Africa, My Passion by Corinne Hofmann
‘Then in 1998 Jamii Bora opened a branch here in the Mathare slum and one day one of their organisers came along to tell us about their work. She said that if we really wanted to and tried hard enough we could change our way of life. But we didn’t believe her and refused to listen to her. But she wouldn’t give up. She said we were good mothers and were only doing the job we did to feed our children. She didn’t criticise us, she just said she wanted to help. But she also told us over and over how dangerous the job we were doing was. Some of the women had undergone the traditional genital mutilation, which made the sex worse for them. After months of her coming back again and again to visit us we eventually gave in and said, “Okay, you show us what you can do to help us.” That was when she told us about Mama Ingrid, the white lady, and said she would ask her for advice.’
All the time she is talking I’m staring in amazement at the sparkle in her eyes. She’s telling us all this frankly and honestly without complaint or feeling sorry for herself. The other women are all intent on listening to her too, just as they were with Claris.
‘Before the Jamii Bora woman left us that day,’ Jane continues, ‘she asked if we had any other skills or any handiwork we were good at. Out of the two hundred young mothers only seven put their hands up to say they could do something like cutting hair, sewing clothes or making beads. But the woman told the others not to worry and said, “There’s no need to be jealous. Set out everything you own on the table and we’ll share it all out. Then in the next day or so I’ll come back with an answer.”
‘And Mama Ingrid decided to give us a loan so we could rent a room, set up a couple of sewing machines and everything we need for a dressmaking business, for a beauty parlour and a hairdressing salon. The ones who knew how to do something taught the others. And while we were learning an adviser came to teach us how to save money too. It’s hard work as a grown-up to learn how to put away a little every day from the tiny amount of money you earn. Up until then we’d lived and worked one day at a time but now we were learning how to save for a better tomorrow. Only ninety-five out of the two hundred single mothers joined in. The others weren’t interested in the hard life that came with working and saving.
‘I started in 1999. To start with I went into a shop and asked the price of the cheapest sewing machine. It was 4,000 shillings. That meant I would have to save 2,000. I used the money to buy a treadle sewing machine and three second-hand dresses. Back home I cut them up and made them into six skirts for little girls, which I could sell for 150 shillings each. That meant I now had my own sewing machine and 900 shillings in my pocket. I was very proud, even though I was still living in a shack in the Mathare slum with my children and had not a stick of furniture. With the next lot of money I earned I bought a bed and a mattress and some cooking pots so I could make dinner at home. Things were a little better than they had been but still not exactly good, as when the rains came water still flooded into the shack. That only made me work harder. I sewed and sewed and with the next loan I got I started making jewellery too, and that sold well. So I just kept on at it and built it up slowly, getting bigger and bigger loans. By now I was up to level 13 and could borrow 600,000 shillings. As a result I’ve been living in this nice house since 2002 and my eldest children – there are four of them now – go to school. And to think it all started eleven years ago with a loan of just 4,000 shillings,’ she said with a beaming smile.
I’m hugely impressed that in just eleven years, despite all her hardships, this woman has managed to turn €40 into €6,000.
‘You know what I think,’ says Jane, ‘I think God sent Mama Ingrid to Kenya to tell us that we don’t have to be poor and ignorant. It was just that nobody had taught us what to do. Now we know and we can get on with it. You can see how my life had changed completely. Here I am today, the proud mother of two boys and two girls. They love me and I love them, and I am hopeful that there is a great future for all of us. I was even brave enough to go and take an HIV test. The result was positive but I just have to live with that as best I can. I’ve achieved great things here. None of us go hungry and there’s no other stress in our lives any more. Stress can make HIV turn into AIDS. Everybody knows how I used to live and about my illness but they just accept me the way I am,’ she tells us almost merrily. She has such an infectious laugh that we all find ourselves joining in, even if there’s not exactly anything to laugh at.
‘Once upon a time,’ she goes on, ‘I wanted to be a doctor but it simply wasn’t possible. But today I’m almost better than a doctor because I give advice to other HIV-positive people, warn young girls about the dangers of infection, and give them sewing lessons. Before I had got the money together to buy this house I prayed to God and promised Him that if I managed to get myself out of the slums I would take two young girls with me and teach them. When I finally got the house and could afford a new electric sewing machine I kept my promise. Those two girls learnt all I could teach them and now I’m training another Masai girl. My oldest daughter is nearly eighteen and I’m proud to say she’s completed secondary school. Maybe she’ll end up a doctor or something like that. My dreams live on.’
I ask her if she has any dreams for herself and she laughs and days, ‘Of course. Lots. First of all I’d like a nice car to park outside the door.’ When we all stop laughing, she adds in a serious voice, ‘The very least I want to do is pay off the loan on the house. But my biggest wish is to have grandchildren, though I’ve told my daughters not to get pregnant too soon – they should finish their studies first. But I just hope I’m still around by then and don’t depart this world as young as my own mother did. I wish God had let her live longer so that she could have seen how well things turned out for her daughter. She would have been proud of me.’
We all applaud and I can’t help but be moved by her unaffected optimism. She gets up and lays out some glass beads on the table, smiles and says, ‘Right, the shop is open for business.’
Klaus and I pick out some nice pieces of jewellery. I mention that I must choose a necklace for my daughter and all of a sudden everybody wants to know how old she is and how many children I have. They’re all amused when I say I have just the one. ‘Oh, only one!’ they exclaim. I get some photos out of my handbag and they all fuss over them, saying, ‘Oh, isn’t she pretty! But why is she so brown? She looks half-African.’ That’s when I take out the other photo, show them my former husband and his family, the manyatta I built, and tell them my own story. That amuses all of them and they start talking all at once. The mzee gives me a long look and smiles as he flicks through the photos.
Jane exclaims, ‘You absolutely have to bring your daughter to see us. I invite you to come to my house for a holiday. I’ve even got running water and a toilet. You absolutely have to come. You’re Kenyans!’
She fetches a guestbook for us to sign. Then the Masai man gets to his feet and asks us to follow him. We walk out into the blazing sunshine. He leads us into a sort of garden behind the building facade and invites us to plant a tree. They’ve got everything all prepared and all Klaus and I really have to do is think up something nice to write on a wooden board that they will place next to the tree.
As we go through the motions of planting the tree all the women start their singing and hand-clapping again. It’s a very jolly atmosphere and I feel quite honoured to be allowed to plant a tree with my name on it here in this little settlement among such a special community.
As we set out from Kaputiel Town back towards Nairobi the children are just getting out of school and the streets really come alive. There are at least a dozen children in coloured uniforms pouring into their new homes.
All the way back to Nairobi I can’t help thinking about Ingrid Munro, this remarkable woman whose involvement in these people’s lives has done them all so much good. And I have to congratulate those she helped too. who have put such discipline, energy and sheer love of life into dragging themselves out of poverty.
Five months later we’re back
‘No, Corinne, it’s really you, come back to see us again. God bless you!’ She throws her arms around me like I’m her long-lost daughter. She’s genuinely thrilled, which is very moving, but then these people are so thankful for the good luck they’ve made for themselves that they want to share it with everyone.
‘Klaus, Corinne, my friends, come, let’s go into the house and have some tea.’ Claris sends a boy to find Jane, who charges through the door just a few minutes later. She’s got a smart new hairdo, and her eyes beam as soon as she sees me and Klaus. We’re all hugging and kissing one another, but straight away she asks me, ‘But where’s your Samburu daughter? Why haven’t you brought her?’
I tell her that we have just been to see her father but that she had to go back to Switzerland. That in itself interests them and they have loads of questions for me. While Claris fusses about, getting all her best china out, one of her neighbours she’s told about us drops in. I show them all the pictures of our visit back to Barsaloi, which are all still on my camera, and we all sit and chat and laugh over tea and biscuits. It’s just like one big family. Even Jane’s children turn up. It’s the school holidays. All they want to know is how far I’ve got with telling their story. They can’t wait to see pictures of themselves in a real book.
Our surprise visit has worked out well. Everybody’s happy. There’s no sign of the difficult past that all these women had before they came here, no indication of all they went through over the years. They tell me that the township has grown. Another three families have moved in, all of them single mothers, who used to be either beggars or prostitutes and have hordes of children. It all seems miraculous, a sort of African fairy tale, but it’s all based on self-discipline, hard work, an indomitable will to survive and a deep faith in God.
As we all hug each other again when we take our leave, I’m certain of one thing: I will never forget these women. They have shown me that nothing is impossible.
MATHARE UNITED – THE SLUMDOG FOOTBALL STARS
The international media has already carried stories about Mathare United, Kenya’s most incredible football team, particularly in 2008 when they not only won promotion to the top flight but won the national league. The incredible thing about them is that all these professional footballers come from Mathare slum. They have quite literally pulled themselves up by their bootlaces. The secret to their success is nothing more than long years of self-discipline and hard training, and today they’re reaping the rewards. As full-time professionals they get paid between €100 and €300 a month, depending on how long they’ve been with the team. To be entitled to those wages they not only have to train but must be actively involved in local society, because football players are supposed to set a good example for the youth in the slums. That means that every day after training they have to take on some other work, whether it’s looking after old or sick people, telling people how to prevent AIDS or going to visit boys in jail. Sometimes they even clean the slum’s streets.
There’s no comparison with European footballers, who have contracts worth millions. Whatever they do after training, they certainly don’t clean the streets.
Mathare United FC was founded in 1994 by Bob Munro, a former Canadian United Nations employee and the husband of Ingrid Munro. The players all came together through the Mathare Youth Sports Association, which he also founded back in 1987. I was particularly interested to meet them because they have twice been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. I’m fascinated to learn about this unusual team, how they come to be in it, and how it all works.
We’ve got a meeting with Francis Kimanzi, the team coach, at 10 a.m. at their training ground.
Once again we have a driver come and pick us up from the hotel because the training ground is in a slum area we’d rather not have to travel to on our own. We slowly take the road out of our ‘respectable’ residential area and, as we’ve done so many times before, take the next turning at the crossroads to head towards the city centre. No matter what time of day we come by this crossroads we always find the same beggar kneeling on the ground on the stumps of his legs, giving a beaming smile to every driver that stops at the lights. He wears red plastic flip-flops on his hands so that they don’t get too dirty when he has to scrabble a few metres to get to the coins thrown at him. The charisma this remarkably well-kempt man exudes is extraordinary. I’ve been watching him for weeks now and every time he sees us he greets us with a cheerful ‘God bless you’, whether we give him money or not.
I ask the driver if he knows anything about him. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘He’s a lawyer by training, who lost both his lower legs in a motorbike accident. He’s been begging here for years now. The police let him be. He has to earn his money like this because he can’t work any more and doesn’t have anyone to look after him. And he has a wife and three children to support.’
Two days later I see him without the slightest show of embarrassment laughing and playing with his eight-year-old, who drops by his ‘workplace’ on the way home for school. I’m deeply moved by the sight, which seems to show once again just how strong people can be when fate deals them a bad hand. This man seems happy, despite the loss of his legs and the fug of exhaust smoke that envelops him from dawn to dusk.
Shortly after we pass him we end up stuck in a traffic jam, barely crawling along. Overcrowded matatus, which is what they call the communal taxis here, squeeze past our car with only centimetres to spare. I glance at my watch nervously as there seems no chance we’re going to arrive at the training ground in time for our meeting. Eventually we reach a three-lane stretch of road with traffic police. We keep left and gradually begin to make progress. I take the opportunity to shoot a few photos as we drive along. Steven, our driver, moves out into the middle lane so I can get closer shots. We’ve barely gone two hundred metres when a hefty policewoman steps out in front of us. Steven slams on the brakes, rolls down the window and starts talking to her. At first we don’t catch a word of it. Steven shrugs his shoulders as if the world’s gone mad and gives an embarrassed laugh. We try to find out what’s going on and the policewoman says, ‘I’m going to have to arrest your driver for crossing the safety markings.’ I have no idea what she’s talking about, seeing as there are no markings at all anywhere on the road. To be sure, there are three lanes of traffic, but there is nothing to mark them apart. And that’s not to mention the matatu drivers who don’t have the slightest regard for any sort of lane discipline. But the policewoman isn’t having any of it and insists: ‘He has driven over the line and now he will get arrested.’ She insists that he has crossed some imaginary line and will have to go to jail. We can drive on alone.
This is impossible: we have no idea where the training ground is and we hired the driver to get us there. We try to explain to the policewoman that this is crazy and we have an urgent need to get to an appointment. But it’s no use. As we refuse to drive ourselves, she squeezes into the front passenger seat and insists Steven drive us all to the nearest police station. I’m still convinced we can sort it all out because the accusation levelled against him is completely absurd. How on earth in this chaos can somebody get arrested for simply changing lanes? It’s a joke. Our driver reassures me that it won’t take long and we should wait for him in the car. Time goes by and it looks like there’s no way we’re going to make our meeting with the coach. Klaus climbs out of the car to smoke a cigarette to calm his nerves, even though we’re outside a police station and smoking in
I give up and go into the station to see what’s going on with our driver. Inside I hold out my hand to a heavy-set unfriendly woman who tells me she’s the chief. She makes a point of ignoring my outstretched hand and carries on joking with her colleague who’s responsible for all this. Then the two of them turn and grin at me and the chief says, ‘Welcome to Kenya.’
I’m absolutely furious, even though I know that’s obviously not going to help. Clearly they are looking for a bribe. It’s coming up to the weekend and these two ladies are simply looking for a bit of extra spending money. It’s not every day they have white tourists driving around this part of town. Because I was stupid enough to mention we had an important meeting they know that they can put the squeeze on us. Steven has to sign his name in a book, then they’ll take his driving licence off him until his trial, he explains in embarrassment. It’s a nasty little bit of business that could cost this man his job. We ring up his employers and explain the situation. They don’t seem to think there’s anything unusual about it at all. They tell us that if we hand over 5,000 shillings, Steven will get his licence back and we’ll be able to continue. That’s a small fortune for a driver in Kenya. Merely the fact that he had white people in his car could cost him a month’s wages. Klaus and I put the money together and all of a sudden, it’s as if nothing had ever happened.
We arrive late at the Mathare United clubhouse and training ground. I haven’t been able to get over the incident on the way. But I know that in Africa it’s important not to show stress when meeting people for the first time. Africans are very sensitive to others’ attitudes and pick up straight away if somebody they meet is giving out bad vibes.