Encounters with Urban Livestock

 

One of the things I have to watch for when I’m out on my daily walks with the dog is cow pies. There is a certain irony to this, considering that I spent several months last year traveling to remote parts of Africa to find indigenous African cattle. Now I run into them in our neighborhood.

Though we live in a fairly densely populated part of Nairobi, it is not at all unusual for us to encounter herds of cattle. We also come across goats, sheep, chickens, and even the occasional camel. One day, the dog and I stumbled across two little piglets rooting around in the ditch. They did not seem to be accompanied by anyone and did seem to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. The dog was mystified.

Encounters with urban livestock are hardly unusual in Nairobi, as they are a primary source of wealth, livelihood, and food for its poorest residents. Exact figures for the numbers of farm animals living within city limits are hard to come by, though estimates suggest they are far higher than expected by policymakers and members of the general public. Most city livestock keepers are tucked away in informal settlements (aka slums), where they are totally ignored by official counts and services. So you can imagine how difficult it is to get a read on real numbers.

The first major study of urban agriculture in Kenya was undertaken in 1985 by the Mazingira Institute, which concluded that there were about 1.4 million heads of livestock being raised in urban parts of Kenya, worth some 3 million dollars in assets. Since then, the number of people living in Kenya’s city slums has more than doubled. So, we can presume that the growth in urban livestock has followed a similar pattern. In fact, more recent research by the Mazingira Institute suggests the raising of livestock in urban centers is increasing faster than the rate of urbanization.

Because of their need to graze and penchant for the green grasses found along the edges of city streets, cattle are fairly ubiquitous in both commercial and residential neighborhoods of Nairobi. As you can imagine, this creates some interesting traffic issues. But luckily, the bazillion-page Kenya Driving Code has this covered:

First, the code defines the term “cattle” to avoid any confusion. Interestingly, the definition includes not only oxen, bulls, and cows but also horses, camels, mules, asses, sheep, goats, and swine. There’s nothing about chickens.

Second, it describes how “cattle” should be given the right of way:

Section 52. Signals and signs to be obeyed

·       The driver of a vehicle shall at all times—when any person in charge of any cattle raises his hand or in any manner gives a signal to stop, forthwith stop his vehicle and keep it stationary for as long as it is reasonably necessary.

Finally, it outlines the penalties for failing to “forthwith stop” in the presence of “cattle”.  These include a fine of up to 50,000 Kenya Shillings (about US$540) or 6 months of prison on a first conviction. A repeat offense can result in a 70,000 Shilling (US$760) fine or 1-year prison term, along with the potential of 2-year driving license suspension.

The steepness of these fines does not correlate with much appreciation for the benefits and values of urban livestock. According to people who research these things, urban livestock are largely viewed in policy and practice as dirty, unsafe, and decidedly unmodern. Federal and local rules tend to be stacked against citified farm animals due to concerns about waste, disease, and traffic accidents. The result is that most urban livestock keepers function off the record and without the benefit of modern sanitation, veterinary care, refrigeration, water, or electricity.

In spite of this, studies show that urban livestock have a hugely beneficial effect, especially in terms of child nutrition. They offer a source of protein and nutrients that are otherwise largely lacking from the traditional subsistence diet of ugali (a sort of corn meal) and chopped greens.

And for the more industrious keepers, urban livestock can provide a hefty source of income that would be otherwise unattainable. Public Radio International’s The World Program featured a story in 2013 about a woman named Regina Wangari who raises chickens, rabbits, and goats in one of the Nairobi slums, earning $1,000 per month from the sale of chicks, eggs, and meat – a truly phenomenal sum.

While her success may be exceptional, her strategy is not. Which is why I expect the sight and sounds of urban livestock will continue to enrich the colors of our daily experiences out and about on the roads of Nairobi.

Can do-gooders do good?

William Hamilton cartoon, New Yorker

There have been numerous articles lately challenging the notion that wanna-be do-gooders in developing countries actually do any good. The criticism is primarily aimed at white, middle-class volunteers. And the image is that they do little more than pop into some rural village just long enough to feel smug and take selfies with small, smiling brown children.

One article describes how the author, while volunteering in Latin America, discovers that the brick wall she and others are trying to build has to be torn down and redone properly each night by the villagers they are supposed to be helping. She ends up concluding that her volunteer time is better spent raising money for good causes, rather than trying to do work on the ground. Another story in the Guardian quotes a study concluding that, "voluntourism is more about the self-fulfillment of westerners than the needs of developing nations.”  The Onion also gets into the fray with a satirical story about a supposed volunteer describing how her 6-day stint in a rural Malawian village has totally transformed her Facebook profile picture.

Well, that’s all very fine. I agree that voyeurism and selfies may not seem like appropriate motivations for volunteer work. And I’m sure that not every volunteer project is valuable.

But I also think it’s easy to be critical. 

Living in Peru and Kenya has shown me multiple examples of places where well-meaning, foreign volunteers actually do make a positive difference.

Our older son was involved with a group that spent years building houses for people who had lost everything following a dramatic earthquake and tsunami in southern Peru. Staffed almost exclusively by short-term, foreign volunteers, they not only laid the bricks properly but also successfully moved countless families in need from shacks made of straw and scraps to solid, if basic, housing. Was it enough? No. But it was a step in the right direction. What’s more, they filled in where no one else would. The government’s response was negligent, at best. And the town suffered a fate similar to poor parts of New Orleans or Mississippi after Hurricane Katrina – left in the wake, while wealthier and more touristy areas were rebuilt.

Here in Kenya, government investment in human capital and potential is meager to non-existent. I had lunch with two Kenyan women recently, who argued that the only working health and education services are either private and expensive or run and supported by NGOs. That might not be 100% accurate. But it’s clear that large swathes of the population lack access to basic services, such as decent schools, sanitation, clinics, roads, power, clean water, and anything resembling a social safety net. 

So it’s the private sector that fills in many of the gaps, including not only the entrepreneurs and NGOs, but also lots volunteers.

In our year and a half of living in Kenya, we have met an impressive array of people who have mounted schools and businesses and organizations aimed at helping to improve the lives of those the government leaves behind. It is a testament to the incredible potential, energy, and enterprising spirit of this country.

But the task is great. And in some cases, it benefits from the help of foreign, wanna-be do-gooders.

In February, I visited an orphanage just outside of Nairobi for children whose mothers are in prison and have no fathers or other family to care for them. I was with a small group that was bringing them donations of food and art supplies. The center has a school, dorms, playgrounds, and kitchen, eating, and cleaning facilities. Everything is very basic, but also bright and cheery.

While the staff and teachers are Kenyan, the center also uses the help and hands of non-Kenyan volunteers (many of them white, middle-class foreigners), who come for periods ranging from one month to one year. The volunteers live on site and help feed, bathe, clothe, teach, and play with the kids. Some have further professional skills, like a physiotherapist we met. But mostly, they offer affection and support to children whose experiences of trauma and challenge seem so much bigger than they are.

Critics of volunteerism, and voluntourism especially, will site examples of projects that are ill-advised, exploitative, and more likely to deepen divides between the haves and have-nots than to build mutual understanding. This really gets to broader issues of what it takes to create programs that are actually useful, appropriate, and effective. Development specialists have been arguing and struggling with this question forever, though most agree that you have to listen and learn from local stakeholders about what they see as the key problems and potential solutions.

Clearly, being paternalistic, patronizing, or self-promoting is not the ticket to successful volunteerism. But all I’m trying to say is that not every volunteer’s selfie represents a portrait of selfishness and superficiality. Sometimes, there is a measure of good in do-gooder efforts, even if it comes in pint-size packages.

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

We tried to go to a see the film Wolf of Wall Street with some friends the other night. The plan was to catch the show and go out afterwards for a late dinner. Simple enough. Except that when we got to the theater, we learned that the movie had banned by the Kenya Film Classification Board the day before. And no one had updated the online theater schedule, so we were caught by surprise.

The board’s reason for banning the film included its “not being in line with Kenyan values” and its emphasis on graphic sex, drug and alcohol use, and corruption. The board posted the ban on its Facebook page saying, “There is a LIMIT to everything and we believe the Kenyan public deserves better. WOLF OF WALL STREET has been RESTRICTED. The film is NOT for sale, exhibition, or distribution in KENYA. Violators shall be PROSECUTED.”

In a country plagued with widespread government corruption, rampant rape and violence against women, and alcoholism, among other problems, there is no small measure of hypocrisy in all of this. But more importantly, we all know that most censorship efforts backfire. It’s due to what some call the forbidden fruit phenomenon. There’s nothing like banning a book, piece of art, or movie to ensure its increased popularity and demand. 

Articles in the press bear this out. Sales of bootleg copies of Wolf of Wall Street are booming reportedly, with vendors able to charge two or more times the usual prices, and people lining up at cybercafés to watch it online. Social media responses are full of outrage and snarky remarks against the film board. One comment points out that the restriction only prevents the studio and filmmakers from collecting revenues. Another reminds board members that the film is after all based on a true story. And then there’s the one that tells the board to “go watch paint dry… no wait ... don’t …you’ll ban that as well.”

I have to admit that had any of the other Oscar-nominated films been offered for view here in Nairobi, I probably would have chosen one of those over Wolf of Wall Street. But pickings are slim at our local theaters. 

Consider this week’s billboard lineup. There’s a samurai movie with Keanu Reeves, an Indian action thriller, and an Indian romance. You can see a 3-D film called Walking with Dinosaurs. You can opt for a movie starring Sylvester Stallone or a thriller written by him. There’s also The Hobbit, which we’ve seen, and the Snow Queen.

My understanding from the various write-ups and reactions to Wolf of Wall Street is that the depictions of sex, drugs, and debasement of women (among others) do have people squirming in their seats – as does the unapologetic nature of the film’s main character.

I’m not sure it’s my cup of tea. But then I haven’t seen the film, have I? I have seen other Scorsese films like Raging Bull, The Aviator, and Hugo – Scorsese’s delightful homage to the magic of early cinema. He’s a remarkable director, who works with stellar actors. So it’s hard to imagine that this latest movie is completely debauched.

When we first moved here, we saw a really interesting local film called Nairobi Half Life, directed by Kenyan filmmaker, David Gitonga. Though low budget and not as glossy as movies coming out of Hollywood, or Bollywood, it was strong and moving. It told the story of a young country boy who comes to Nairobi with a dream of becoming an actor. No sooner does he step off the bus than he is robbed, arrested, and taken down a path through the dark sides of city’s worlds of crime, corruption, and slums. There is violence and prostitution and police corruption. There are depictions of the very kinds of carjackings and robberies that we are warned of repeatedly. The film is hard and real and likely to reinforce the fears many have of life in “Nairobbery.”

But rather than being banned, it was submitted for nomination for best foreign language film at the Oscars. It was one of only two Kenyan movies ever to be considered for such recognition, even if it did not make the final nomination cut.

The fuss and hullabaloo around the banning of Wolf of Wall Street here has unfortunately overshadowed the news that Kenyan actress Lupita Nyong’o has been nominated for the best Supporting Actress Oscar. She stars in 12 years A Slave – a controversial film in its own right. Nyong’o is the first Kenyan ever to be nominated for an Academy Award.

Perhaps it is in her direction – and that of Kenya’s young filmmakers, entrepreneurs, athletes, and social changers – that the film review board members should turn their heads. Maybe that’s a better way to help exemplify Kenyan values or highlight the positive aspects of this country to its citizens, and the rest of the world.

Oscar nominees Leonardo di Capria (Wolf of Wall Street) and Lupita Nyong'o (12 Years a Slave)

Red Light, Green Light

 

Photo: Nairobi Wire, 1 Aug 2013

“Have you noticed that people have started stopping for red lights?”

We were speaking with some acquaintances during a concert intermission the other night, comparing notes about our holiday travels. Like us, this couple had celebrated Christmas and New Years abroad, and they had returned to Kenya to find that a major change had occurred in the traffic practices of Nairobi drivers.

Traffic lights are not very common along the streets of Nairobi. In fact, any kind of lighting is rare. But new digital stoplights have been installed in over 20 major intersections, including the large traffic circles by the central business district (our downtown, known as the CBD) and a few other key spots. These tend to be places where traffic is especially bad during peak hours, and jams of over one hour are not unusual.

The lights are equipped with those countdown numbers that tell you how many seconds until the light changes from red to green. Following some strange law of physics, they are some of the slowest seconds you’ll see tick by.

Though the new lights have been up for 6 months, until recently they were almost entirely ignored. In fact, those of us tempted to obey the traffic lights – especially the instinct to stop at a red one – were quickly dissuaded by the behaviors of other drivers. To stop at a red light was to put yourself seriously at risk of being rear-ended, or worse. And of course, during rush hours, the traffic cops take over the job of snarling traffic, making the switching of red to green to yellow completely meaningless.

Just before the holidays, we received emails from the ever-vigilant UN/International Organizations’ networks warning that traffic cameras had been installed across the city, including at all the stoplights, and rules would now be enforced. It says something that a move to enforce basic traffic rules is big news. But if the result is less anarchy and better traffic flow, so be it.

For nearly 20 years, I worked on public health issues, including how to encourage better habits to improve well-being and lower risks of disease, disability, or death. We analyzed how to replace bad behaviors with better ones, when were opportune times to encourage positive changes, and how to not only transmit health promotion messages but also get people to act upon them.

Driving behaviors are just as hard to change as health ones. Presumably, one has to learn the rules to pass a driver’s test and obtain or renew a license, but you wouldn’t know that by the way people ignore basic traffic rules here.

The fact is, traffic habits are very much tied to groupthink. If the majority of people are breaking rules – by speeding, ignoring traffic signals, overtaking on blind turns, never using a turn signal – chances are others will join in. It’s an interesting example of the prisoner’s dilemma lesson they taught us in public policy school. Everyone would be better off if they all cooperated. There would be fewer jams, wrecks, and frazzled nerves. But the temptation to cheat to get ahead is great – and may work for the first takers. Ultimately, it makes everyone worse off as traffic becomes increasingly chaotic and dangerous. Breaking the cycle is tough, because following the rules means losing out, at least among early practitioners, so no one has the incentive to do so.

Enter CCTV. Supposedly, the traffic lights are equipped with cameras to help regulate traffic flow and catch red-light runners. Our concert companions were convinced that the cameras were indeed having a dissuasive effect, and prompting people to obey the signals.

I am fortunate that my usual driving patterns avoid the central and most traffic-ridden parts of the city. I go about most of my daily business along the outskirts of the worst of the traffic problems. Also, I rarely see a stop sign, much less a stoplight. The intersections I cross subscribe mostly to the rule that the biggest or most aggressive car goes first.

But this morning I had to navigate through some of the lights and circles of Nairobi’s busiest thoroughfare. And I was less convinced than our concert companions of the change in habits of my fellow drivers. Most plowed right through the red lights and ticking numbers, though did not actually rear end me when I stopped. One car to my left at the Westlands Circle not only drove through the red light, but actually grazed two pedestrians without so much as a pause.

Changing behaviors is hard, whether on the individual or societal level. And in countries where many people don’t feel well served by their laws, government, and political leaders it’s especially difficult to replace a sense of looking out for oneself with one of social duty and collective responsibility.

Will Nairobi drivers ever fold to the rules of the road and start to build a new dynamic of collaboration, where everyone is better off? 

Maybe.

The pace of change will likely be slow, but it’s possible that the force of small steps will eventually push through. 

Change has a way of doing that.

To quote Bill Waterson’s wonderful cartoon character Calvin:

“Know what's weird? Day by day, nothing seems to change, but pretty soon...everything's different."  

Bill Waterson, Calvin and Hobbes

Barefoot Thanksgiving

I’m something of a Thanksgiving Grinch. Certainly, I’ve enjoyed many delicious and wonderful Thanksgiving meals with friends and family over the years. But the prevailing images I associate with the holiday are of tables laden with boring white foods – the dry turkey, mashed potatoes, mushy buns, and bread stuffing – punctuated only by the bright orange of too sweet sweetpotatoes and vivid red of runny cranberry sauces. In a way, the image in my mind’s eye of Thanksgiving meals is a reflection of the bland food years of my childhood, the days before Whole Foods, arugula, and exotic olive oils.

(I should note, before I get myself into trouble, that my mother managed to cook delicious meals in spite of the paucity of flavors and colors at the local supermarkets of the sixties and seventies.)

These days, people add things like ginger or Jack Daniels to their sweetpotatoes, instead of marshmallows. The whole meal has been transformed into something far more delicious than in the past, at least to my taste.

Still, as an expat in Nairobi, I was perfectly happy to give the whole holiday a pass this year. Britt was scheduled to be out of the country on a business trip. Our boys were each set to do Thanksgiving with friends and relatives in the States. It’s a regular workday, of course, here in Kenya. And our social calendar has been pretty full of dinners and parties of late.

But then, an opportunity came up that promised to be both meaningful and unconventional.

I’ve written previously about discovering the Africa Yoga Project and its Shine Center, in spite of being a total yoga newbie. Now, I find myself rather hooked, as Britt has been for years. It’s not so much the yoga itself. It’s the energy and positive spirit of the Shine Center. As soon as you walk in the door, you are greeted warmly. The atmosphere, like the classes, is young and a little bit rowdy. You are allowed to grunt and complain when your legs or abs are burning. Even the teachers do. It’s not just a place to work out. It’s really a community.

Which is why when I heard they were planning a Thanksgiving celebration at the Shine Center for the Project’s staff and families, I asked if I could help out. And that’s how I found myself cooking a turkey for the first time in my life – usually that’s Britt’s job.

I started by going to our local food shop to order the thing in advance. When I asked how much it would cost, the shopkeeper answered, “Don’t worry, I’ll give you a good price.” With that, what could I do? I ordered 3 kilos of orange-fleshed sweetpotatoes to go with it.

I struggled with our convection oven, smoked up the whole house, and showed up an hour later than anticipated at the Shine Center. But the turkey came out just fine. And though I missed the pre-meal yoga extravaganza, I was there in plenty of time for the feast itself.

As for the meal. There was lots of turkey. There was ugali (the standard Kenyan staple made of cornmeal) and rice, along with various greens and salads. There were different forms of potato, including more than 100 potato latkes, made by the founder and leader of the Africa Yoga Project, Paige, in honor of Hanukkah.  There were sodas, and bananas.

And while many of our friends posted beautiful photos of their exquisitely set Thanksgiving tables back in the States, we sat on the floor and ate on our laps.

We were barefoot. We were thankful. It was great.

Here’s a link to the Africa Yoga Project. http://www.africayogaproject.org/

Here’s a link to the story I submitted to NPR’s invitation on stories about expat Thanksgivings. http://www.npr.org/blogs/theprotojournalist/2013/11/28/247164653/project-xpat-thank-you-for-posting

Here’s a link to more of my photos of our barefoot Thanksgiving: https://plus.google.com/photos/113659574597169024424/albums/5951576870216555521   

Life in the Fun House

 

“Do you know there’s a room upstairs, with a ladder, that goes up to a another level?”

A boy, about age 10, is talking to me earnestly. His eyes are huge with excitement. His feet are covered in mud.

“Why, yes,” I reply. “That’s our bedroom. You’re not really supposed to go in there.”

I turn to see a 12-year old girl, leading a pack of others up one of the sets of stairs to what is supposed to be the off-limit territory of our house’s private quarters.

“Don’t go up there,” I say.

“Why not?” she replies saucily, cocking one hip.

“Because it’s my house, and I say so,” I answer.

The words come out firmly, and automatically. But it’s no use. I know a lost battle when I see one. She and her gang will give in for a moment, but sneak off again the minute my back is turned. Which it is almost immediately, as I see a group of boys trying to slide down the railing of the curving stairs leading from our house’s vast atrium to its second level. Not wanting to imagine the scene if one of them slips and wacks his head against the slate floor below, I’m off again like a flash.

“Off the railing!” I cry, snapping my fingers and making a swift downward motion with my arm. I’ve used my serious grown-up voice. I feel like I’m herding dogs. Another adult comes up. She’s a high-ranking manager, a regional director, and a parent. Just the ally I need. She takes over watch of the central spiral staircase.

In a few hours, the wreckage of lost battles will be evident. There will be mud everywhere, and tossed popcorn, and sticky, abandoned cups and plates. Small, mismatched socks will appear in odd places.

I’m a bit overwhelmed, but not mad.

I totally understand why children find our house irresistible. We live in the fun house. It’s big and full of wacky features and surprises. The first time we saw it, I could barely keep from jumping up and down with excitement, myself.

There’s also a huge yard and plenty of space to entertain. That’s why we’re happy to host parties, including this one involving 70+ adults and children representing some of the very multinational staff and families of Britt’s organization.

The set-up is a pot luck, which I love, because people bring the most varied and wonderful foods: Indian samosas and Greek tiropitas, chicken “lollipops” (tiny chicken legs) from Senegal and fried bananas, smoked fish canapés and giant bags of cashews, just to name a few.

Another great feature is all the games people contribute. This is an intergenerational crowd, with ages ranging from infants to grandparents. There’s fun for all ages, and everyone joins in. There’s croquet and sack races, badminton and a bouncy castle. There’s the frog game we brought from Peru, and games that involve balloons and bananas. At one point, there’s a giant tug of war.

 

The only unwelcome guest is the sudden downpour – after months of blue skies and dry weather. Hence the mud, and swarms of children inside the house instead of outside.

But a great time is had by all.

After a few days of scrubbing, and generous loan of a friend’s housekeeper to help ours, the house is back to normal.

We’re ready to entertain again the next weekend.

Because, after all, we live in the fun house.

Hallelujah, we live in Africa

 Photo: Starehe Girls Centre (http://starehegirlscentre.co.ke/)

For the first months we lived in Kenya, I would wake every day and marvel. I would hear the incredible morning chorus of birds. I would look at the bright blue of the sky and puffiness of the white clouds. And I would say to myself, “I’m living in Africa.”

Coming to a country like Kenya had been a longstanding dream of mine. It dated back to childhood, and the lasting impressions I'd gained from watching Daktari, Born Free, and animal kingdom shows on television. It was corny and naive, but deeply rooted.

After college, I thought about joining the Peace Corps or finding other ways to live and work in Africa. But that didn’t happen for various reasons. Instead I lived in Paris and Chicago and Washington.

A few decades rolled by.  

I finally did make my way into international development thanks to luck, bold moves, and the right husband. Having a couple of graduate degrees and years of experience in gender, health, and communications helped, as well.

It was while living and working in Peru that I got my first chances to travel to Kenya and Uganda. And I was hooked, immediately. I loved the smells, the scenery, and the encounters with people and nature. I was amazed by the light and the rich colors. Nairobi was so green compared to Lima, which is in the coastal desert.

When Britt got a job offer in Kenya, I was very enthusiastic. He accepted the offer site unseen, having never set foot in Sub-Saharan Africa.

Of course, living here has meant adding serious doses of reality to the romance of my first impressions – and childhood dreams. There’s the frustration, corruption, and dismay at poor conditions and bad infrastructure. There’s a car dependent lifestyle for those us living the life of privilege, and inadequate investment in human capital for most everyone else.

But there are also so many remarkable people and experiences here in Kenya. I regularly meet inspiring programs and individuals dedicated to making a difference in the lives of Kenyans, particularly its young people, and in its future. The obstacles are great. But so, too, is the energy and will to overcome them.

Last night, Britt and I attended a gala dinner, which was a fundraiser for a topnotch secondary boarding school for girls, called Starehe Girls Centre. It offers full scholarships to disadvantaged girls from all over the country. Acceptance is highly selective, and the girls who do get in do very well in terms of university admissions and academic attainment.

The girls were at the gala dinner, looking sharp and lively. They tended to guests and supplied much of the evening entertainment. I wish I had photos to share. The girls looked great. And so did Britt and I decked out in our black-tie finery. We mingled, enjoyed charming dinner companions, and bought raffle tickets to support the cause.

There were lots of speeches and a crowd full of what one table-mate described to me as Nairobi’s crème-de-la-crème.

But the most moving and exhilarating part was when the girls performed, joined at times by a professional singer or just singing a cappella. They sang traditional songs, one Christmas carol, and a lovely rendition of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. You know the song. It’s been picked up by lots of artists and was famously featured in one of the Shrek movies.

Here are just some of the verses:

I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
….
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

 Hallelujah, we live in Africa.

The Help - Nairobi Version

“With money, you can do anything.”

These were the words of our housekeeper last week, as she stood before me with a small smile on her face.

I was tempted to reply, “Well, money can’t buy you EVERYTHING.”

But luckily, I didn’t. Instead, I said nothing, smiled back, and listened.

The fact of the matter is, when you are truly poor, having money or not DOES change everything. Being poor makes you incredibly vulnerable – to losing what little you have, to being taken advantage of, to missing out on basic services and opportunities, and the list goes on.

The edge between having enough or not is sharp and cruel. Even among those who have next to nothing, having a bit more creates opportunity – and envy.

Our housekeeper has been embroiled in a family dispute involving land and inheritance for several months. It revolves around her husband and some shady dealings on the part of his siblings to cheat him out of the small parcel of land that is his part of the family inheritance.

Land ownership is a very touchy issue here in Kenya. Many people have been robbed of their lands through colonialism, and post-colonial corruption, cronyism, and general dirty dealings.  Tenure and title are not always secure. Families are large, and plots broken up into smaller and smaller pieces across the generations. By tradition, only men have been allowed to inherit land. That is supposed to have changed with the passing of a new national constitution a few years back, but practices are slow to change.

In the case of our housekeeper, her in-laws have been stalling her attempts to obtain proper, formal title to their land, because they know that her husband’s health is failing from decades of chain smoking. She has become increasingly frantic knowing that the title is the only way to preserve their share of the family land, and the house on it, which they built largely due to her hard work.

After some ugly scenes and threats at home, she eventually came to me to ask for financial help to pay for the surveyor and title.

I was reminded of a scene in Kathryn Stockett’s book, The Help. An interesting read from any perspective, it is even more so when you employ household staff and live in a place that does have separate bathrooms for "domestics."  In the story, The Help, there is a character who works as a maid and asks her employers for an advance, so that she can send her son to university. They turn her down, pushing her ultimately to desperation, theft, and a prison sentence.

Though The Help is a work of fiction, it reflects many realities. And although it is set fifty or more years ago, the racial and economic –isms and inequities it highlights are still very present today. This is particularly blatant in our environment in Nairobi, where the disparity between our access to choice, resources, and options and that of the people who work around us day and night is so enormous.

Also similar to the book is the intimacy that develops from our interwoven lives. The NSA doesn’t need to tap our phones or read our emails to follow our comings and goings. They can just ask our house staff, who observes us daily and knows our every habit. Likewise, we are privy to many of the stories and problems that make up their lives.

Unlike the employer characters in The Help, we are much more willing to give our staff advances, or even financial gifts, to cover things like kids’ school tuition, driving lessons, or moving from a slum shack to something a bit better. I admit it’s a new experience for us. In Peru, household staff and guards never asked for loans. But here it is common and accepted practice for the haves to be expected to help out (or be hit up by) the have-nots.

Our housekeeper is better off than many. She and her husband have some land and a house with electricity and running water. This is largely because she is smart and thrifty. And she has worked for people like us, who pay her 2-3 times the usual salary for housekeeping. But she is still poor. And the fact that she does have a few resources makes her prey to jealous and greedy relatives, who are all too ready to exploit the notion of sharing the wealth.

So, I got her the money she needed. And I gave her the next day off, so that she could go to the various land and title offices to file her paperwork. It was the following day that she told me how having the money needed made all the difference.

Is the matter fully settled? Not at all.  But the proper wheels are in motion, and this week’s hope has replaced last week’s desperation.

I read a lot about giving and development. Which strategies work best? There’s lots of discussion and little agreement. What is the right balance between accountability and just giving people money? Is direct payment better than services, microcredit better than macro-changes, teaching to fish better than giving a fish?  The jury is out and debates continue.

One thing is sure. Sometimes, you have a chance to do something relatively small for one person that represents something really big to them. May we all understand and seize that chance.