Last Friday was the final day of filing returns which in any right thinking fellow's mind is much ado about nothing. I had managed to score a few clients who had serious issues, people who wanted to declare their rental income, a steal from lucrative deals that in my opinion could use some creative accounting and avoidance and others just didn't have a clue on how to use iTAX platform. At the end of the day I had a few extra coins to cure my headache with some fine liquor and rhumba music. One even has the confidence of bribing the DJ to play NAMISWI MISAPI on repeat. Pesa Otas donge?
It had escaped my mind that the following day I had some charity business to attend to. That's my version of spirituality. I do not practice any religion because all of them are flawed in matters to do with doctrine,consistency and common sense.
With barely 3 hours of shut eye, I was dragged out of bed by a phone call with women shouting at the other end that they are knocking at the gate and they are being ignored but can see jaber parked outside. By some miracle I was able to crawl out of bed and let them in. "Yaani ndio unaamka, hata mswak wewe bado piga?" they lamented. I was in pain my friends. There was a time when I could party all night, go home have a change of attire and get on with the day like nothing happened, nowadays my hangovers are the worst. Every morning after, I have trouble getting out of bed, I have to have a meeting with each body part separately and convince them that they need to work together and get through the day. I feel like I should be on an IV bag or something. The clunking of my bones is just embarrassing.
I survive the morning ritual and set off for Marurui, a village tucked along the northern bypass near the suburb of Thome. There are orders for me to roll up my window which I blatantly disregard. My hangover symptoms are similar to morning sickness in pregnant women. I cannot stand the smell of anything that's not oxygen, everything has to be neutral. It makes a nigga nauseous, so women with perfumes and scented lotions are like kryptonite at that time.
We finally found our way to WINGS OF COMPASSION children's home.
The establishment has no sign posts or any indication that it plays host to the less fortunate. It is actually a private home run by a lady called sis Dorcas. Her house stands on the right side of the small plot and other iron sheet structures that have wooden rectangular slabs attached to hinges to act as windows on the left. A small shed shielding a Nissan b15 from the sun acts as the seating area and visiting bay.
The home isn't like any of the conventional ones. It plays as a rescue center for teenage girls and their children. These are no ordinary children. These are the innocent offspring that are sired from rape and incest. Children that are survivors of the savagery that human beings are capable of. I had no prior knowledge of this.
So the ladies sat down with the madam of the house as I went to scavenge the shops for a bottle of water and some panadol. I got back and went to sit in the TV room by myself. I wanted some personal time to reflect on my relationship with the bottle, this shit has to stop, near death experiences and seeing the white light every weekend isn't funny anymore hehehe.
BUT the devil has his plans. Toddlers emerged from the mabati houses. There was pandemonium, some were calling me uncle, some were poking their fingers at my tablet, my moment of peace and tranquility was gone. I decided to engage them asked them their names, took selfies et al.
Around nine teens came out of the houses, they were the mothers. They were so excited to meet me. One asked the name of my school and the "form" that I was. (18 till I dieeeee :-) ).
We chatted and I could tell there was happiness in their current situations and status of housing. There was music playing from the DVD player and I got to learn with disbelief that there's a song called "Mungu nipe nyonyo." I still can't believe it. How does one start singing that chorus in church? I see the women's guild falling on their knees crying for our youth. When did gospel music become so secularized ?
Then I learnt of "bazokizo" a music video with cool dance moves, I was forced to join in and break a sweat, a cold ethanol reeking sweat. The fanfare was cut short when the lady of the house called everyone to a meeting and introduction session under the shed.
The same girls I had had a fun time with just minutes ago started sharing their stories and this is when my heart broke.
One of them , very well groomed, confident,talkative and full of wit shared how she had to run away from their home in Western Kenya after she had conceived from being repeatedly raped by her own biological father. This man had threatened to kill her if she ever exposed him to the family. She had suffered the torment of being branded a prostitute by her own mother.
On the very night of her escape, she spent the night in the cane fields where she was attacked by two young men who raped her and robbed her of the little money she had.
Another one, name withheld told of how she came to the city with her sister after her parents died and werecast out by their relatives. She'd been promised work as a domestic help but saw none of that. Her sister was a commercial sex worker in downtown Nairobi and there wasn't a night that she'd sleep peacefully since the studio apartment played host to an average of 5 men a night. She would go out in the street under the cover of night until her sister's business would conclude. On one ill fated night she was accosted by a stranger in a dark alley and was beaten and raped.
They all shared testimonies that no child should ever have to experience. One thing I admired about those girls was their resilience. It takes courage to tell a story like that to strangers without breaking down. In their eyes and mannerisms you can tell that these are still children and have the potential to be moulded into great citizens of the future.
In the evening madam husband arrived and all the kids, about 15 of them, ran to embrace him shouting , "daddy daddy.." I've never seen something as beautiful as that. These children don't know rejection because they have a mom and dad despite their circumstances.
If you ever get time, feel free to visit and volunteer at WINGS OF COMPASSION home, Marurui village.
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