Outside the bubble

 

Slum, Nairobi. photo: F. Hoogervorst

A young girl followed me home the other day.

I was out walking the dog in our neighborhood of dirt lanes. Our walks generally follow a star-like pattern – going down one lane and turning back, then the next. We have other routes, but that’s our most common one. We pass houses, three schools, and an evangelical church, from which we sometimes hear singing and chanting.

I didn’t notice at first that the girl was purposefully tagging behind me. It just seemed we were headed the same way. I did notice that her school uniform was a different color from the ones you see in our neighborhood. The local school uniform is a grey/blue and white checked pattern dress for the girls and the same fabric for the boys’ shirts, matched with blue shorts. This girl’s dress what red and white checked.

And then it became obvious that she was following my amblings, copying the way I turned back at the end of each lane and staying just a few meters behind me. She looked lost and hesitant, so as I came to the gate of our compound I stopped and talked to her.

“Shouldn’t you be going home now?” I asked. It was about 4 pm by this point, which is when the lanes by our house start filling up with post-school-day kids and cars.

She looked at me and burst into tears

We live in a protected compound, behind gates and guards and alarm systems. It’s not our preference, but it’s how it is. Crime in Nairobi is serious, common, and often violent. Security is an omnipresent reality. It’s a constant concern and major source of employment.

Anyone who can arrange or afford it lives and works behind protective barriers of one type or another. We are hardly unique in this way.

But it’s a far cry from the world of young Anna, as I learned this girl was called.

I’d meant to go back to work after walking the dog. This outing was to be just a break from long hours of writing tasks related to the fact that I am juggling four separate work contracts.

But here I was with a young girl in distress. She told me that her mother had kicked her out of the house at lunchtime and had said not to return if she didn’t want a beating – or something along those lines. I tried to ask questions, understand more about where she lived, if there was anyone else who could help her, and such things.

I took her to our house. I gave her food. And I fetched our wise and big-hearted housekeeper, Susan.

With Susan’s help, I was able to get young Anna back to her home. It turned out she lived in a slum that is a good 2-hour walk from our house.

Anna’s neighborhood is a place I never would have gone, or found, on my own – even though it is tucked between more well-travelled spots and probably houses thousands of people.

The story Susan got when we dropped Anna at her place was different from the version she’d given us. It involved a mother who works long days to feed her children, a younger sister who tries to keep Anna out of trouble, and a 13-year old Anna who doesn’t like to go to school. I’m not sure where the full truth was in Anna’s story. Maybe she doesn’t like school. Maybe there are more ominous reasons for her behavior. Crime and violence are rampant in the Nairobi slums, especially against girls and women. The likelihood of emerging from life there unscathed is slim.

The true story of Anna and her (mis)adventures is probably muddy and complex – much like the dirty lanes and ramshackle sheds that make up the place Anna, and many like her, call home.