We Are But Humans

There is an old man who lives in our small town who sits in a wheelchair. The wheelchair is comprised of a white, plastic yard chair and two bicycle wheels. He looks to be around seventy-years-old, but there is no way to tell for sure. He wears the same neutral-colored shirt and a rust red hat every day which half covers a large tumor on the side of his head. I see him frequently, usually more than once everyday. He makes his way through the town sometimes stopping near the bakery, other times at the post office, and occasionally in the village tucked just behind the main road in town. His eyes glow when I look into them, like eyes that don't meet the eyes of other people but on rare occasion.
There is a physical energy that runs through his body when I stop, smile, and request to hear how his day has been. Despite my cordial words, his responses are never audible. He shakes a bit and mumbles in a familiar Swahili tone, then points to his stomach and pats his lips. We repeat this routine each day.
His actions are of desperation, but the way his eyes glow one would think we'd been friends for years. Sometimes it's too much for me. I speak with all the positivity and hope I can give him with my limited language, but I know that it's not enough. He will never have the security that I have. Nourishment, peace and shelter will never be a given.
Some days I avoid him. It's only selfish and I recognize that, but some days it takes me too far down. I can hand him 20 shillings or 50 shillings, enough for a meal or a liter of water, but I can't hand him a better situation or peace of mind.
A couple of days ago I felt lead to walk down a side street that I never take. It was a minor inkling, but I've been learning to follow those little pushes. I walked about 20 feet down the alley, the broken brick road covered in donkey waste and forgotten trash, then I saw the wheel chair--empty--parked in front of a couple of steps. As I approached the chair I heard a rustling to my left and turned my head to find the old man struggling to stand and relieve himself in a pile of garbage. I walked forward as I was on the way to a meeting with the owner of an expensive restaurant just a block down the same road.

We are here, but that means nothing. Our hearts are not changed because we choose to travel to a poor place--there are celebrities and royalty in our midst every day and the situation remains unchanged. The town just a short boat-ride away has been bought out and turned into a quasi-theme park for tourists looking for a "safer" African experience. A walk away, people go blind because the hospital doesn't have eye drops, women sleep on the street in hopes of encountering a generous tourist who will buy them their daily bread, orphaned children falsify their birth dates so they can attempt to find a job and survive independently.
When I find myself becoming jaded and unaware of the place I am living in, these are the moments that bring me back. They happen in small instances every day, and they slowly wear at the heart.
"Tuko Pamoja" is a phrase that's used constantly here which literally means "We are One" or "We are Together." When someone needs a little money, a place to stay, a cup of chai, a ride across the channel, this phrase is used to remind both parties that we are all humans, we are in this together, we give what we have, and my having today means nothing about having or not having tomorrow.

Nimefurai kumambia hii kuhusu Kenya leo.

Love and positivity from the Coast,
Katia