping intensified, and families by the scores lost even the plots handed down to them from their ancestors. Generations later, many relocated to the slums and became entrepreneurs. Mama numbered among them.

The money Mama made from selling plantains hardly met our needs, so she found a way to supplement her income. Men came to our home at odd hours of the night — different men at different times. They visited with Mama. And when they left, she had money to pay for our keep.

Mama’s practice exacted a heavy toll. Neighbors scorned her. Women in the slum feared that she would seduce and steal their husbands. Others called her “whore” or hurled malicious epithets in her face whenever she walked by. Mama endured the hostility and humiliation because she saw no other way to care for us. And in an overcrowded slum like Langas, just outside of downtown Eldoret, it wasn’t easy.

Langas is about four square kilometers in size and home to thousands of people who cannot afford to live elsewhere. In this Kenyan community, nothing is sacred. People mingle and thrive on the latest gossip. The slum is a relatively small place with colossal problems. Specialty shops and hotels line the main road. After a downpour, matatus (public transports), motorbike taxis and other vehicles cut deep gullies into the unpaved road, deepening the potholes. Ditches flanking the main road expel their putrid odor of decaying garbage, turbid puddles and urine into the air.

Despite the slum’s appalling condition, vendors set up makeshift kiosks along the main road and intervening streets and spread their tarps on the ground to display their produce and merchandise: used clothing, empty yellow containers (formerly cooking oil vessels repackaged as fluid receptacles), second-hand shoes, coal, and any number of consumables. Vehicles navigate congested streets deliberately to avoid hitting pedestrians. Sheep, goats, and chickens crisscross the streets freely and sometimes, without warning, they jet out in front of moving vehicles.

Set back from the kiosks are rows of mud houses — home to both families and businesses. Folks sit with languid expressions outside these wood-framed structures to peddle knickknacks and wares. Young women braid each other’s hair. Older ones swat at flies and gnats as they wait on customers. Not uncommonly, one detects in the air a perplexity of smells — raw sewage, burning coal, and animal dung. The local folks, seemingly accustomed to the stench, go on with their lives.

In many homes, children suffer all sorts of abuses. To escape the cruelty, they run away and end up on the streets. People treat them no differently than stray animals and many become victims of local “mob justice.”

 

***

 

Slums are the same no matter where they exist

In such a place, I was born. My parents might not have known the kind of life that I would lead but our family name would have been a good place to start. In the Kenyan language, Njeri means “roaming about.”

I saw what slum life did to my sisters and mother. I believe my Christian faith saved me from following them. Yet even with my faith, I struggled occasionally with tribal beliefs. Christianity in Kenya is a smorgasbord of Christian teachings and tribal magic and rituals. Many still consult witch doctors. Even as they practice ancestral beliefs, they claim to be followers of Christ.

I was fortunate that my earliest spiritual experience was with the Redeemed Gospel Church of Eldoret. Pastor Moses influenced my youth. A man of little means with a huge heart, he always had time to listen. Very carefully, he would lead me through a Bible passage then give practical advice to whatever problem I faced. His wife was a living example of Christianity. Kind and gentle-spirited, she fed us out of their poverty. Jesus became real for me because of her charitable spirit. Admittedly, there were occasions when doubt moved me to consult a witch doctor. At those times, God would send a detour right back to Pastor Moses’ doorstep.

Christianity wasn’t a leap of faith for me. At 13, I gave my life to Jesus. Several years later, I met and married my husband, James. He worked hard at a logging company and ran a small lumber business on the side. I managed a business as well. I bought onions wholesale and resold them at the local marketplace for a modest profit.

For a while, life was good. James and I had five children. We couldn’t have been happier. Then tragedy struck. My older sister, Helen, contracted AIDS and died. With the help of neighbors, I bathed and smeared a salt-like preservative on her body. Because we couldn’t afford a coffin, we gathered pieces of wood from around our home and built one for her. Her burial plot cost 700 shillings (about $10 U.S. dollars). James and I put up money we couldn’t spare. We also paid an additional 1,000 shillings ($14 USD) to have a matatu transfer her to the burial ground.

Helen left behind two children. James reluctantly agreed to take in Deborah, the younger of the two. John, the older child, moved in with Mama, although diabetes was already slowing her down.

Less than a year after Helen passed away, my sister Dora followed, also a victim of AIDS. I cared for her until her condition worsened. Then I took her to the local referral hospital so she’d have better care. She died at the hospital. Her bill came to an exorbitant 17,000 shillings ($227 USD). James and I couldn’t pay it so the hospital kept her body at the morgue for two weeks. I knew I had to do something. In my culture, we respect our dead and we try everything possible to obtain proper burial for them. So, on a scorching Monday afternoon, I found myself back at the hospital begging the social worker in charge to allow me to take home my sister.

“I can’t pay the bill,” I said. “I buried another sister not too long ago. My mother is very ill and I fear she, too, will soon pass away. I’m taking care of all my sisters’ children and I have no money.”

The sympathetic social worker convinced the hospital to cancel the debt. I took my sister home and buried her near Helen. Pastor Moses gave her a Christian burial. Some of Dora’s five children went to stay with Mama. I took the rest home. A few months later, Mama passed away, and my faith came under fire. Since I was the children’s only surviving relative with a home, the responsibility for their care fell on me. James would have none of it.

“There are too many of them,” he argued. “We can’t feed the whole lot.”

“James, they have nowhere else to go,” I pleaded with him.

“The law requires that they get tested for HIV,” he replied. “Who’s gonna do

that?”

“I will. I’ll take care of everything.”

A few weeks later, we received the results. One of Dora’s children tested positive for HIV. Already at the brink of breaking, James snapped at this new twist in our lives.

“No way I’m taking her in!” he screamed. “She’ll infect our children.”

“I can’t turn her loose on the streets,” I said. “She’s only a child, James.”

His eyes turned deep red as if a brushfire blazed behind them. Pacing back and forth in our room, he turned to me finally and said, “Your family is cursed. That’s why everyone is dying. Your family is cursed!”

I felt as if he had impaled me with a machete.

 

***

 

Traditionally, if he could afford to care for them, a Kikuyu man could have more than one wife. He could also leave his wife and marry another woman without legal consequences. James could have walked away any time. But he decided to stay. He continued his work and I did the same. A couple of times a week, I took a five-hour trip to the rural areas to purchase sacks of onions from a farming community. I would catch a matatu and, in this 15-passenger van, the driver squeezed up to 20 people to make the most of the trip. A passenger with live chickens, a goat or produce paid extra to strap his load on the roof. For the trip, I paid 300 shillings. Because my sacks took up the back seats, I had to pay 1200 shillings ($17 USD) for the return trip.

Eldoret has an open market. It is packed with people every day. Women carry in heavy loads on their heads and backs. The matatu pulled up alongside the place and disgorged its cargo of sellers, livestock, and consumables. At the market, I rented a little space for myself and secured my produce in a shed at the end of the day. I sold from early morning to nighttime. On a good day, I profited 300 shillings, enough to feed our family. On my own, I managed to save about 30,000 shillings ($429 USD) from the business in a stringed purse. I also hid additional money in a can in case of an emergency.

James returned from work earlier than usual one day. He was in a good mood.

“Peris, I’ll make the trip for you today to buy your onions,” he offered.

“I have enough for the week,” I said.

“You’ll need more if you want to earn more to feed the children,” he insisted.

Thankful that James had finally warmed up to my nieces and nephews, I stepped into our room, retrieved my purse and brought it to him. “That is all I have,” I said, emptying the purse’s content into his outstretched hands. He rolled and crammed the banknotes into his jacket pocket without counting them. “I’ll get the onions,” he said as he turned to walk out. Then he paused. “How about meeting me at the butchery at seven and we’ll have supper together?”

“Supper? By ourselves?” I asked.

“Just come.”

Evening came. I fluffed out my hair, donned my Sunday best — a colored chaplet and a hand-knit wrapper — then hastened to the grill. I felt like a sprightly teenager on a first dance social. James awaited me at a chair behind a wooden table. Yellow light from a fluorescent lamp danced off his face and the clang of utensils mingled with the diners’ laughter sounded like music to my ears. But it was the enticing aroma of grilled onions and meat that swept me off my feet. In that moment, I forgot all about the burden of 12 children. I decided, tonight, I would enjoy the evening with my husband.

A smile illuminated James’ face as I slid onto a chair across from him.

“You look beautiful!” he said.

I returned his compliment with a girlish grin. No words passed between us as our waiter arranged a place setting for me, nodded obsequiously, then penciled our order on a paper napkin. Half an hour later, he returned with a tray of roasted chicken, goat meat and ugali, made with a maize mixture thickened in water.

“Enjoy your supper!” he said, after he had returned with our lemon water.

“James, can we afford this?” I leaned over whispering.

“Don’t worry,” he replied.

We ate mostly in silence. At one point, a mosquito settled on my husband’s arm and he slapped it. He dragged his fingers across his skin where the creature had landed then looked at me and very matter-of-factly said, “This is our last meal together.”

The food in my mouth turned sour. I swallowed and stared at him, transfixed, wondering if this was all a cruel joke. The wooden expression on his face removed my doubt.

“What do you mean, James?” I asked.

“I’m leaving,” he said. “I can’t take care of all those children.”

“James, please,” I said, choking back tears. “It is hard for you, I know, but we’ll manage.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “It is done.”

James’ kindness had all been an enemy’s caress. I returned home alone, the night unfurling around me like a thunderstorm. The trills of night creatures were distant death songs echoing in my ear. Back home, I didn’t have the strength to tell the children. I headed straight for our room because I knew the hurt on their faces would overwhelm me. James walked in an hour later to claim his suitcases. I heard him speak briefly to the children in the living area. “I told you all that I am not the Red Cross,” he said. “I can’t take care of all of you. That’s not what I do. So, I’m leaving.”

With those words, our marriage ended as easily as if James had drawn a curtain between us.

 

***

 

Alone.

Paralyzed by fear.

I had 12 children who depended on me for sustenance. One of them had HIV. How could I possibly provide for them? We had struggled even with James’ income. How could I carry everything with just mine? The next morning, I stared at the rafters, angry and bitter, wishing that I could fall asleep and fade away. Why me, God? I screamed inwardly. I’m a good person. I didn’t sell my body for money. I tried to live a good life to please you. Why is this happening to me?

I thought of the money I had stored in my hiding place. Over time, I had saved over 6,000 shillings ($86 USD). I had no idea why I kept it a secret from James. Perhaps the cynicism of the slum had made me distrustful. How long will the money sustain us? Pushing myself off my bed with one elbow, I sat up, crawled to my hiding place beneath the dresser, and dug furiously. I unearthed the can, pried it open with my soil-stained fingers and discovered, to my utter dismay, it had been broken into. Somehow, James had found my hiding place and helped himself to this money as well. Left at the bottom of the can was nine shillings (13 cents). Perhaps in a flash of guilt, he decided not to leave us impoverished. My body convulsed as a mountain of conflicting emotions fell on me. I thought I was going into shock. Even in this state of mind, I knew what I had to do. My decision was so appallingly clear that it sent a chill through my veins. Sweat collected at the small of my neck soaking my blouse, and I quickly cupped a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.

With the nine shillings that were left clasped in my palm, I stood and hastened out of the house, turning my face away from the children. I feared that if I saw their faces, I would lose my nerve. I raced to the nearest store, ignoring the greetings and curious glances of neighbors. At the front porch, I waited until all the customers left, then moved across the floor and plunked my money on the counter. The storekeeper, an elderly man with thick-rimmed glasses, regarded the coins with bemused curiosity, then glanced down at me, eyes squinted.

“Ma’am, are you well?” he asked.

A knot formed in my throat. “It’s all I have,” I managed to say. “Please, give me rat poison.”

He hesitated, studying my coins as though they were tainted with leprosy. Perhaps the quiver in my voice betrayed my intention, for he refused to accept my money. Instead, he unclasped my fingers, gathered up the coins and trickled them one at a time into my palm. Then he closed my dirt-stained fingers over them and said, “Ma’am, you don’t need rat poison, isn’t that right?”

“I do, please,” I pleaded with him. “The rats are destroying everything in my home.”

He heaved a sad sigh. Then very quietly, he stepped from the counter, crossed his spindly arms over a wrinkled shirt and looked at me with obvious empathy.

“I can’t sell you rat poison. I’m sorry.”

I returned home, despair a heavy blanket sopping up my breath. Had death the gall to take me, I would have gladly said yes. I spent another sleepless night in a room emptied of purpose. Misery never had a more miserable companion. Beyond the divider, 12 children cuddled on the dirt floor sharing a couple of patched-up blankets. I could hear their heavy breathing and snoring. I knew God held back my hand from serving them poison. But what sort of future had he saved them for? I had nothing left to give.

The next day passed without incident. The evening of the third day, after gathering the children around me for prayer, we shared a supper of porridge, carrots, and shriveled collards. Later, I sat down on our wooden sofa as they fell asleep. I felt peace as though God spoke to me. Peris, I know your pain. Don’t worry. I will provide for all your needs. I will take care of you and the children.

 

***

 

In a land riddled with disease and starvation, where fresh water and food are as precious as gold, I wondered how God could possibly provide for us. Desperation drove my mother and sisters to prostitution. Both my sisters paid with their lives. My oldest brother, diagnosed with HIV, drowned his sorrow in busaa (a local brew made of fermented maize) and changa (an alcoholic drink made with formaldehyde). Of my four other brothers, two went to jail for criminal acts and the other two were shot by police for criminal activities. Upon their release, the two who went to jail took to the streets, living on occasional handouts from strangers. With sheer determination, my youngest brother, Samuel, managed to avoid the streets. He attended high school and, in spite of the financial hardship, I helped him.

I concentrated all of my energy into the business, adding maize and other vegetables to my list of produce. With James’ income gone, much of my profit now went to feeding the children. I made sure that I had the essentials and staples for the whole week — oil for cooking, maize flour, carrots and cabbages for vitamins, lentil beans for protein and milk. Because we lived in a city slum, we couldn’t grow our own vegetables. When my budget allowed it, I bought sweet potatoes. For breakfast, we ate porridge, a fermented maize flour mix boiled in a bit of water for a thick consistency.

Slums are despicable no matter where they are.

In ours, malaria and AIDS pose a constant threat. God forbid that one of the children got either one because the rest wouldn’t have food in light of the medical bills. I worried also about their school. Putting money aside for education meant I had to cut corners elsewhere. Kenya offered both private and public schools. Private schools far surpassed public ones in the quality of education but only the rich could afford them. Public schools, though technically free, still required parents to pay testing and other fees, a fact that caused me further consternation.

When my daughter, Tina, started high school, the cost of her education soared. I rejoiced to see her excel in school even under trying circumstances. It meant that there was a chance, albeit a slim one, that she would make it out of the slum. At the same time, I worried that I wouldn’t have enough money to keep my business afloat and feed the rest of the children. The moment I put more money in Tina’s education, I took food from the mouths of the rest of the children. My heart sank every time I juggled the money to accommodate Tina’s school. I counted all my nieces and nephews as my own and no less deserving than my daughter.

 

***

 

The years 1994 to 1996 marked the most trying of my life.

In Eldoret, you survive by anticipating trouble at all times. However, in December 2007, the unexpected happened. Our president, Mwai Kibaki, came under attack when supporters of opposition leader, Raila Odinga, accused him and his people of rigging the presidential election. Protests turned into riots and quickly pitted one tribe against the other. The political face-off fueled hatred, and the resulting tribal clashes killed an estimated 1,200 people. Some 350,000 men, women, and children were evicted from their homes. I remembered the evening when the violence spread into the slum. Fire lit up a darkening sky. Wailing and screaming broke the stillness as the children and I prepared for supper. At a neighbor’s house, a hurricane lantern burst into a flare, followed by another and yet another down the row of mud houses until the surrounding area was marked by splotches of lit cotton wicks.

Instinctively, I knew that we were in danger. Our tribe, the Kikuyu, had supported President Kibaki. The rest of the tribes including the Luhya, Luo, and Kalenjin banded against the Kikuyu. They believed that we had been given more privileges under Kibaki and were plotting a take-over of the country.

I rose with a tremor and stepped out of the house. The torching of Kikuyu homes had already begun. Until that night, we had lived peacefully with other tribes. But the crisis had awakened the demons. Neighbors exhumed old feuds and now used them to vent their anger on the same people with whom they shared the neighborhood. Down the field, people dashed out of burning huts, some with clothes aflame. A few brave Kikuyu men braced themselves outside their homes with machetes. They determined to defend themselves and protect their property.

My legs wobbled as I watched the horror playing out before my eyes.

“Kids, get out!” I screamed. “We have to go now!”

I had no time to grab any of our clothes and blankets or look for my sandals or the children’s rubber shoes. Our supper remained uneaten on the floor. We simply abandoned everything and fled. Barefoot, I carried 4-year-old Kevin across my shoulder with the rest of the children in tow. We barely crossed the field to the main road when I heard Tina cry, “Mama, they’re burning our home! They’re burning our home!” I dared to look, then heard another voice nearby hollering: “Kituo cha polisi! The police station! Head for the police station!”

Like scattered sheep, we followed blindly. As we sprinted down the street, more people joined the melee, pushing and shoving to get ahead. Along the road and in the ditches and gullies, dismembered or headless bodies splayed out in grotesque positions. Wetness crept up between my toes, and I imagined myself treading on some neighbor’s blood. The dusk spared me from the horrifying truth. As I ran, I urged the children onward, screaming out their names above the din when they momentarily vanished in the mayhem. In the rushing madness, fleeing people bumped and crashed into each other. Petrified, furious, my heart pounding against my chest like a tortured drum, I cursed and ranted at the unjustness of it all.

“Oh, God,why? Why?!”

Occasionally, I half-stumbled on someone’s body. But I kept pushing, jostling my way through the stampeding crowd, a terrified Kevin pressed to my bosom. Fearing that I might lose one of the other children, I cried out their names over and over and over again.

 

***

 

We made it safely to the police station.

For a while, we found reprieve in the security of strangers. But our flight was far from over. Forced from our homes, we had become completely destitute. Bands of policemen escorted us to the Internally Displaced People’s camp at the Eldoret Showground, a large open field where they held agricultural fairs. From the Red Cross, each family received two blankets and a tent barely large enough for two. Between the children and me, we shared the blankets. For bedding, we used gunny sacks. We spread the plastic on the ground and, for the duration of our stay there, we pressed up against each other for additional warmth when we slept.

We ate maize and beans from a pan and slept on the ground. About 6,000 displaced people found a haven here. Some who couldn’t cope with the cramped living situation sought shelter at neighboring churches. Policemen and soldiers from the General Service Unit of the Army came to our aid. Their presence failed to dispel our fear. Even with their rifles, I felt no safer than when we were forced to flee. Having witnessed the monstrosity of our neighbors’ rage, I knew we could never be safe. We lived under a cloud of trepidation daily and the few scattered posts and narrow moat that partly circumscribed the ocean of white tents seemed like someone’s sick idea of security.

With the political fallout, my business ground to a stop. Pushed into a quandary, I counted on the kind-heartedness of the Red Cross and local non-government organizations (charities) for survival. I comforted myself and the children with the words of the psalmist: “My slanderers hound me constantly, and many are boldly attacking me. But when I am afraid, I put my trust in you. O God, I praise your word. I trust in God, so why should I be afraid? What can mere mortals do to me?” (Psalm 56:2-4, New Living Translation).

The Eldoret Showground was supposed to provide only temporary shelter for us refugees. Because many of us lost our homes in the invasion, we had nowhere to go. In spite of the charity and bravery of strangers, living conditions in the camp deteriorated.

Then, February of the following year, the rain started. The cold nights numbed our toes and limbs and drove us near crazy with misery. I feared that in the downpour, the children might get sick or catch pneumonia. Thousands of other children fared worse. Some nights, rivulets of water seeped into their tents and literally swept away the children. Sleep eluded us most of the nights. Knowing that our neighbors faced the same dilemma and couldn’t help, we simply cuddled beneath our clammy blankets and waited out the rain. In the mornings, we emerged chilled to the bone and slowly patched the rips and tears in the tent with polythene papers and gunny bags. All the time, our benefactors did all they could and shared with us whatever food and warm clothing they had. They also erected tents and furnished them with benches and desks where the children could learn.

After the post-election crisis, many families returned to their homes despite the lingering violence. With the assistance of Christian charity agencies, they managed to rebuild and start anew. We couldn’t leave. The Kalenjin tribe possessed our lands and would not let us return. They told us to go back to central Kenya, the ancestral home of the Kikuyu.

When it looked as if things couldn’t get worse, they did. But God intervened — this time, in the volunteers of a Christian organization called Open Arms International. Open Arms is a charity agency founded by American couple, David and Rachel Gallagher. An ordained pastor, David labored in ministry much of his adult life. His wife, Rachel, a professional nurse, worked alongside him. God led this wonderful husband-and-wife team to help the poor and homeless in Kenya. They did so with medical outreaches, food banks and sponsorships. God also led them to build an orphanage to provide medical care and food for children. During the post-election crisis, Open Arms did everything it could to feed and provide medicine for many of our people. They purchased rice and vegetables to feed them.

It was at the Eldoret Showground Camp that I met Open Arms representative, Nancy. And for the first time, I witnessed the reality of God’s transforming power. Nancy, organizer of the food program, was of the Luhya tribe. Through a crack in our tent, I saw her and her Luo friend, Florine, walk from tent to tent to check up on the families and assess each one’s needs. By our people’s account, they were enemies. My initial thought of the two women was: God, these are the people who burned my home and robbed me of everything. I hate them!

Intuitively, I turned my face away as they approached, hoping that they would pass by. They didn’t. Instead, they parted the entryway to our tent and peered in, their faces radiating genuine concern that I would normally not ascribe to a member of the Luhya or Luo tribe. Setting me at ease with broad smiles, they asked if there was anything they could do. I stared at them. Undeterred by my behavior, the two shared their love for and faith in Jesus and what he had done in their lives. Slowly, I felt my animosity slipping. I sensed in the two women real love. They, too, had experienced hard times so they understood my pain. For me, that was a reflection of the Open Arms founders who hired them. Who better to be a counselor and comforter than one who had walked through the same fire that I had?

“You’re so young,” Nancy said. “And you have all these children?”

“Five of them are mine,” I replied, warming up to them. “My two sisters died. So I took in their children as well.”

“But you’re so young,” Florine repeated Nancy’s observation. “How can you possibly take care of all of them?”

“I can’t ,” I said. “Jesus, though — the same man you so obviously love — can.”

They were silent for a while. Then, Nancy, her eyes glistening with tears, asked, “Peris, may I take photos of you and the children? I’ll be honored if I can share them with Open Arms and see how they can help.”

A few days later, Adam, a director at Open Arms, visited us personally to see about our needs. He was of the Luo tribe. I saw Adam, Nancy, and Florine as reaffirmations of God’s faithfulness in his promise to provide. What I hadn’t prepared for was that he would send former enemies to fulfill his provision. Israel’s King David sang: “For you have delivered me from death and my feet from stumbling, that I may walk before God in the light of life” (Psalm 56:13). David’s words expressed my jubilation better than any Kikuyu folksong or poetry.

“Would you like for us to rebuild your home?” Adam asked.

“Yes, I would like that very much,” I replied.

The land my home once stood on belonged to my mother. Tradition dictated that family land passed from father to son. Though homeless, my brother gave me permission to rebuild and a few days later, Open Arms delivered on a promise. Volunteers made for us a beautiful two-bedroom house. As if I wasn’t already overwhelmed by Open Arms’ show of kindness, my Kalenjin neighbors came of their own volition to help. God’s grace had obliterated all boundaries. Open Arms reduced the burden of caring for the children by accepting into the orphanage my sister Helen’s two children — Samuel and Deborah.

 

***

 

Many single Kenyan women experience extraordinary hardships. Their stories, written in crushed spirits, countless tears and scars are no different than mine. Many give up because they lose hope. They commit suicide. They consume alcohol and take drugs to numb their pain. And they sell their bodies to survive. I suppose my story is unique because I persevered under God’s grace. To see myself move from despair to a life of hope is testimony to a God who is always there. He shows up in Christian organizations like Open Arms and people like David and Rachel and their volunteers. It’s one thing to mock Christianity and insist that there is no God. It is another to try and explain evil in the world based on such a belief and at the same time understand why countless Christians voluntarily leave their lives of comfort and security to reach out to the many who endure unbelievable pain and suffering.

My family name, Njeri, means “roaming about.” My experience taught me that only God provides real stability. I admit that there are times that I still feel like running. The slum has conditioned me to believe that we will once again be uprooted and forced to flee. The familiar African proverb, “When elephants wrestle, the grass suffers,” speaks to the political tumult in Eldoret. Powerful men wrestle for control, but the poor get trampled. They are the ones battling for life and getting killed by the thousands. They suffer unspeakable physical and financial hardship. Their blood feeds unpaved roads and “killing fields” everywhere.

Two years after the post-election crisis, tribal tensions still remain. When these tensions break out, my children ask: “Mama, what tribe are we from? Will we ever have to flee again?”

Month after month, one hears of an uprising or riot. Like many single mothers, I do not have the strength to move should another December 2007 break out again. But as Pastor Moses reminded me: “Peris, God takes you from the pit and sets you on solid ground.”

I know that God is faithful. He helped us in a way that I would never have imagined. Instead of removing adversities, he gave me a gift to endure them. He gave me wisdom to run a business and provide for my children. And he looked out for me through caring Christian organizations like Open Arms.

I’m healthy.

I’m beautiful.

I’m special.

And I attribute all that to a wonderful God who cares. With him living in me, what can mere mortals do to me?

Process tab

They’re called Twilight Girls. In the Kenyan city of Eldoret, they are indistinguishable from other young girls. They draw water from the family ground well with infants strapped to their backs. They squat over small, open-flame stoves to warm a pan of githeri (maize and beans) or mukimo (mashed green peas and potatoes). They wash soiled laundry in basins filled with water the color of sand and hang them out on clotheslines to dry.

Then at night, they sell their bodies to strangers for a few shillings to feed their families. In this HIV-infested environment, many take no safety precautions, exposing themselves to a disease that has claimed tens of thousands of lives. Men who prey on them ruthlessly exploit or harm them. They walk around with concealed welts and bruises. In the slums, neighbors spurn and subject them to all sorts of indignities and virulent name-calling. Yet, they know no other way out of their lot. So they continue to offer their tortured bodies to strange men until they contract AIDS — or until a children’s charity intervenes and rescues them.

 

***

 

My sisters, Helen Wanjiki and Dora Wamboi, were twilight girls, although I was not.

Mama wasn’t a twilight girl, although later as an adult she, too, entertained strangers to make money. My father left our family when I turned 4. To support us, Mama traveled to Uganda to purchase plantains (bananas), then returned to Eldoret and sold them at the market. Our tribe’s ability to eke livelihoods off the land had always been its gift. The Kikuyu, according to many, came from west Africa. My ancestors, who settled Mt. Kenya, were resourceful agriculturalists. They farmed the fertile volcanic soils and intermarried with other tribes.

Decades later, the British arrived and gradually spread across the region, claiming the best lands for themselves and reaping the bounties. Our people lost much of their prized possessions to the new landowners. But our tribe never lost its gift. Throughout the years, foreign reaping intensified, and families by the scores lost even the plots handed down to them from their ancestors. Generations later, many relocated to the slums and became entrepreneurs. Mama numbered among them.

The money Mama made from selling plantains hardly met our needs, so she found a way to supplement her income. Men came to our home at odd hours of the night — different men at different times. They visited with Mama. And when they left, she had money to pay for our keep.

Mama’s practice exacted a heavy toll. Neighbors scorned her. Women in the slum feared that she would seduce and steal their husbands. Others called her “whore” or hurled malicious epithets in her face whenever she walked by. Mama endured the hostility and humiliation because she saw no other way to care for us. And in an overcrowded slum like Langas, just outside of downtown Eldoret, it wasn’t easy.

Langas is about four square kilometers in size and home to thousands of people who cannot afford to live elsewhere. In this Kenyan community, nothing is sacred. People mingle and thrive on the latest gossip. The slum is a relatively small place with colossal problems. Specialty shops and hotels line the main road. After a downpour, matatus (public transports), motorbike taxis and other vehicles cut deep gullies into the unpaved road, deepening the potholes. Ditches flanking the main road expel their putrid odor of decaying garbage, turbid puddles and urine into the air.

Despite the slum’s appalling condition, vendors set up makeshift kiosks along the main road and intervening streets and spread their tarps on the ground to display their produce and merchandise: used clothing, empty yellow containers (formerly cooking oil vessels repackaged as fluid receptacles), second-hand shoes, coal, and any number of consumables. Vehicles navigate congested streets deliberately to avoid hitting pedestrians. Sheep, goats, and chickens crisscross the streets freely and sometimes, without warning, they jet out in front of moving vehicles.

Set back from the kiosks are rows of mud houses — home to both families and businesses. Folks sit with languid expressions outside these wood-framed structures to peddle knickknacks and wares. Young women braid each other’s hair. Older ones swat at flies and gnats as they wait on customers. Not uncommonly, one detects in the air a perplexity of smells — raw sewage, burning coal, and animal dung. The local folks, seemingly accustomed to the stench, go on with their lives.

In many homes, children suffer all sorts of abuses. To escape the cruelty, they run away and end up on the streets. People treat them no differently than stray animals and many become victims of local “mob justice.”

 

***

 

Slums are the same no matter where they exist

In such a place, I was born. My parents might not have known the kind of life that I would lead but our family name would have been a good place to start. In the Kenyan language, Njeri means “roaming about.”

I saw what slum life did to my sisters and mother. I believe my Christian faith saved me from following them. Yet even with my faith, I struggled occasionally with tribal beliefs. Christianity in Kenya is a smorgasbord of Christian teachings and tribal magic and rituals. Many still consult witch doctors. Even as they practice ancestral beliefs, they claim to be followers of Christ.

I was fortunate that my earliest spiritual experience was with the Redeemed Gospel Church of Eldoret. Pastor Moses influenced my youth. A man of little means with a huge heart, he always had time to listen. Very carefully, he would lead me through a Bible passage then give practical advice to whatever problem I faced. His wife was a living example of Christianity. Kind and gentle-spirited, she fed us out of their poverty. Jesus became real for me because of her charitable spirit. Admittedly, there were occasions when doubt moved me to consult a witch doctor. At those times, God would send a detour right back to Pastor Moses’ doorstep.

Christianity wasn’t a leap of faith for me. At 13, I gave my life to Jesus. Several years later, I met and married my husband, James. He worked hard at a logging company and ran a small lumber business on the side. I managed a business as well. I bought onions wholesale and resold them at the local marketplace for a modest profit.

For a while, life was good. James and I had five children. We couldn’t have been happier. Then tragedy struck. My older sister, Helen, contracted AIDS and died. With the help of neighbors, I bathed and smeared a salt-like preservative on her body. Because we couldn’t afford a coffin, we gathered pieces of wood from around our home and built one for her. Her burial plot cost 700 shillings (about $10 U.S. dollars). James and I put up money we couldn’t spare. We also paid an additional 1,000 shillings ($14 USD) to have a matatu transfer her to the burial ground.

Helen left behind two children. James reluctantly agreed to take in Deborah, the younger of the two. John, the older child, moved in with Mama, although diabetes was already slowing her down.

Less than a year after Helen passed away, my sister Dora followed, also a victim of AIDS. I cared for her until her condition worsened. Then I took her to the local referral hospital so she’d have better care. She died at the hospital. Her bill came to an exorbitant 17,000 shillings ($227 USD). James and I couldn’t pay it so the hospital kept her body at the morgue for two weeks. I knew I had to do something. In my culture, we respect our dead and we try everything possible to obtain proper burial for them. So, on a scorching Monday afternoon, I found myself back at the hospital begging the social worker in charge to allow me to take home my sister.

“I can’t pay the bill,” I said. “I buried another sister not too long ago. My mother is very ill and I fear she, too, will soon pass away. I’m taking care of all my sisters’ children and I have no money.”

The sympathetic social worker convinced the hospital to cancel the debt. I took my sister home and buried her near Helen. Pastor Moses gave her a Christian burial. Some of Dora’s five children went to stay with Mama. I took the rest home. A few months later, Mama passed away, and my faith came under fire. Since I was the children’s only surviving relative with a home, the responsibility for their care fell on me. James would have none of it.

“There are too many of them,” he argued. “We can’t feed the whole lot.”

“James, they have nowhere else to go,” I pleaded with him.

“The law requires that they get tested for HIV,” he replied. “Who’s gonna do

that?”

“I will. I’ll take care of everything.”

A few weeks later, we received the results. One of Dora’s children tested positive for HIV. Already at the brink of breaking, James snapped at this new twist in our lives.

“No way I’m taking her in!” he screamed. “She’ll infect our children.”

“I can’t turn her loose on the streets,” I said. “She’s only a child, James.”

His eyes turned deep red as if a brushfire blazed behind them. Pacing back and forth in our room, he turned to me finally and said, “Your family is cursed. That’s why everyone is dying. Your family is cursed!”

I felt as if he had impaled me with a machete.

 

***

 

Traditionally, if he could afford to care for them, a Kikuyu man could have more than one wife. He could also leave his wife and marry another woman without legal consequences. James could have walked away any time. But he decided to stay. He continued his work and I did the same. A couple of times a week, I took a five-hour trip to the rural areas to purchase sacks of onions from a farming community. I would catch a matatu and, in this 15-passenger van, the driver squeezed up to 20 people to make the most of the trip. A passenger with live chickens, a goat or produce paid extra to strap his load on the roof. For the trip, I paid 300 shillings. Because my sacks took up the back seats, I had to pay 1200 shillings ($17 USD) for the return trip.

Eldoret has an open market. It is packed with people every day. Women carry in heavy loads on their heads and backs. The matatu pulled up alongside the place and disgorged its cargo of sellers, livestock, and consumables. At the market, I rented a little space for myself and secured my produce in a shed at the end of the day. I sold from early morning to nighttime. On a good day, I profited 300 shillings, enough to feed our family. On my own, I managed to save about 30,000 shillings ($429 USD) from the business in a stringed purse. I also hid additional money in a can in case of an emergency.

James returned from work earlier than usual one day. He was in a good mood.

“Peris, I’ll make the trip for you today to buy your onions,” he offered.

“I have enough for the week,” I said.

“You’ll need more if you want to earn more to feed the children,” he insisted.

Thankful that James had finally warmed up to my nieces and nephews, I stepped into our room, retrieved my purse and brought it to him. “That is all I have,” I said, emptying the purse’s content into his outstretched hands. He rolled and crammed the banknotes into his jacket pocket without counting them. “I’ll get the onions,” he said as he turned to walk out. Then he paused. “How about meeting me at the butchery at seven and we’ll have supper together?”

“Supper? By ourselves?” I asked.

“Just come.”

Evening came. I fluffed out my hair, donned my Sunday best — a colored chaplet and a hand-knit wrapper — then hastened to the grill. I felt like a sprightly teenager on a first dance social. James awaited me at a chair behind a wooden table. Yellow light from a fluorescent lamp danced off his face and the clang of utensils mingled with the diners’ laughter sounded like music to my ears. But it was the enticing aroma of grilled onions and meat that swept me off my feet. In that moment, I forgot all about the burden of 12 children. I decided, tonight, I would enjoy the evening with my husband.

A smile illuminated James’ face as I slid onto a chair across from him.

“You look beautiful!” he said.

I returned his compliment with a girlish grin. No words passed between us as our waiter arranged a place setting for me, nodded obsequiously, then penciled our order on a paper napkin. Half an hour later, he returned with a tray of roasted chicken, goat meat and ugali, made with a maize mixture thickened in water.

“Enjoy your supper!” he said, after he had returned with our lemon water.

“James, can we afford this?” I leaned over whispering.

“Don’t worry,” he replied.

We ate mostly in silence. At one point, a mosquito settled on my husband’s arm and he slapped it. He dragged his fingers across his skin where the creature had landed then looked at me and very matter-of-factly said, “This is our last meal together.”

The food in my mouth turned sour. I swallowed and stared at him, transfixed, wondering if this was all a cruel joke. The wooden expression on his face removed my doubt.

“What do you mean, James?” I asked.

“I’m leaving,” he said. “I can’t take care of all those children.”

“James, please,” I said, choking back tears. “It is hard for you, I know, but we’ll manage.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “It is done.”

James’ kindness had all been an enemy’s caress. I returned home alone, the night unfurling around me like a thunderstorm. The trills of night creatures were distant death songs echoing in my ear. Back home, I didn’t have the strength to tell the children. I headed straight for our room because I knew the hurt on their faces would overwhelm me. James walked in an hour later to claim his suitcases. I heard him speak briefly to the children in the living area. “I told you all that I am not the Red Cross,” he said. “I can’t take care of all of you. That’s not what I do. So, I’m leaving.”

With those words, our marriage ended as easily as if James had drawn a curtain between us.

 

***

 

Alone.

Paralyzed by fear.

I had 12 children who depended on me for sustenance. One of them had HIV. How could I possibly provide for them? We had struggled even with James’ income. How could I carry everything with just mine? The next morning, I stared at the rafters, angry and bitter, wishing that I could fall asleep and fade away. Why me, God? I screamed inwardly. I’m a good person. I didn’t sell my body for money. I tried to live a good life to please you. Why is this happening to me?

I thought of the money I had stored in my hiding place. Over time, I had saved over 6,000 shillings ($86 USD). I had no idea why I kept it a secret from James. Perhaps the cynicism of the slum had made me distrustful. How long will the money sustain us? Pushing myself off my bed with one elbow, I sat up, crawled to my hiding place beneath the dresser, and dug furiously. I unearthed the can, pried it open with my soil-stained fingers and discovered, to my utter dismay, it had been broken into. Somehow, James had found my hiding place and helped himself to this money as well. Left at the bottom of the can was nine shillings (13 cents). Perhaps in a flash of guilt, he decided not to leave us impoverished. My body convulsed as a mountain of conflicting emotions fell on me. I thought I was going into shock. Even in this state of mind, I knew what I had to do. My decision was so appallingly clear that it sent a chill through my veins. Sweat collected at the small of my neck soaking my blouse, and I quickly cupped a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.

With the nine shillings that were left clasped in my palm, I stood and hastened out of the house, turning my face away from the children. I feared that if I saw their faces, I would lose my nerve. I raced to the nearest store, ignoring the greetings and curious glances of neighbors. At the front porch, I waited until all the customers left, then moved across the floor and plunked my money on the counter. The storekeeper, an elderly man with thick-rimmed glasses, regarded the coins with bemused curiosity, then glanced down at me, eyes squinted.

“Ma’am, are you well?” he asked.

A knot formed in my throat. “It’s all I have,” I managed to say. “Please, give me rat poison.”

He hesitated, studying my coins as though they were tainted with leprosy. Perhaps the quiver in my voice betrayed my intention, for he refused to accept my money. Instead, he unclasped my fingers, gathered up the coins and trickled them one at a time into my palm. Then he closed my dirt-stained fingers over them and said, “Ma’am, you don’t need rat poison, isn’t that right?”

“I do, please,” I pleaded with him. “The rats are destroying everything in my home.”

He heaved a sad sigh. Then very quietly, he stepped from the counter, crossed his spindly arms over a wrinkled shirt and looked at me with obvious empathy.

“I can’t sell you rat poison. I’m sorry.”

I returned home, despair a heavy blanket sopping up my breath. Had death the gall to take me, I would have gladly said yes. I spent another sleepless night in a room emptied of purpose. Misery never had a more miserable companion. Beyond the divider, 12 children cuddled on the dirt floor sharing a couple of patched-up blankets. I could hear their heavy breathing and snoring. I knew God held back my hand from serving them poison. But what sort of future had he saved them for? I had nothing left to give.

The next day passed without incident. The evening of the third day, after gathering the children around me for prayer, we shared a supper of porridge, carrots, and shriveled collards. Later, I sat down on our wooden sofa as they fell asleep. I felt peace as though God spoke to me. Peris, I know your pain. Don’t worry. I will provide for all your needs. I will take care of you and the children.

 

***

 

In a land riddled with disease and starvation, where fresh water and food are as precious as gold, I wondered how God could possibly provide for us. Desperation drove my mother and sisters to prostitution. Both my sisters paid with their lives. My oldest brother, diagnosed with HIV, drowned his sorrow in busaa (a local brew made of fermented maize) and changa (an alcoholic drink made with formaldehyde). Of my four other brothers, two went to jail for criminal acts and the other two were shot by police for criminal activities. Upon their release, the two who went to jail took to the streets, living on occasional handouts from strangers. With sheer determination, my youngest brother, Samuel, managed to avoid the streets. He attended high school and, in spite of the financial hardship, I helped him.

I concentrated all of my energy into the business, adding maize and other vegetables to my list of produce. With James’ income gone, much of my profit now went to feeding the children. I made sure that I had the essentials and staples for the whole week — oil for cooking, maize flour, carrots and cabbages for vitamins, lentil beans for protein and milk. Because we lived in a city slum, we couldn’t grow our own vegetables. When my budget allowed it, I bought sweet potatoes. For breakfast, we ate porridge, a fermented maize flour mix boiled in a bit of water for a thick consistency.

Slums are despicable no matter where they are.

In ours, malaria and AIDS pose a constant threat. God forbid that one of the children got either one because the rest wouldn’t have food in light of the medical bills. I worried also about their school. Putting money aside for education meant I had to cut corners elsewhere. Kenya offered both private and public schools. Private schools far surpassed public ones in the quality of education but only the rich could afford them. Public schools, though technically free, still required parents to pay testing and other fees, a fact that caused me further consternation.

When my daughter, Tina, started high school, the cost of her education soared. I rejoiced to see her excel in school even under trying circumstances. It meant that there was a chance, albeit a slim one, that she would make it out of the slum. At the same time, I worried that I wouldn’t have enough money to keep my business afloat and feed the rest of the children. The moment I put more money in Tina’s education, I took food from the mouths of the rest of the children. My heart sank every time I juggled the money to accommodate Tina’s school. I counted all my nieces and nephews as my own and no less deserving than my daughter.

 

***

 

The years 1994 to 1996 marked the most trying of my life.

In Eldoret, you survive by anticipating trouble at all times. However, in December 2007, the unexpected happened. Our president, Mwai Kibaki, came under attack when supporters of opposition leader, Raila Odinga, accused him and his people of rigging the presidential election. Protests turned into riots and quickly pitted one tribe against the other. The political face-off fueled hatred, and the resulting tribal clashes killed an estimated 1,200 people. Some 350,000 men, women, and children were evicted from their homes. I remembered the evening when the violence spread into the slum. Fire lit up a darkening sky. Wailing and screaming broke the stillness as the children and I prepared for supper. At a neighbor’s house, a hurricane lantern burst into a flare, followed by another and yet another down the row of mud houses until the surrounding area was marked by splotches of lit cotton wicks.

Instinctively, I knew that we were in danger. Our tribe, the Kikuyu, had supported President Kibaki. The rest of the tribes including the Luhya, Luo, and Kalenjin banded against the Kikuyu. They believed that we had been given more privileges under Kibaki and were plotting a take-over of the country.

I rose with a tremor and stepped out of the house. The torching of Kikuyu homes had already begun. Until that night, we had lived peacefully with other tribes. But the crisis had awakened the demons. Neighbors exhumed old feuds and now used them to vent their anger on the same people with whom they shared the neighborhood. Down the field, people dashed out of burning huts, some with clothes aflame. A few brave Kikuyu men braced themselves outside their homes with machetes. They determined to defend themselves and protect their property.

My legs wobbled as I watched the horror playing out before my eyes.

“Kids, get out!” I screamed. “We have to go now!”

I had no time to grab any of our clothes and blankets or look for my sandals or the children’s rubber shoes. Our supper remained uneaten on the floor. We simply abandoned everything and fled. Barefoot, I carried 4-year-old Kevin across my shoulder with the rest of the children in tow. We barely crossed the field to the main road when I heard Tina cry, “Mama, they’re burning our home! They’re burning our home!” I dared to look, then heard another voice nearby hollering: “Kituo cha polisi! The police station! Head for the police station!”

Like scattered sheep, we followed blindly. As we sprinted down the street, more people joined the melee, pushing and shoving to get ahead. Along the road and in the ditches and gullies, dismembered or headless bodies splayed out in grotesque positions. Wetness crept up between my toes, and I imagined myself treading on some neighbor’s blood. The dusk spared me from the horrifying truth. As I ran, I urged the children onward, screaming out their names above the din when they momentarily vanished in the mayhem. In the rushing madness, fleeing people bumped and crashed into each other. Petrified, furious, my heart pounding against my chest like a tortured drum, I cursed and ranted at the unjustness of it all.

“Oh, God,why? Why?!”

Occasionally, I half-stumbled on someone’s body. But I kept pushing, jostling my way through the stampeding crowd, a terrified Kevin pressed to my bosom. Fearing that I might lose one of the other children, I cried out their names over and over and over again.

 

***

 

We made it safely to the police station.

For a while, we found reprieve in the security of strangers. But our flight was far from over. Forced from our homes, we had become completely destitute. Bands of policemen escorted us to the Internally Displaced People’s camp at the Eldoret Showground, a large open field where they held agricultural fairs. From the Red Cross, each family received two blankets and a tent barely large enough for two. Between the children and me, we shared the blankets. For bedding, we used gunny sacks. We spread the plastic on the ground and, for the duration of our stay there, we pressed up against each other for additional warmth when we slept.

We ate maize and beans from a pan and slept on the ground. About 6,000 displaced people found a haven here. Some who couldn’t cope with the cramped living situation sought shelter at neighboring churches. Policemen and soldiers from the General Service Unit of the Army came to our aid. Their presence failed to dispel our fear. Even with their rifles, I felt no safer than when we were forced to flee. Having witnessed the monstrosity of our neighbors’ rage, I knew we could never be safe. We lived under a cloud of trepidation daily and the few scattered posts and narrow moat that partly circumscribed the ocean of white tents seemed like someone’s sick idea of security.

With the political fallout, my business ground to a stop. Pushed into a quandary, I counted on the kind-heartedness of the Red Cross and local non-government organizations (charities) for survival. I comforted myself and the children with the words of the psalmist: “My slanderers hound me constantly, and many are boldly attacking me. But when I am afraid, I put my trust in you. O God, I praise your word. I trust in God, so why should I be afraid? What can mere mortals do to me?” (Psalm 56:2-4, New Living Translation).

The Eldoret Showground was supposed to provide only temporary shelter for us refugees. Because many of us lost our homes in the invasion, we had nowhere to go. In spite of the charity and bravery of strangers, living conditions in the camp deteriorated.

Then, February of the following year, the rain started. The cold nights numbed our toes and limbs and drove us near crazy with misery. I feared that in the downpour, the children might get sick or catch pneumonia. Thousands of other children fared worse. Some nights, rivulets of water seeped into their tents and literally swept away the children. Sleep eluded us most of the nights. Knowing that our neighbors faced the same dilemma and couldn’t help, we simply cuddled beneath our clammy blankets and waited out the rain. In the mornings, we emerged chilled to the bone and slowly patched the rips and tears in the tent with polythene papers and gunny bags. All the time, our benefactors did all they could and shared with us whatever food and warm clothing they had. They also erected tents and furnished them with benches and desks where the children could learn.

After the post-election crisis, many families returned to their homes despite the lingering violence. With the assistance of Christian charity agencies, they managed to rebuild and start anew. We couldn’t leave. The Kalenjin tribe possessed our lands and would not let us return. They told us to go back to central Kenya, the ancestral home of the Kikuyu.

When it looked as if things couldn’t get worse, they did. But God intervened — this time, in the volunteers of a Christian organization called Open Arms International. Open Arms is a charity agency founded by American couple, David and Rachel Gallagher. An ordained pastor, David labored in ministry much of his adult life. His wife, Rachel, a professional nurse, worked alongside him. God led this wonderful husband-and-wife team to help the poor and homeless in Kenya. They did so with medical outreaches, food banks and sponsorships. God also led them to build an orphanage to provide medical care and food for children. During the post-election crisis, Open Arms did everything it could to feed and provide medicine for many of our people. They purchased rice and vegetables to feed them.

It was at the Eldoret Showground Camp that I met Open Arms representative, Nancy. And for the first time, I witnessed the reality of God’s transforming power. Nancy, organizer of the food program, was of the Luhya tribe. Through a crack in our tent, I saw her and her Luo friend, Florine, walk from tent to tent to check up on the families and assess each one’s needs. By our people’s account, they were enemies. My initial thought of the two women was: God, these are the people who burned my home and robbed me of everything. I hate them!

Intuitively, I turned my face away as they approached, hoping that they would pass by. They didn’t. Instead, they parted the entryway to our tent and peered in, their faces radiating genuine concern that I would normally not ascribe to a member of the Luhya or Luo tribe. Setting me at ease with broad smiles, they asked if there was anything they could do. I stared at them. Undeterred by my behavior, the two shared their love for and faith in Jesus and what he had done in their lives. Slowly, I felt my animosity slipping. I sensed in the two women real love. They, too, had experienced hard times so they understood my pain. For me, that was a reflection of the Open Arms founders who hired them. Who better to be a counselor and comforter than one who had walked through the same fire that I had?

“You’re so young,” Nancy said. “And you have all these children?”

“Five of them are mine,” I replied, warming up to them. “My two sisters died. So I took in their children as well.”

“But you’re so young,” Florine repeated Nancy’s observation. “How can you possibly take care of all of them?”

“I can’t ,” I said. “Jesus, though — the same man you so obviously love — can.”

They were silent for a while. Then, Nancy, her eyes glistening with tears, asked, “Peris, may I take photos of you and the children? I’ll be honored if I can share them with Open Arms and see how they can help.”

A few days later, Adam, a director at Open Arms, visited us personally to see about our needs. He was of the Luo tribe. I saw Adam, Nancy, and Florine as reaffirmations of God’s faithfulness in his promise to provide. What I hadn’t prepared for was that he would send former enemies to fulfill his provision. Israel’s King David sang: “For you have delivered me from death and my feet from stumbling, that I may walk before God in the light of life” (Psalm 56:13). David’s words expressed my jubilation better than any Kikuyu folksong or poetry.

“Would you like for us to rebuild your home?” Adam asked.

“Yes, I would like that very much,” I replied.

The land my home once stood on belonged to my mother. Tradition dictated that family land passed from father to son. Though homeless, my brother gave me permission to rebuild and a few days later, Open Arms delivered on a promise. Volunteers made for us a beautiful two-bedroom house. As if I wasn’t already overwhelmed by Open Arms’ show of kindness, my Kalenjin neighbors came of their own volition to help. God’s grace had obliterated all boundaries. Open Arms reduced the burden of caring for the children by accepting into the orphanage my sister Helen’s two children — Samuel and Deborah.

 

***

 

Many single Kenyan women experience extraordinary hardships. Their stories, written in crushed spirits, countless tears and scars are no different than mine. Many give up because they lose hope. They commit suicide. They consume alcohol and take drugs to numb their pain. And they sell their bodies to survive. I suppose my story is unique because I persevered under God’s grace. To see myself move from despair to a life of hope is testimony to a God who is always there. He shows up in Christian organizations like Open Arms and people like David and Rachel and their volunteers. It’s one thing to mock Christianity and insist that there is no God. It is another to try and explain evil in the world based on such a belief and at the same time understand why countless Christians voluntarily leave their lives of comfort and security to reach out to the many who endure unbelievable pain and suffering.

My family name, Njeri, means “roaming about.” My experience taught me that only God provides real stability. I admit that there are times that I still feel like running. The slum has conditioned me to believe that we will once again be uprooted and forced to flee. The familiar African proverb, “When elephants wrestle, the grass suffers,” speaks to the political tumult in Eldoret. Powerful men wrestle for control, but the poor get trampled. They are the ones battling for life and getting killed by the thousands. They suffer unspeakable physical and financial hardship. Their blood feeds unpaved roads and “killing fields” everywhere.

Two years after the post-election crisis, tribal tensions still remain. When these tensions break out, my children ask: “Mama, what tribe are we from? Will we ever have to flee again?”

Month after month, one hears of an uprising or riot. Like many single mothers, I do not have the strength to move should another December 2007 break out again. But as Pastor Moses reminded me: “Peris, God takes you from the pit and sets you on solid ground.”

I know that God is faithful. He helped us in a way that I would never have imagined. Instead of removing adversities, he gave me a gift to endure them. He gave me wisdom to run a business and provide for my children. And he looked out for me through caring Christian organizations like Open Arms.

I’m healthy.

I’m beautiful.

I’m special.

And I attribute all that to a wonderful God who cares. With him living in me, what can mere mortals do to me?