Snapshots 1

Marked

Rows of sheet metal form little streets, one house indistinguishable from the next. The little streets make up a community, a different world in the midst of bustling Nairobi. The line of houses is broken by a scraggly field, fleck by trash and trampled by excited children enjoying the last hours of daylight. One group plays baseball, another futbol. All are smiling. Their parents watch from the edge of the shantytown village.

It’s Friday night in a Kenyan slum.

Amidst the trash and the last dregs of sunset, my eyes are drawn to one house that sits apart. It looks the same as the others – stained metal walls, gently sloped metal roof. There are no windows, just an open space for the door. It’s unremarkable, save for one thing. Scrawled on the side of the walls, in blood-red pain are the words

“In God we trust.”

I’ve seen the words so many times that they’ve lost some of their meaning. In America the phrase is a slogan, a claim on prosperity. But here, they’re unexpected.

It’s true that they might just be a tribute to the wealth the American dollar stands for here in Kenya. They could be the result of longing for success and prosperity that so many can’t seem to find.

But I think they’re meant to say something more. Here, they’re not just a slogan, a string of four easy words. I think they’re a challenge to the problems of life, a challenge to the tragedy of the slums. An acknowledgement of the overwhelming fight each person who lives here goes through every day.

And in the most literal sense the phrase says, no matter where we are, no matter what happens, we choose to trust.

“In God we trust.” A phrase stolen from a nation of people who live like we don’t mean it ... and unexpectedly claimed by those who understand it’s meaning more than we ever could.

Drops

The bottle’s nearly bigger than he is. But somehow, it stays balanced, immovable, on top of his head. He’s one of a group of children carrying yellow water containers, but for some reason, he’s the one who captures my attention. He stops walking when he sees me staring on the other side of the street; his friends leave him behind. His brown eyes don’t squint in the sun beating down. They don’t narrow to hide from the never-ending dust. As I keep walking, the bottle shifts as he turns his head to follow me.

I look back at him, once, twice. Surely he can’t be more than six years old, alone, walking on the broken streets of his slum.

I want to take him with me, to keep him safe. He doesn’t belong here, in the dirt, the stench, the mass of humanity. It’s not fair that the only water he’ll drink is the dirty contents of his yellow bottle.

I self-consciously remember the unopened Dasani in my backpack.

Water drips down his face as I see him adjust his burden. He doesn’t wipe it away – it stains his face like tears.

But his eyes don’t show me sadness or fear. Instead, there’s a confidence in them, sureness.

“This is my home,” they say.