Of Faith and Choices

This month I had a very special visitor: my girlfriend, Emily. Being with her for two and half weeks reminded me of the past, jarred me awake to the present and catapulted my thoughts into the future. How would all three coalesce into one coherent perspective?

So much of our lives are made up of choices based on faith. Yet before I jump to faith, let me dwell first on fortune. How fortunate to have my girlfriend here in Kenya with me! How fortunate for me to be taking a year to volunteer in Africa!

And yet what do I see through these fortunate eyes? A young gal from West Pokot, no more than 13, taken by an older man of 50 or 60 to be his third wife. A young boy from Ikuza, an island in Lake Victoria, who ran away from his abusive stepfather to live a life fishing for 16 hours and partying the other eight. A man graduating from the university with an engineering degree only to see his family live in the slums as he struggles to find work.


Outside a fishing camp on Ikuza Island, Lake Victoria
As an American I revel in having the freedom to choose. Emily had the option of visiting me in Africa. Together we had the opportunity to visit rural parts of Kenya, fly around the islands of Lake Victoria and walk through the slums of Nairobi; past some of the very persons I mentioned above. And we had the choice to return, she to her home in the US and me to my apartment in Nairobi… and soon back to the US. Most of the people we visited would be unable to leave their present circumstance, if they so chose.

A coworker remarked the other day, “Evans has seen more parts of Africa than me!” I’ve been here 10 months, and she’s lived in Kenya her entire life. Even in the same office, there is a wide spectrum of opportunity.

How much faith do I have if I can just get up and leave when things become too tough? Is there a point in life when having choices overwhelms any need of faith? With the ability to choose, do we begin to live by sight rather than by faith?

As Emily returns, so do my thoughts with her: Where will I live when I return? What will I do? How will I have changed? I plead with God to give me certain things: a comfortable place to live, an interesting job, meaningful friends. But how many of the people I just met can make requests like I can?


Emily and I flying around Lake Victoria
Oswald Chambers astutely notes that if we’re asking for things which we can see, then we’re asking out of our lust and not from the cry of our hearts. Sometimes we want God to show up on special days or dress in certain ways. Perhaps this is ingrained in us culturally, wanting a selection to choose from.

With my thoughts all jumbled about what is to happen in the next stage of life, I think I have no choices, for I want to act on things to come when I all I (ever) have is the present. And then I realize that on some level I can relate to these Africans without choice or fortune, feeling stuck in the drudgery of today. We can say we are bounded by limited choices, or we can choose to have faith that God is moving and will move in our lives, as well as others.

And change does come. The West Pokot girl Sheila is blessed to go to school and then return to teach her younger sisters. The young fisherman Peus (left) accepts Christ into his life, giving up the partying lifestyle and his job, too, and now lives by faith that the morrow will be better. The man Andrew can rest a little longer knowing his wife received a small loan to expand her business and pay for their children’s school fees.

The quality and quantity of choices available often distracts us from faithfully focusing on God’s movements in the Now. We thrive in the present hope, not waiting for change in order to live abundantly, but living in light of what is promised.

If you didn’t know anything is better out there for you, would you search for it? I find belief in God gives me hope in today with possibility for tomorrow. I do not know what is to come, yet I believe God will be present wherever, whenever. May all of us be prayerfully aware of the Spirit’s movement, in all places and at all times.

Conned...?

“Evans, this is George of NGO Council. You once came to our place looking for Mr. Filbert Obadiah Sila Ngume. Did you later get him?”

Puzzled, I read over the SMS once again. I called this George of the NGO Council, and told him the only name I recognized was Sila, and the only Sila I knew is from a town called Salama. “Well, sir,” he responded, “We believe Mr. Sila conned you, and we are holding him in custody.”

Rewind a few months. I met a man on the street who introduced himself as Sila. Usually I’m asked for money for bus fares or tea, but this man was at a loss as how to pay for his daughter’s school fees. We met a couple of times thereafter, and during that time I determined he was telling the truth. I gave him a check for his daughter’s tuition so she could sit her last examination.

A month or two later, I visited Sila and his daughter at her school (LINK). I spoke with the headmistress and the school accountant, both of whom confirmed they had deposited my check and gave me a receipt. I heard from Sila a week later, who was stuck in Nairobi after his friend died in a car accident. I gave him $3 for bus fare and that was the last I heard of him.

Until now. “No, sir,” I emphatically stated over the crackly connection, “Sila did NOT con me.” “You’re saying he did not take advantage of you?” “Yes, he is a good man. Please release him from jail.” “OK, thank you sir.”

[Nearly a month later and I still do not know what the NGO Council is or the whereabouts of Sila. I hope for the best in a troublingly-odd situation.] 

Gichobo Water Project

Emily and I visited a water project in Gichobo, outside of Nakuru, today. Here is the story I wrote for CWS and our partners, FSK.

The Gichobo community is well on their way to building a piping system that will greatly reduce the time community members spend to fetch water, releasing them to pursue other income-generating activities.

As part of the project managed by Farming Systems Kenya in partnership with Church World Service, Fundi James Murethi is paid to supervise community volunteers over the laying of pipes. There is already a pump attendant, paid by the water committee, at the borehole to distribute water at 3 Kshs/20L. A second pump attendant is paid by the Ministry of Water. They work together from 8am until 6pm everyday day, allowing one to leave the kiosk to make repairs or solve other distribution problems.

This farming community is only able to produce food for consumption and not for marketing, due to the lack of water and consistent seasonal rains. The resulting economic instability prevents members from paying dues consistently. However, all are able to afford to pay for the water, since it will support income generating activities like selling cow’s milk.

While currently well underway, the project has faced several delays. The community had free and fair elections last year. The newly elected leaders, nine men and two women, had to adjust to their appointments and build relations with FSK and the Ministry of Water. There have also been some tribal clashes over land, and the insecurity was a strain on community resources until last month. The community was also busy in recent months cultivating their own crops, unable to volunteer their time to dig trenches and lay piping until recently.

The water committee’s secretary, Sammy, believes the community will benefit greatly from the piped water. With less distance to travel for cleaner water, “the farmers will have more time to cultivate their crops and possibly go to town to look for extra work.” He also added that the farmers can now spend more time gathering grass for their animals and investing in livestock.

While the borehole is a significant improvement, it will only be sufficient for domestic and livestock use. They hope to have the system up and running by mid-June. Another borehole and more storage tanks would be needed for irrigating crops, a community dream now closer to reality.

 

Em's Visit!

I've had a wonderful few days with a special guest from the U.S.: my girlfirend, Emily. We are traveling out to Nakuru, Nyeri and then on to Lake Victoria in Tanzania to visit friends, see wildlife and experience the joys (and possibly a few challenges) of life in Kenya/East Africa!



The Arrival


Elephant Orphanage


Stop cheating on me!


Who's cuter?

 

"Touring" Kibera

Emily and I had the fortune of walking through Kibera today with my friend, Jackson Kago. Jackson works with UNHABITAT in their Safer Cities Program, where Nairobi is in the initial piloting phase. Two privileged white people walking through an all-black slum made for a disparate time, leaving no real answers about reconciliation or rehabilitation. And yet I was grateful for the challenging experience.

The policy of UNHABITAT is not to provide direct funding but to play a more advisory role in helping cities develop their infrastructure. Unfortunately, the population has grown faster than the planning. Already over half of Nairobi’s 3 million persons live in the slums, or former squatter communities that have established a permanent presence. People have been born, lived and died here. These communities are made of mud, wood and tin, and little hope holds them together.

We walked through one part of Kibera, called Soweto West after the infamous ghetto in Johannesburg, South Africa. I was surprised to see how orderly things were, with wooden structures forming a line along a straight dirt-packed street. There were even ditches for draining in some places and water lines to collection points.

Even so, life here is hard, with no city infrastructure to speak of. Many children walked around barefoot, playing amidst the filth and trash. People sell all kinds of odds and ends to make a living, often setting up shop wherever there’s an open spot. Most of the houses aren’t owned but rented out, not by the owner of land (technically the government) but by whoever got there first and built a structure for those who followed.

There is great innovation here. Kids play with toys made from discarded wire and rubber. Women lay out lint to dry in the sun, later to sell as stuffing for mattresses and pillows. Men set up “movie theaters” to show bootlegs of Bruce Lee.



Remnants of various projects lie amidst the rubble. A concrete bridge rises a good 10 feet above the “streets” it was supposed to connect. A faggot of pipes, disconnected from the mainline, are buried along the road, a failed (or still ongoing?) World Bank project. The only concrete building in sight is a seat of government, locked and heavily fortified.


If a project like safer cities is going to succeed, the program will need outside funding and inside backing. That is, it will need infrastructure from an outside funding source like the World Bank while also soliciting the support of the community. They have formed their own identity, and together they stand or together they go… even as each fights individually to survive on a day-to-day basis.

Jackson is well aware of the need for community approval and participation. Let us hope we can all work together for a safer, better tomorrow; if not for our sake, then for our children’s. 

Soccer Tournament

Today Emily and I went to a soccer tournament, organized by some of my friends, David and Julius. Their idea was to get a trophy and balls and host a tournament with some local schools. Each school would have a team compete for the trophy, winning some balls and some pride in the process. Hopefully events like this would keep kids coming to school and interested in furthering their education (let alone sports ability). With some money given to me by a few friends in the US, I paid for the trophy and balls. It turned out to be a tremendous success and Emily and I thoroughly enjoyed being with the kids on this day of celebration.



Some of the Soccer Fans & Players


A Happy Mzungu Couple


Emily Gets Her Groove On


Trophy Presentation:
Myself, Julius, and the winning captains

Kikuyu Hospitality

Emily and I were fortunate enough to be well-hosted this weekend by a number of folks. From friends our age to older co-workers and even missionaries, the hospitality of Kikuyu goes unsurpassed. Plus, it just makes me look good in front of my girlfriend. Thanks, y'all!



Myself, our friend David Wakogi, and Emily


Kiragu's niece and Emily make faces at each other


Hosted by my colleague and friend Kiragu and his wife Naomi


Terry & Lyle Dykstra, a missionary couple from my hometown area
 

Football Tournament

Today Emily and I went to a soccer tournament, organized by some of my friends, David and Julius. Their idea was to get a trophy and balls and host a tournament with some local schools. Each school would have a team compete for the trophy, winning some balls and some pride in the process. Hopefully events like this would keep kids coming to school and interested in furthering their education (let alone sports ability). With some money given to me by a few friends in the US, I paid for the trophy and balls. It turned out to be a tremendous success and Emily and I thoroughly enjoyed being with the kids on this day of celebration.



Some of the Soccer Fans & Players


A Happy Mzungu Couple


Emily Gets Her Groove On


Trophy Presentation:
Myself, Julius, and the winning captains

Man Down: Will Someone Please Stand Up?

Will and I returned from church down a road filled with pot-holes and puddles; a typical Nairobi street this time of year. No sooner had we navigated across the tarmac river than we heard a loud krada-thump!. Spinning around I saw a man falling to the ground as a green BMW sped by. The man hung in the air a split second before falling listlessly to the ground.

Dumbfounded, I took two steps toward him before turning back to see the car hesitate, pausing to consider God-knows-what, before speeding off with a broken side mirror. I looked back at the man, sitting up as if waking up from a nightmare. He scooted himself off the asphalt, clutching his left leg just above the knee. I went over and got his sweater out of the street.

I asked if he was all right. His response was to lay down and cover his face, grimacing in pain. By now some other people has stopped and were watching events unfold, living statues of silent witness. A man walked over and talked to the man in Swahili. He asked if we had gotten the license plate of the car. The one way we could have possibly helped and we were blinded by shock.

I had no idea what to do. After five minutes of wondering, a car pulled up and the driver said he had the number of the culpable person (I assume he had followed the car). We helped the man, Michael Oduor, across the same forsaken street and inside the car. I asked if he needed names and numbers of witnesses before going to the hospital, possibly with a fractured femur. The driver, Charles, and the man who stopped to help, Peter, thought that it was a good idea.

By now it had started to rain. I wrote my name and number on some paper and handed it to Charles. After I re-crossed the street, Will asked if he was going to need any money for the hospital. The car was already pulling away. “Well, he’s got my number,” I mustered up, hoping that he would call.

Not a block later a man with loose change in one hand and a nibble of corn cob in the other asked us for money. We refused.

And I wondered. I wondered about how people can always use a little help, and then there are times when someone is absolutely in need of help. We are all under God’s mercy, and at times chosen to be vessels of grace.

How can we say no? Yet how often do we say yes?

Before I Go

What will I take with me? What will I leave behind?

Sometimes I wonder if we are really nomads, meant to roam this earth that we call home by default. In Kenya there are both pastoralists and farmers. In Rwanda, this was one - and possibly the main - distinction between Hutus and Tutsis.

Certainly, I am more comfortable staying in one place. Yet the call of the wild, or simply the boredom of the city, draws me out… only to return again. I’m willing to travel for a few days, sometimes weeks, but it’s always nice to have someplace to return to that

“Home is where the heart is.” This cliché phrase says so much more to Christians, as we carry the peace and love of our Savior Jesus Christ wherever we go. The Spirit, not circumstances, should both be our guide and our strength. Yet too often we are content to remain comfortable and unchanged.

Before I go, I will continue to reflect on these things… Instead of looking at these last two months or so as a list to check off, what if I saw this time as several mini-safaris that I might not ever get to take again? If I block my time into weeks, as we often do for vacation time, will I not seek to get more out of each day? I hope and pray so, staying focused on the goal ahead while fully experiencing today’s now.

Of Storks and Men

A Backdrop to Education
My colleague Sara Bureti and I visited Wangu Primary School today in Dandora, part of the Muthare Slums of Nairobi. We had with us four Americans from Wahalla, Washington, interested in using their apple business to support education.

The pungent smells of stagnant sewage and rotting waste permeated every corner of the school, as a result of the city dump a stone throw’s away from the school grounds. I had walked through a city dump before in Managua, Nicaragua, and yet could not imagine a public primary school being so close to this filth.

With a radius of over 5 km and growing, the Nairobi dump continues to expand and encroach upon school grounds. People bring their cattle and pigs to feed at the dump, and many wander onto school grounds. During break times, students jostle with cattle and pigs for space to play.

People throw trash onto school grounds, and the innocent little ones often eat the toxic substances. The stench affects the ability of students to learn, leading to numerous headaches and respiratory problems. Hearing all this, I look out to the hills of trash not 50 yards off, where men and storks alike rummage the heaps, living as scavengers.


Window of Opportunity: drug deals are still made through the barbwire fence.
The city dump is a hideout for Nairobi’s most notorious and violent criminals. Formally an estate, the dump and its residents have taken over all the land and the stripped what remains of dilapidated structures. Many use the school as a place to sell drugs, and parents have been known to even use their children to make drug deals on school grounds.

The school would like to see the dump abolished, restricted and perhaps moved to the airport. Yet for many the dump is a source of livelihood, however meager. Some parents are involved in collecting various items from the trash heaps and reselling them in the neighborhood. Many children are orphans and live in houses made of weak mud walls, notes one Primary Seven student Elija Orau, where a thief can come and say, “Open the door or I enter.”

A teacher who had been there ten years said that before the fence was put in with SSZ funds, they would have to close school for two hours, sometimes making the children stay low in the classrooms as gangs clashed within the school’s parade grounds. With the improved security, they are now able to continue with classes uninterrupted.

Headmaster Christine used to assign teachers to take home the office phone and return it in the morning due to the high crime rate. She could not even leave a textbook on her desk without it being stolen that night. Now she keeps a computer in her office, no longer worried about criminals invading the school.


Barriers of Safety and Resentment
The local head of security is very friendly and places the protection of the school in utmost priority. The parents have also been impressed with the strong gate and have agreed with the school to not exacerbate school vandalism. Nonetheless, they know that the chokoras or “street children” are part of the community; thereby a part of the problem and must be incorporated into a sustainable solution. By talking to them and exchanging the needs of each, they are able to create a safe learning environment while not restricting access to the people’s need to make a living; however dismal.

The school has received many tonnes of rations from USAID but is unable to raise funds ($5000) for a kitchen to cook the food. Many parents contributed 50 Kshs (65 cents) each to build a temporary kitchen, but the facilities are inadequate for the 2,000+ students.

However, as the headmistress notes, “As long as we say, ‘Here, take, take,’ they will never have ownership. If they don’t own it, they won’t sustain it.” A great example of program ownership has been the school’s gardens. The students planted and water the gardens, which are doing remarkably well even after a prolonged dry spell. Not only will the trees and bushes beautify school grounds, but hopefully they will purify the air as well, says “Mr. Green,” the teacher in charge of the project.

Students, teachers and parents all persevere through dismal circumstances in hopes of a brighter tomorrow, when they can move from the dump to a better place. Until that day, they are resolute to be moral and upright persons, serving as role models for the school as well as the community.

A Certificate, A Diploma, A Degree

Today I had lunch with two good friends, Wycliffe and Paul. Each are Kenyan and come from the Western part of the country, and yet they have grown up in entirely different families.


Myself, Wycliffe and Paul
Wycliffe spoke of coming back from his home, where he had just spent all of his savings getting his father out of prison. Apparently, he runs a computer teaching school and wasn't able to pay all of the teachers, and when he didn't show up to court to contest their civil action, he was arrested and thrown in jail. I felt sorry for Wycliffe, who was raised by his grandmother while his father was largely out of the picture. Yet I knew Paul hadn't seen his family in a long time, and I asked him about his thoughts returning home.


Paul said he hadn't seen his family since August, although he had made the two-day journey several times. His family is nomadic, and with the prolonged drought they had been forced to move frequently and far off. Now the government is trying to cut down on illegal guns, guns which protect his family because the government is unable to provide adequate security from marauding cattle raiders. "To take our guns they might as well take our lives," Paul says. The men have fled to Uganda with their guns and cattle, leaving the women and children close to towns in order to survive.


The two began talking about their backgrounds, with Wycliffe being amazed that Paul had come so far. I didn't bring up my family or background in education, and instead listened and wondered about these three men of various familial and educational backgrounds converge and discuss issues of life, pain and survival.

Wycliffe has a certificate from High School, Paul a diploma in Logistics, and I a BA degree in Political Science. I marvel where we had come from, and faithfully fear where we might go. 

The Visible & Invisible

There are two systems of authority in Kenya: the traditional and the Western. Before the British came, usually decisions were made by a group of male elders. After the British, elections and documents took over. The Kenyans quickly learned that if it wasn’t in writing, it didn’t happen.

The Kenyan structure of government often has ‘duplicate’ jobs at the local level, having both chiefs and district officers. The chiefs are the recognized authority by the community, yet the government consults with the DO. There needs to be consensus from both sides, the traditional and the Western, for anything to move forward.


Myself and Gabriel, a community leader
Sammy Mutua, an emergency and development consultant with CWS, urges communities to involve elders in the decision-making process, like holding a meeting at a proposed borehole site to discuss the way forward. Recently, he told two community representatives Gabriel and Joseph, “The church will pay for the borehole, but then the community will be responsible for maintaining the water source.”

Two worlds are colliding: How will you keep it together? One way is by writing things down, recording what happened and what people said, so that they can be held accountable later on. It used to be that one’s word was good enough. But now people act as individuals without community accountability. The visible paper is needed.

Left: Joseph and Gabriel at Borehole Site

Exact property lines demarcating land boundaries, often visibly marked by a fence, ensure proper security and ownership. There needs to be a deed, and there needs to be a fence. The answer to the question, “Whose land is it?” can change drastically depending on whether the water is below or above ground. Mutua also encouraged the community to secure a deed for a large swath of land so that cattle could graze and vegetable gardens be planted, using viable and valuable female labor.


Gabriel and Joseph agreed to make these decisions with the elders and put them in writing, thus preventing parties from reneging on their commitments. They also recognized the need to train a pump operator as well as the community on pump maintenance and financial management. Mutua encouraged these Sunday church leaders to be community leaders the rest of the week, too.

Commenting on Mutua says, “For CWS, monitoring isn’t just a policy, it is working together... Churches have done a lot of good work on the ground. The problem is that we don’t have the corresponding documentation.” I hope I can play a part in bringing these stories to light for more to read and take action.


Faith and action, word and deed, invisible and visible. Together we can move mountains. Alone we are buried underneath.

Just Cruisin'

The first time I really lived abroad was when I spent a semester studying in Ecuador with a host family in Quito. About halfway through my four-month stay, I found myself running down a beach at night until I fell upon my knees, tears streaming down my face and shouting out to God over the ocean’s crashing waves: “I can’t do this! …I can’t be here.”

Nothing as dramatic has happened during my stay in Kenya, yet I feel myself sliding into a nonchalant, “just cruising” attitude. My boss Dan came up to me the other day and asked if I was still getting all I wanted out of this experience with Church World Service. I appreciate his continued check-ins on how I’m doing, and I must say, I’m living a dream to be here in Africa working with a faith-based NGO… and it ain’t over yet.

I think there are a number of reasons for ‘this round’ abroad not being as intense. Having had my experience in Ecuador as a reference, I was better prepared for this year living abroad. For better or worse, I have not had to learn another language in order to communicate with most people here. I feel like I’m contributing to my life here and have some control; two things I sorely missed as a foreign exchange student.

Already I’m thinking about next year: about making presentations about my experience (already scheduling some dates), about finding a job (no interviews yet!), and just general re-adjustments back to U.S. life in a familiar yet new setting. Thinking about this forthcoming world apart, I’m taken from this present, amazing reality I’m floating through… rather than walking purposefully. And on some level I feel like I can no longer give it my all, and am content to just cruise until I land back on US soil July 27th.

And then I remember the response I received, eyes staring unfocusedly into the blackness of space. Out of the hollow darkness of silence called a voice: “I know you can’t, but I can. I am here. Always.”

Trading Cattle for Education

An abbreviated article I wrote for CWS

A chorus of songbirds creates a symphonic background to lush pastures and thriving acacia trees. Few would suspect a recent drought has killed many cattle, leaving the grass uneaten to rot in the Maasai land of Puko, a community in Central Kajiado District southeast of Nairobi near the Tanzanian border.

One Family of the Nkurruna Boma (Family Compound)
Norkeyio Nkurruna does not recall a drought this severe since she was a little girl. During this drought she lost eight cows, most of whom were expectant. The three remaining young ones will hardly be enough to support her six children and numerous grandchildren living within her compound. Her husband Olesalao has a total of twenty children with two other wives, and his herd of 306 is now down to a mere 50. He now leaves the pickup truck at the house, unable to afford the fuel for the 13 km trek to town.


Heading to the Borehole Site
The whole region has suffered from the drought, with no health network for over 70 bomas or family compounds. The nearest water source is 11 km away, a borehole that was only put in last year and ceased to work for many months. This means a full day must be sent to take the cattle for water, and the women make the three-hour journey one way.

Boreholes are notorious for not working consistently in this region. Prolonged drought exacerbates the situation, often overworking the generator until it breaks. During the drought, each herdsman must pay 25 Kshs ($ 0.32) per head of cattle to drink from the borehole. The community has already shown great initiative, putting together their resources and paying to survey a borehole site. The community has also given small goats to desperate families in order to breed and replenish their livestock.

Another decade will pass before the Nkurruna family has another 100 cows, still only half of what they had. Yet a son Mokinyo Dami fears they will never make have that many, with food and school fees for the children to pay. After the drought’s devastation, he and his wife Enoolera have decided to invest in the education of their children rather than food for their cattle.