Chapter Three To Find Yourself, You Must First Serve Others
Chapter Three
To Find Yourself, You Must First Serve Others
We’re here.
Hart’s eyes swing from mine to the passenger-side window, where he gazes out at the foreign world we’ve entered into. He takes it all in, quiet, observant.
Kibera is like nothing else. There are endless piles of trash and garbage strewn all over the place.
There’s a main road running through the center of the village, and on each side of it, thousands of shacks have been built with scraps of corrugated metal, pieces of wood, cardboard and even mud.
There’s no apparent order to it. It’s chaotic, sensory overload.
My parents didn’t try to shield me from the problems of the world, not even the big messy ones.
Poverty. Epidemics. Suffering. I was well versed in it all by the time I reached thirteen.
Maybe that’s why I feel comfortable gallivanting all over Africa and traveling alone for long stretches of the year.
It’s all I’ve ever known. But I highly doubt Hart has ever set foot in a place like this one.
Edmund parks the car, and we step out to explore. The smell is awful. Human waste. Animal feces. Rotting garbage. Dirty water.
“Is it safe?” he asks, noticing Edmund, who is not just my driver but also my bodyguard, trailing a short distance behind us.
“There are rumors of past violent crimes and kidnappings, but it is actually quite safe. The most you have to worry about is someone snatching your phone or wallet.”
Feet from us, a goat eats a piece of a brown paper bag. Hart watches it curiously, smiling and shaking his head. I have long since grown accustomed to walking the streets of Kibera, but seeing it through his eyes is illuminating.
It’s a truly humbling place filled with extreme poverty and struggles that most Americans could never begin to understand. The crease in his forehead as he surveys our surroundings tells me that he’s processing all this in an instant.
“How did it get this way?” he asks.
It’s a complicated question with an even more complicated answer.
“Officially, Kenya doesn’t even acknowledge this area exists. There’s no city-provided services. No sewer system, no garbage service. And there’s a million people packed into just a few square miles.”
As we walk, I tell him more. He’s a very captive audience.
“The unemployment rate is around eighty percent, and there’s no electricity, so they burn coal for power. There are drug problems, lack of health care creates many issues, and HIV affects almost twenty percent of the population.”
“That’s tragic.”
I peer over at him, surprised by the emotion in his voice. It really is. “But every child speaks perfect English, and they value education above everything else. The people here believe that there are two things essential for having a better life—God and education.”
He nods. “I imagine when you don’t know where your next meal is coming from, you’d have to put your faith and trust in something greater than yourself.”
“The church services here are incredibly moving. Their worship songs are especially beautiful.”
I show him the area where I plan to build the school—right here on the edge of the slum. I want to make the school as accessible as possible, and if the girls have to travel far distances, many of them would not make the journey.
“We can’t start delivering or staging building supplies for the school—they would be immediately stolen. It’s a logistics nightmare, honestly. We have to bring in what we can use one day at a time.”
His eyes widen in acknowledgment.
It may be one of the biggest slums in Africa, but the people are friendly—smiling, waving, stopping to say hello. Kids play in the streets, laughing and kicking an empty water bottle as though it were a soccer ball.
“They’re so happy,” Hart says beside me.
“They don’t know anything different.”
He stops to watch their soccer game and waves to a young boy who can’t stop staring at him.
It’s hard not to put yourself in the place of the people living here. I’d certainly be married by now at age thirty-seven. I’d likely have several children too. But I wouldn’t have any of the opportunities I often take for granted.
Some nights I lie awake worried that my work here won’t have enough of an impact to make a difference. There’s so much to be done. It’s overwhelming. Once I complained to my father, and his response was surprising.
How do you eat an elephant?
One bite at a time.
So I just keep taking bites.
We make our way carefully down the dirt pathways.
Nearby, African music plays on a radio, and people are dancing to it.
We pass women washing colorful clothes in a bucket in the alleyway, someone selling mangoes for ten shillings, and a market with handcrafted stalls where women are selling vegetables and looking after noisy children.
I spot someone I know—a local woman named Adongo. Her face breaks into a wide smile when she sees me. We stride toward each other, embracing when we meet in the center of the street.
She’s tall and thick, and her long braided hair is secured back with a colorful scarf.
“How are you?” I ask, touching her hair. “It’s longer.”
She smiles. “I am well. You look good too. Any husband yet?”
I laugh. She asks me this question every time I see her. From my pocket I hand her the packs of gum I brought along for her younger children, who are still at home with her, and she thanks me by giving me another big hug.
When I first met her, she was pregnant after being told she couldn’t carry any more children. Now she’s a single mother to six kids.
Hart has wandered over to join us. She takes him in.
For a moment, I think she will ask me who he is, but she doesn’t; she just keeps studying him, looking him up and down.
Not that I can blame her—he’s very handsome.
But she isn’t leering at him; she’s looking at him like she really sees him.
Like she sees more than what’s on the outside.
“You are at the right place at the right time.”
“Am I?” he asks, a bit confused.
She repeats it, even more assured than before, in her accented English. “You are at the right place at the right time .”
His gaze drifts to mine. “That’s a good thing, right?”
I nod.
“Hart,” he says, extending his hand.
She shakes it warmly. “Adongo.”
He repeats her name. “What does it mean?”
“The second of twins.”
I actually didn’t even know that. “You’re a twin, Adongo?”
She nods. “I was. My sister is gone now. Long time ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. We share a solemn look. “I’m showing Hart around. He and his family are interested in helping with the foundation.”
“Thank you,” she says to him. “We don’t need money; we just need someone to care.”
It’s a common sentiment—Westerners throw money at problems and then don’t stick around long enough to see if the solution actually fixed anything. It’s frustrating for the locals here. All they want is to be seen—for people to know they exist and care enough to provide a helping hand.
“How do you support your family here?” he asks her.
“Adongo owns a small beauty salon that she operates out of her house,” I say.
She nods in agreement. “I braid hair.”
After saying goodbye to Adongo, we continue on our journey. The weather is close to perfect this time of year. The rainy season has ended, and the temperatures hover comfortably in the midseventies.
Hart tips his chin to where a man is boiling a large drum of liquid, stirring it with a wooden paddle. “What’s that?”
“Changaa . It’s a popular home-brewed alcoholic drink. It’s very strong. The Swahili word changaa can be translated as ‘kill me quick.’” The high unemployment rate unfortunately has led to drinking problems for many here.
Hart shakes his head, his face filled with surprise.
“How long are you in Nairobi?” he asks as we continue strolling.
“Just a few more days, actually. I’ve been here for two months, but I’m heading off for a business meeting.”
“Another meeting with potential investors?” he asks.
“Another meeting with potential investors,” I confirm. “It’s my life these days. Turns out running a nonprofit isn’t all that profitable.”
He chuckles. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”
“Anyway, I need constant revenue coming in to fund all of our many projects.”
“Projects? Plural?”
I nod, ducking my chin, feeling the slightest bit insecure in his presence. It’s not something that happens to me often. “Yes, but I’m afraid I made myself sound more important than I really am.”
“You’re very important.” His voice is steady. “I can tell.”
“We have two other projects we’re actively funding right now.”
We walk along in silence for a few minutes more, Edmund trailing a comfortable distance behind us.
“Where are these other projects?” he asks.
“One in Indonesia—I spent four months there last year—and another in Los Angeles.”
“You’re quite the jet-setter.”
I don’t respond. The truth is, I do live out of a suitcase much of the year. But it doesn’t feel all that glamorous. It feels, at times, chaotic, messy.
What are you running from? my mother once asked me. While other teens were worried about dating and prom, I was researching which vaccinations I needed to receive in order to visit Ethiopia or India, or how to save up for a plane ticket to go back and visit friends that I’d made during other trips.
“Where are you headed next?” he asks.
“London.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there.”
“In London?” I give him a quizzical look.
“My family has sponsored an art exhibition at the National Gallery, and it opens next week.”
I don’t say anything else, because I’m not sure what to say. I didn’t expect I would see him again, so the possibility of him being in London leaves me momentarily speechless. Though it’s a big city, it’s not like I’d run into him.
“Is there anything you miss while living in Kenya for two months?” he asks, leisurely strolling beside me.
So many things. Reliable internet is one of them. Access to a quality salon where I can get a blowout. “Chocolate chip cookies,” I surprise him by saying.
Hart laughs.
“They have them, but they’re not the same,” I admit softly.
A food vendor has set up a cart on the opposite side of the street, and several people are gathered around.
“Would you like to try some traditional Kenyan street food?”
“What is it?” he asks.
“It’s called bahjia. Slices of potato coated with flour and spices and deep fried.
” I’ve had it before, many times in fact, and it wasn’t half-bad.
I figured anything deep fried in boiling oil was most likely safe.
With my busy schedule, I don’t have time to risk an intestinal event. I’m guessing neither does Hart.
He shrugs. “I’m game if you are.”
Maybe that’s all this is to him, a game . Maybe he’s a collector of experiences. Visit a slum? Check. Eat questionable food from a street vendor? Check. Flirt with an older woman? Check.
“One order? We can share?” he confirms.
I nod. “Perfect.”
He whips out his wallet before I can protest. The street vendor, not surprisingly, takes credit cards. Most business here is conducted on phones.
I check to be sure the bottled water he’s selling is still sealed. “Can I have one of these too?” I ask.
Hart nods. “Of course.”
The vendor is wearing a stained, greasy T-shirt, and he wastes no time swiping Hart’s black Amex card.
We each pick up a slice of fried potato. “Cheers,” I say, touching my slice to his.
“Cheers,” he repeats. He chews slowly. “Not bad.”
“Not bad,” I agree. They’re crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside, flavorful and slightly salty.
Edmund trails behind us as we continue. I know firsthand that it’s easy to get lost here, so I’m constantly taking note of our surroundings. We stand beside a hut where a woman weaves strands of colorful fabric together, and I take a sip from my water.
“I think I’ve had enough,” Hart says, handing me the rest of the potatoes.
“Me too.”
I place the bag into the hands of a small child who’s sitting on a concrete block. I can feel Hart watching me, like he’s trying to figure me out.
We exchange a look, but no words. There’s something enchanting about him. About how he can have an intimate conversation on one of the streets of the biggest slums in Africa as though he isn’t rattled, only curious.
“Are you single?”
I sputter for a second, choking on my water. “I’m sorry?”
“Are. You. Single?” He repeats the words slowly, confidently, still watching me.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.” He smiles.
“Twenty-five,” I repeat. When I was his age, I had recently quit a job I hated and was taking the summer to backpack across Italy. I had no idea what I wanted to do next. No idea who I was or where I was heading.
“Answer the question, Alessia.”
I like the way he says my name.
“I’m ... unattached.” I realize I sound like a weirdo. Why didn’t I just say yes? Because he’s an infant, that’s why.
I’ve been painfully single since I ended things with Sean. Experience has shown me I’m no good at the dating-app thing, and my days aren’t exactly conducive to meeting eligible men. Not that Hart is an eligible man, even if this does feel oddly warm and familiar.
He’s so tall, towering over me, and all that eye contact and smiles. Twenty-freaking-five. I’m sure he’s only trying to be nice and gather some intel for his family’s financial advisors. Maybe feel me out, see if I’m the real deal before they fork over money for the foundation.
My answer seems to please him, and I have no idea what to make of that, so we turn and walk back toward the car.
“Thank you for the tour of Kibera. It was very enlightening.”
I can tell he’s sincere, even though there’s a slight smirk on his lips. I doubt he’s ever been anywhere like this before.
We hop in the car, and Edmund begins the drive back to Hart’s hotel. We leave the slums and piles of trash behind, and Edmund fiddles with the radio. I try not to stare at the man beside me. There’s something about him I can’t figure out. His ease. He’s captivating.
“Thank you for the bottle of water.” I hand him a folded bill—one hundred Kenyan shillings.
“What’s this?” he asks, turning it over and studying the crisp purple-and-yellow bill. The watermark is a lion.
“For the water,” I say.
“I can’t take this,” he says.
I smirk. “It’s worth about forty-eight cents in the US.”
He chuckles. “I could have paid for your water.”
“I know. But now you have a souvenir from Kenya.”
He looks down at the colorful bill again, his mouth hinting at a smile.
When we reach his hotel, Hart gives me another of his lopsided smiles. “Ciao, bella.”
Goodbye, beautiful.