The Great Depression

"Hey, can you get me a job?"

I'm asked this question as often as I'm asked for money. My first reaction was to be incredulous- Why am I being asked this question? Is it be cause I'm white? Is it beacuse I obviously have money, and therefore a job? Is it because of colonialism and British employing the Nationals?

These questions dissolve into annoyance, as the tension in my brain transfers to the muscles in my neck and shoulders. I want to snap, "Why don't you get yourself a job?!" All of these people are men, and they are usually dressed quite well in a suit resembling one from GoodWill in the States. They seam perfectly capable of working- so why are they asking me for a job?

On a morning run I passed by a group of men standing in front of a locked gate. They seemed to be waiting for the gate open and a man to call a few of them in. It was a scene right out of Cinderella Man from the Great Depression. As I ran by, a few men followed my movement. I was a free man, running on some type of job, while they were stuck, waiting, thinking...

What's the difference? What makes me different from them? Where I was born? The color of my skin? My education level?

Kenya's unemployment rate is somewhere in the neighborhood of 25-40%. Many people employ themselves in the informal sector, in non-taxed and non-registered business activities. During the morning and afternoon traffic jams, hawkers float amongst their customers jailed in steal cages, hoping for a window of opportunity to open and keep them fed for one more day. I hear about all kinds of scams, especially from those who beg, and still I wonder how anyone - and especially myself - would survive in such a situation.

I finished my run, taking a cool-down walk past my apartment complex. A young man, his clothes hanging from his body like moss on a frail oak tree, stoops over a pile of garbage. In one hand he holds a bag of trash, aka small treasures to sell to only he knows who. The words "garbage collector" take on a whole new meaning.

He looks up as I look away, and the question hangs heavy in the crisp morning air:
"What do you do for a living?"