James

Someone once told me that reading blogs is like reading someone else’s journal –except its “legal.” This same someone has also read my journal, an action I am sure will not soon be repeated (ahem). But because I love her dearly, I thought I would actually share one of my journal entries. I apologize if it is not well polished, if it is not exciting, or adventurous. It is simply me, what I experience in a day, and describes why I love what I do.

James Mwendwa Mumo; 10 years old; favorite subject math; has two sisters and 4 brothers all under one roof with his mother. He won’t tell me anymore. He is quiet, patiently waiting for his chance to enter the door at the end of the hallway. Already it has been two hours and the line has moved very little; but it has moved, and for that I am grateful. The wait of hospital visits no longer phases me. Instead I am prepared. I’ve brought a pen, and paper, journal, book, and even cards. I usually teach the kids how to play Go Fish.

But James is quiet. I see the pain behind his eyes. Is the pain from his injury or is it from the questions about his family? I don’t keep pressing. I leave him in silence as his downcast eyes fall to the bandana around his leg. I know what it hides and I shudder to think what kind of pain he is in.

I can’t believe we made him walk. He has been missing school for the past 10 days because he has been trying to sleep away the pain. He is certainly not able to walk to school, and now we have made him walk at least a half-mile.

I wonder, have we done more harm than good? Why did I not pack ibuprofen –some help I am! I have to have trust that we will make it to the end of this line. “Dear God please let us see the doctor before they close the clinic.”

Cue –God; a woman walks up to us and places us in the front of another line. Five minutes pass and we walk through the steel door.

After the usual Kenyan greeting and relationship building, the attention is finally directed at James. He is asked to remove the yellow bandana hiding his injury. It’s bad. Dermatitis covers his leg from his ankle to his knee –and it is seriously infected. It causes his dry scaly skin to well up in some areas and ooze pus –not exactly appetizing during the lunch hour. I really wanted to let out a long whistle and say, “dang, now that is and infection.” But since that would be quite inappropriate, I sat in somber silence while the doc quickly glanced at the wound.

           

She wasn’t concerned, and she wasn’t impressed. Could this seriously be so common that it wouldn’t deserve any extra attention? Was James’ case no big deal? Did she mistake his stubbornly strong face for nonchalance? Couldn’t she see he was holding back tears??!?

I took the prescription from her, both relieved and concerned. I was relieved that we had not waited all day in vain. I was excited for this little scratch piece of paper with scribbles on it. I may as well have been Charlie and this piece of paper the golden ticket. But I was concerned for the lack of concern shown by the doctor. What kind of maladies did these doctors see on a regular basis? Did everyone around here decide to wait until it was almost impossible to get out of bed to see a doctor? I also felt concern for James. We still needed to walk to the matatu station and he was looking more tired by the moment.

The rest of the day was kind of a blur. We boarded a matatu, made it back to the center, ate a super late lunch, picked up the Kamau children from school, and then I drove to Kiambu to purchase the medicine. The pharmacy keeps the prescriptions as part of their record, and I was actually sad when she wouldn’t allow me to keep that small piece of pater (its weird, but that little paper was like a token of accomplishment –a trifle that acknowledged that we had succeeded that day)

This is only the first step in James’ care, and James is only one boy from Mathare. What is ahead is a huge process with a spreading vision –medical care for all of the people of Mathare. Medical care that expands beyond free handouts and one-time medicines. I truly believe that there will come a day when the community members will have hope when their small child falls sick, when a little boy gets an infected cut from a piece of tin, when a mother starts coughing up blood. There will be hope. They do not have to suffer through this alone, without any care. There are people in this world who care about Mathare; there are people who want to hold their hand through medical trials or tragedies. It will be a process, but the challenge is worth the fight.

Just one more step in the right direction.

The Forrest

Nairobi is a fantastic city for fast paced, chaotic activities; however less known, are those "secret gems" hidden throughout the city. One of these gems is called "the forrest." Aptly named, this exotic wonderland looks like something from Steven Spielberg's Jurassic Park. 


With a few tips from our seasoned friends, we decided a Saturday adventure through the Kenyan wilderness was exactly what we needed to calm our congested minds and cleanse our 'fume infested lungs.' After paying our parking fee, we grabbed our small sack lunches and set off with a skip in our step -completely unaware of where we were going or what we would see.

Five girls walking through a forest. At first it started as a dirt road, winding and twisting around magnificent trees, but then the road faded into a faint trail, outlined by the simple curvature of the land. Soon we were almost swallowed in the enormity of the tress. It was a bright day, but beneath the dense canopy we were thankful for the few rays of sunlight that lit our narrow way. Enormous ferns littered the valley floor and gave definition to a small creek below. Birds fluttered through the air casting eerie shadows on our patch and the constant hum of mosquitoes reminded us that this place was still a land of mystery.

There was an unspoken fear that was growing with each step. AS we made our way deeper and deeper into the woods we were forced to make more turns, creating a zig-zag path that we hope to be able to back-track. The woods were darker, and the path was fainter. However, the fear that had been mounting with the darkening of the trees was quenched with the sight of adorable little boys running from the bush. Normally you would think small children appearing from no-where would be cause for alarm, but their precious curious faces were excited and timid at the same time.

By this time we were hungry, so we walked a few more meters down the path and set-up camp (ok, so we just found a downed tree to sit on, but it was nice enough). We just started chomping down on our sandwiches when I looked up into a pair of inquisitive little brown eyes. They were peeping out from a safe distance behind a tree. Then, two more pairs appeared, each set steadily focused on the veggie sandwich gripped firmly between my hands. As I continued to munch my interest grew, and I wondered what they would do if I walked towards them -would they run back to their "bush," or eagerly snatch the sandwich from my hand? Well, my thinking didn't last long, as I was eager to share the picnic with our new-found "lost boys" (because they reminded my of the boys from Peter Pan). I dropped to my knees, dug through our picnic bag, pulled out some PB&Js and made my way towards the patient children. They didn't move. I approached the oldest boy first, handed him the sandwich wrapped in foil and then called for the others. They didn't move, not until the eldest unwrapped the goods and took a big bite. Then their confidence grew, and they came to me with hands open, waiting for their share.

I don't know much about the Lost Boys from Peter Pan, but for some reason I always perceived them as being hidden. On this particular day of venturing through the woods it really did feel like someone had taken me to Neverland -and low and behold, I met the lost boys. They are sweet -and I'll be darned, if they don't love Peanutbutter and Jelly sandwiches!