It Happened on the Way to War (19 page)

“Don't even think about it,” Salim shot back.

Ambassador Carson reminded me of the actor Morgan Freeman. Tall, handsome, and gray-bearded, he exuded a stately presence as he welcomed us into the sitting area of his office overlooking a swath of savanna at the edge of Nairobi National Park. Ronnie was an instant hit with the ambassador. His adorable, sleepy presence made for a natural lead into the story of the clinic. Tabitha spoke about her journey with characteristic humility and understatement, and I chimed in every now and then when she was being excessively modest. The ambassador listened with a calm, unaffected expression. I couldn't tell what his impressions were until he mentioned that he was amazed by what $26 in the right hands could create. He said he wanted to see the embassy doing more in Kibera, in part because the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) was located right next to the slum near Jumba's office at Kenyatta Market and the Royal Nairobi Golf Club. I would later learn that the CDC headquarters in Kenya was among the largest CDC offices in the world, and that its pioneering work in disease surveillance and prevention had a global impact.

Tabitha's story was so moving that it could easily lead people to think that health care was our primary focus. The ambassador needed to know that our mission was to prevent ethnic violence and develop young leaders in a holistic way. As soon as there was a break in the conversation, I introduced Salim as my friend and colleague from MYSA. Ambassador Carson had a positive opinion of MYSA and believed in the power of sports to strengthen communities. Salim spoke about how our organization brought different ethnic groups together. To play in our soccer league, kids had to form interethnic teams, and they had to participate in community-service cleanups. “It's like you do something, we do something,” Salim said as Ambassador Carson nodded in agreement. “You do nothing, we do nothing. Everything has to be earned.”

“And you, ma'am?” the ambassador turned to Elizabeth, “Are you from Kibera?”

“Oh, no,” Elizabeth recoiled, “I'm not from down there.” The way she said “down there” didn't carry the same patronizing air as it did when Oluoch used the phrase, but I knew that it wouldn't sit well with Tabitha and Salim. Elizabeth was from a different class. She viewed her efforts to build a nursery school as charity for the poor, whom she pitied.

“And what happens after nursery school?” the ambassador asked.

The question caught Elizabeth off guard. She stumbled through a response about building a primary school, at which point I explained that part of our hope was to inspire others through our actions. The ambassador nodded, though he didn't seem to find my answer persuasive.

Despite losing momentum at the end of the meeting, the ambassador encouraged us to apply for a small grant from his self-help fund. Those were the words we needed to hear. It felt like a success as we walked out of the embassy. In fact, it felt like a major milestone, and I was looking forward to telling Semaj and my mother the news. They had already done a lot of work on the grant application.

We walked out of the embassy to our taxi and I proposed that we take a group photograph to capture the happy moment. As soon as our taxi driver snapped a picture, Kenyan security guards surrounded us. They confiscated my disposable camera and told us to leave immediately.

I should have known better. Of course the embassy wasn't going to allow photographs. That was a basic security precaution. The event forced me to ask myself if I had lapsed too far into NGO mode and out of the military mind-set that would soon define my career. It wasn't far away. My mother was about to return to the United States. In less than a month I would be back in Quantico training to lead Marines.

JENNIFER COFFMAN'S FRIEND Ben Mshila convened a dinner with Salim and Tabitha to thank my mother for her service. “To Mama Omosh.” Ben raised his glass and toasted her. “Tabitha's motto is Sacrificing for Success. And this week, Mama Omosh, you have really sacrificed. In fact I can say that I was shocked when I learned you were staying in Kibera. You would be surprised, many of the Kenyans I know have never been to the slums. And you, you were sleeping there.”

As Ben spoke, I thought about how Nate and I had spent almost the entire summer in Kibera without a serious security incident. I was beginning to underestimate the risks. The slum wasn't as crime-infested as many elites feared, but there were many dangerous places in Kibera and throughout Nairobi where outsiders would be foolish to venture without the right local guide.

The Somali neighborhood of Eastleigh where Tabitha had once sold her vegetables was one of the most precarious parts of the city. That evening after dinner I was planning to spend the night there at Salim's apartment. Located adjacent to the Mathare slums, Eastleigh was the next step up from the slums in terms of standard of living, and I was curious to see Salim's place. However, our dinner went longer than expected, and I needed to escort my mom back to Kibera.

“Rain check?” I asked Salim.

“Anytime, bro. My place is yours.”

“But tell your friend that I'm sorry he felt like he had to find another place to stay tonight. Next time I can sleep on the floor.” Salim shared his room with a deaf, mute friend from Mama Fatuma Children's Home.

“No problem, man.”

The following day Salim missed a meeting in the city center and his cell phone appeared to be disconnected. Salim was extremely punctual and always carried his cell phone. We were seriously worried by the time he called me in the evening as I was escorting my mom to the airport. Salim sounded distressed and said something about being robbed before his phone cut out.

“Here,” Mom said after I hung up. She handed me $200 in a roll of $20 bills.

“For what, Mom?”

“For Salim. I can't imagine he has insurance, apart from his friends and family.”

Her gesture reminded me of the street girl with the infant swaddled to her back at the Globe Roundabout. “It's good to help when you can,” Mom had said.

We arrived at the airport. I carried her suitcase to the terminal.

“Well, I wish I could stay,” Mom said, looking worried.

“What is it, Mom?”

“Just stay safe, okay?”

We hugged. Words alone couldn't express how tremendous it felt to have shared those moments with my mother. It was the beginning of CFK, and Mom, more than anyone else, had inspired the journey.

SALIM'S BLOODSHOT EYES conveyed a rare depth of exhaustion when we met for breakfast the following morning.

“Dude, what happened?” I asked.

“Late that night, I was sleeping when they locked my neighbors' doors from the outside. My neighbors couldn't do anything when the thugs hit my door down.” Shotgun to his head, flashlight to his face, they looted his home.

“It's just good you weren't there,” he said, “because they would have demanded money from you.”

“Or panicked and shot us.”

“It's possible. Eastleigh people get worried when they see a
mzungu
.”

“Man, I'm sorry. I even asked to stay with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I endangered you.”

“When you live in such a place, you're always in danger. I don't mind, but I'm also glad you weren't around. Definitely it would've been worse.”

“Did they take much?”

“Rye, they took everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yeah, everything that mattered. I still have my bed, some furniture.”

“Oh, man”—I put my hand on his shoulder—“I'm so sorry.”

“You know, it was somebody I know.”

“What do ya mean?”

“It had to be someone who knew me well because the thugs left with my TV then came back minutes later for the remote. My TV was wired so that it could only be turned on with the remote. They must have been tipped off, you see. Only my friends ever came to my place. Only my closest friends knew about my remote.”

“I've never been through such a loss, man. I don't know what to say other than I'm here for you. I'll help you in any way I can.” I remembered my mom's gift. “And this, my mom wanted you to have this.” I handed him the roll of bills.

“What for?”

“She was next to me when you called.”

“Really?” He was tearing up.

“Really. Your mom would've done the same thing.”

“No, she wouldn't.”

“What?”

“You know my mom, she's in Mombasa.”

“Oh?” I had assumed she was no longer alive.

“Have you seen her, your mother?”

“Yes, but not all that much.”

“You knew her growing up?”

“No, in fact the first time I met her was when I was older and my grandmother, she introduced us. It was two weeks before my grandmother was killed, actually.”

“Killed?”

“A bus hit her in the city center when she was on her way to her vegetable stand.”

“Oh, man.” A bolt of pain penetrated my heart.

“Yeah, it was bad, really bad. They took her to the hospital but the doctors, they were all on strike.”

“And she had just introduced you to your mother?”

“Yeah, she did do that.”

“I mean, what was that like?”

“Well, the thing is, I was older, like twenty years old. So for me it was more like the aspect of being good to meet her, but not having much to talk about. At one point it begins to be like we are punishing each other. It's not finding answers. At the same time just being together is good, because it's like we're moving forward.”

“So your mother was there for your grandmother's funeral?”

“No, actually she was sick and stuck in Mombasa.”

“Sick?”

“A stroke, or something.” He sounded as if he was no longer comfortable talking about his mother.

“Your father, is he alive, too?”

“No, I don't know. The way I see it is, if my grandmother wanted for me to know my father she would have told me those things. She protected me from so much, you know. So that makes me not even wonder or explore it.”

“She was such a great woman. I wish I would've met her.” Although Salim didn't have a photograph of his grandmother, he had once described her hands. With skin leathered from the sun and calloused by the streets, they were the hands that had protected Salim. They were gritty and beautiful, tender and defiant.

“Yes, she was great. My grandmother and Mama Fatuma, they're my role models. They taught me honesty and working hard. If you live with integrity, it's that integrity that sets you free. If you're honest, then why fear? Those are the things they taught me, and, you know, both of them, they weren't literate.”

“Was your grandmother buried here in Nairobi, or up-country. Because if she's here in Nairobi, maybe I can visit her, if that'd be okay with you?”

“My grandmother, her home was Nairobi, not up-country, and so it was really good that she was buried here in Nairobi. She's here in Langata Cemetery.” Langata Cemetery sat on a hill overlooking Kibera. “Someday maybe we can go.”

“You went to the funeral?”

“Of course.”

“Did you help organize it?”

“Not really. These relatives from up-country showed up. Actually it was not good for me. At Kikuyu funerals, we wear this white patch if you are a relative of the deceased. When I went to get a patch from the basket, a guy stopped me and said, ‘We don't know you. There's no Salim Mohamed in this family.' ”

“Did you know him?”

“Aye, never. Never had I seen him. My name was changed when I went to the children's home. My grandmother, she didn't mind that I was Salim and had become a Muslim. She still called me by my Kikuyu name, but, you know, she accepted that thing. She loved me for being a Muslim. I was so pissed at that guy and the others. They didn't know my grandmother. They let her live on the streets. Anyways, the other hawkers were there and came to my defense.”

“Was there a fight?”

“Believe me, I would have fought those people. But they knew it and so they stepped aside and I took the white patch. The other thing is that it's important to pour dirt on the grave. At first those people, they didn't want me to do that thing either, because again it's for the family.”

“They tried to block you?”

“They tried but they couldn't. I forced my way in. Nothing would've stopped me.”

“God, I'm sorry you had to go through that.” I placed my hand back on his shoulder.

“It's okay, actually. I forgive them.”

“You do?”

“Because that's the only way. You know, when I returned to Mama Fatuma's from the funeral, I was so angry. I told my brothers and sisters at the children's home what had happened, and we had a special bond that we all pull together. The thing is, our family, it was us. Mama Fatuma and my grandmother taught me that aspect of love. They had sacrificed for me and I just had this feeling that it was time to go beyond. We were on our own. But we were lucky, too.”

*
  T. E. Lawrence, “Twenty-seven Articles,”
The Arab Bulletin
, August 20, 1917.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

War on Trash

Kibera, Kenya

JULY 2001

AS WE ENTERED OUR FINAL TWO WEEKS IN Kibera, Nate, Semaj, and I sat down to think about a plan for CFK beyond our short time on the ground. There was too much to do and we needed to prioritize what we could accomplish before leaving. At the top of our list was leadership. The three of us agreed that CFK could survive in Kenya only with Salim, who was still employed by MYSA, as the leader. Tabitha was too focused on the clinic, and Salim was the only other person we trusted who also had the necessary community focus, management expertise, and street credibility. While we were sure that Tabitha would support Salim as the head of CFK, the relationship between Salim and Elizabeth was on less certain ground. Elizabeth was aloof in Salim's presence, and Salim questioned Elizabeth's level of commitment and community awareness. In addition to executive leadership, our list of top priorities included forming a local Kenyan board and securing enough new funds to cover at least six months of operational expenses.

We decided to focus on pulling together CFK's grand finale. It would involve the final match of our first major soccer tournament and a major community cleanup. The grand finale would actually be a beginning, and it would help CFK establish its presence and identity in the community. We agreed that this cleanup was the most important event.

Cleanup
, however, just wasn't the right word. A cleanup was what Nate and I occasionally had done in our dorm rooms. In Kibera, our community cleanups were battles. They were among the most physically demanding group activities in which I had ever participated. They were the ultimate Kibera gut check. At CFK, a cleanup meant going knee deep into the sumps of sewage, waste, and dead animals and hauling out tons of garbage in pushcarts that became so heavy they required a half dozen men to shove them out of the slum.

On Salim's suggestion, we planned the final cleanup to take place the morning after the championship match so that we could encourage fans at the game to participate. The pressure was on. Word had spread in the community about Caroleena, as our sports program was called. We anticipated at least a thousand fans, and most of those people would be seeing CFK's work for the first time.

With our plan in place, we jumped back into action. The following morning, Nate and I went to Fort Jesus to meet with Elizabeth and review the Carolina Academy budget. About an hour after we arrived, Oluoch stormed out of the bathroom with a red
kanga
wrapped below his belly. “How many times do I have to say it? Put the toilet seat down when you're done!” he barked.

I apologized.

Elizabeth flicked her wrist as if to say,
Don't mind him.
I was getting frustrated though. I had loaned Oluoch $1,500 to purchase a bus for his own private business venture. He was a month past due in paying us back, and we needed those funds. Each time I spoke with him about repayment, the tension between us spiked. Oluoch expected me to conform to Kenyan cultural norms, including deference to age. I remembered the wisdom Looseyia had passed on to me in the Masai Mara as a teenager, and I tried to treat Oluoch with respect. Yet the longer I was around him, the more his insults to others seeped under my skin.

Elizabeth had made considerable headway with Carolina Academy. Weeks after we cut her a check for $4,000, she had secured a building in Kibera that would comfortably fit fifty schoolchildren. She had interviewed candidates for teacher positions, while Jane had identified twenty orphans who were ready to be enrolled. That morning Elizabeth voiced her support for Salim's leadership and suggested that we finalize our budget that evening with Salim over dinner.

Evidently, Elizabeth didn't inform Oluoch ahead of time that she had invited us to dinner. Instead of retreating to his sofa to watch television after dinner, Oluoch remained at the table as we dove into the budget.

We had been clear from the beginning. CFK could only commit $5,000 to the launch of the Carolina Academy. After our initial investment, Elizabeth needed to figure out how to cover the additional costs. However, Elizabeth looked shocked as we reviewed the numbers. To complete the construction and furnish the school would cost $7,000. Running the school for a year with fifty children would cost at least $10,000. Elizabeth either underestimated the costs, or she had assumed CFK would be the sole sponsor.

“You've only given her four thousand dollars,” Oluoch interjected.

“Yes, that's right.” Legs crossed, I tried to remain calm.

“You owe us five thousand dollars. Where is it?”

“I owe
you
?” My voice rose. “No, we owe you nothing.”

“Is that what you think, boy?” Oluoch leaned forward.

“Oluoch, please.” Elizabeth reached for his wrist.

He waved off her gesture and continued, “Boy…” I didn't hear the rest of his sentence. I hated when people called me boy.

“How about this, Oluoch? You pay the fifteen hundred dollars you owed us last month for our loan, and then Elizabeth will get the one thousand dollars.”

“Did you just, did you just threaten me, boy?”

“Don't call me
boy
,” I stuck my finger at him.

“You, you come into my house, eat my food, sit there with your crossed legs, and insult me. Who do you think you are? You think you can just come to my country and boss us around like a British, like we work for you? No!”

It was the first time a Kenyan compared me to a British colonizer. My emotions cooled for a moment as I objected to his accusation on rational grounds. Participatory development was all about empowering local leaders. It was the opposite of colonial conquest. “I'm not bossing anyone around. We're just volunteers. Salim, Tabitha, and Elizabeth run their own projects.”

“Salim? Tabitha? Who are these people?” Oluoch shouted. “You bring these people into my house. You bring a Somali street kid, or Kikuyu, or whatever the hell he is, and some slum woman into my house eating my food.”

Salim stood up and excused himself. Elizabeth apologized and asked him to stay.

“No,
mama
,” he replied. “I understand. I must go.”

“We'll wait outside,” Nate said, and walked out with Salim.

“You put him at the same level as us,” Oluoch continued, pointing his thick finger at my face, “I never want to see him in here again, you understand?”

“They are equal. That's the point. And you owe us fifteen hundred dollars.”

Oluoch swatted at my legs with his hand. “Don't cross your legs in front of me.”

I stood and faced him, fist clenched.

Elizabeth threw her full figure between us.
“Stop!”

I should have walked out. “You want to fight, Oluoch? Come on. I'm standing right here.”

Elizabeth pushed me out of the living room and swept the door shut. Oluoch shouted in Luo, one of many local languages that I didn't understand.

Salim and Nate were waiting for me outside. They had heard everything. Salim looked both sad and angry.

“Sorry,” I said, putting my arm around his bony shoulder. “How ya doin', bro?”

“I can never work with that man.”

“What about Elizabeth?”

“Can you imagine sleeping in the same bed with Oluoch?” Nate joked.

Salim turned to me. “I don't know. I don't want to think about it right now.”

I didn't want to think about it either. We walked with Salim to the main road so that he could catch a
matatu
minibus to his home, the same room in Eastleigh that was ransacked weeks earlier. He was trying to decide whether or not to follow our advice and move closer to Kibera, where it was safer. Just about any other place in Nairobi was safer than Eastleigh.

“Tuko pamoja.”
Nate extended his fist to Salim. “We are together.”

Salim smiled. “You guys, you guys are something else.”

We bumped fists and Nate and I stepped off into the shadows, toward the railroad tracks and the shanties below.

WE WERE TOO busy to worry about Oluoch, and I still thought time and distance would help and that he would eventually repay the loan, at which point we could continue working with Elizabeth. Nate and Semaj thought I was naive for thinking Oluoch would ever make the repayment. I hoped they were wrong because I still admired Elizabeth and wanted to see the Carolina Academy succeed.

As for funding, my stress was tempered by my faith that if we communicated what we were doing in Kibera, we would get the funding we needed. I was especially optimistic about our one local lead—the Ford Foundation East Africa Office. Among the largest and most respected foundations worldwide, I assumed the Ford Foundation needed great grantees like us as much as we needed them, and I knew we had a compelling story. Tabitha had taken $26 and built a clinic. Our sports program engaged more than two hundred youth in our first tournament in less than two months. We were affiliated with a major research university in the United States, and we were a pioneer of participatory development, a smarter approach to aid.

Our “in” to the Ford Foundation's Nairobi office was Dr. Mary Ann Burris, a program officer who spoke fluent Mandarin Chinese and had spent much of her career in Asia. Mary Ann had arrived at the Nairobi office in 1996 and made one of her first grants to MYSA, where Salim became one of her primary points of contact. Salim spoke about Mary Ann with a son's affection. He loved her and had no doubt that she would support CFK. I responded enthusiastically and suggested we ask for a grant during our first meeting.

“I'll take the lead,” Salim said, putting me in my place. “It's better to go slow with Mary Ann. She likes to get to know people.”

If I had encountered Mary Ann in a different setting, I might have mistaken her for an artist. She had vibrant blue eyes and a striking, angular face. She was one of those people who seemed perceptive simply by the way that she moved, and when she spoke, I detected a faint Southern accent.

Salim handled the meeting as deftly as he ran CFK's youth forums. Their conversation occurred at multiple levels. In addition to bringing each other up-to-date on their lives, Salim mentioned CFK at opportune moments, and Mary Ann received updates about MYSA. She asked smart questions that struck at the power dynamics within the organization. Salim's responses helped me better understand why he might be willing to leave a relatively comfortable, high-status job to take a risk on a bootstrapped start-up such as CFK. Stymied by office politics, Salim craved more autonomy and more responsibility. He wanted to lead.

Mary Ann paid no attention to me at first. Hers was an office for the oppressed and the forgotten: orphans, street kids, battered spouses, prostitutes, homosexuals, and teenage mothers.

“So, you, Rye, nice to meet you. Where do you come from?” she asked toward the end of our meeting in a cool, slightly detached tone.

I mentioned UNC and her face filled with the color of familiarity. Mary Ann, too, was a Tar Heel, and her parents still lived in North Carolina. I relaxed and let the conversation flow, which it did until Mary Ann asked if I would be in Kenya full-time with Salim.

“No, ma'am. I'm a Marine. I need to return to service.”

“ ‘Ma'am'?” Mary Ann cocked her head, “Do I look that old?”

“Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. It's just what we say.”

“Now why would you be going into the military?” I suspected that she had another unasked question that was often on the minds of Americans I had met who had little connection to the military:
Aren't you better than that?

“It's another form of service. You get a lot of responsibility at a young age.”

“Do you believe that about the service? Do you believe the U.S. military does the world a service?” The questions could have come across as hostile, though Mary Ann asked them in a genuine way, as if the thoughts were so antithetical to her worldview that they had never come to mind. I assumed then that Mary Ann was a pacifist and rejected war and the use of violence for political means based on her moral principles, many of which my mother probably also shared.

Salim looked eager to see how I would respond. We had spoken a lot about ourselves, though he had never asked me such direct questions. I knew he was also deeply skeptical of militaries, partly because so many African armies kept crony governments in power and committed ghastly human rights abuses. I didn't know if Salim was a pacifist, though he had confronted so much cruelty as a child that I assumed he shared my view about the necessity of a common defense in a violent world.

“Yes, I believe militaries do service. I think some wars are just and nations need strong militaries.” Before Mary Ann could object, I added, more emphatically, “Do I think we're over militarized? Yes. Do we waste a lot of money on weapons? Absolutely. But I hope to understand it before I can influence it, and I think militaries can do more to prevent conflict. That's why I'm in Kibera now.” I was covering a lot of issues in a broad and clumsy way, lumping together complicated ideas that I was still trying to figure out in my head.