The Purple dress

The purple dress is a story about generosity, kindness and compassion of a perfect stranger. The purple dress is also the thematic subject matter of a book I am writing. The book chronicles sketchy memoirs of my journey and life growing up in Kenya and entitled "The Purple dress.Lessons from True love, generosity and kindness of a perfect stranger.

I have many important people in my life; most of them have touched my life in ways that I will forever be grateful. However, if I were to describe who among them is the most important of all, it would be fair to say that all those many people that have directly and indirectly changed my life are like a woman’s children. Each child brings something special to their home, to their family relationships or to people whose life they cross and is loved and appreciated for different reasons. To me, some people are immeasurably important because of what happened when they entered my life albeit for just short few days, and the subsequent events that left a permanent indelible impression on me, changing my life for ever. You will not begin to understand how important this particular person is until you read a small background story. Here it is.

The most important person in my life is a woman named Judy. The paradoxical truth is that I do not know her last name but she is forever the angel that salvaged and changed my life from the haunting gutters of Nairobi slums, those many years ago. It's this woman I owe my education and quality of life. A woman only known to me as simply “mzungu”(Swahili for white) Judy. She is my understanding of the power of a stranger’s kindness, compassion and generosity. It is in her deep blue eyes which I looked into many years ago, that I gather my understanding of real kindness and faith in humanity albeit all the cynicism and skeptical chaos of this planet.

When I was 10 years old, we lived in a slum in west Nairobi called “Kibagare slum village” situated close to Kangemi shopping district. Sometimes people referred to the same slum as Michigwi slums.(Don't know what that means and why?).  It is a slum and home to over several thousand dwellers, nestled paradoxically between the elite Nairobi High School and the affluent Loresho and Kyuna neighborhoods of west Nairobi, only a short bus ride from the gleaming skyscrapers of downtown Nairobi. As you approach the slum shanties, you can not miss the great contrast between the depressing shanties and the beautiful rows of red brick posh homes and rows of well manicured lawns and hedges that is  Loresho and Kyuna neighborhood .

Now before telling you about Judy, follow me for a tour of our "house" at Kibagare Slums, so you too can have an idea of the tour she also took to my family's abode....

For me Kibagare slums was my only sweet home for quite a significant number of years in my childhood. Here, we lived in a one tin roofed card boards room with my family and six siblings. The room was divided into two halves using an old garment as the divider. We called it Pasia.(swahili for curtain). That way, we secured some minimal privacy for my mother and the occasional nights she shared the other side of the pasia with my father when he came home. I and my three other sisters, Njoki, Rebecca and Mary shared a small three by six springy bed. It was squeezed deep into the furthest corner of the room with its legs ending where my brothers sleeping mats began. The girl's bed sagged at the middle, kind of like mimicking a not so good hammock.

The springs that held together the middle rubber tyre-like strands were broken but tightened close with rusty ancient bolts and nuts to secure stability. Those springs criss-crossed like a weave knit together so as to hold onto the thin sisal fibres
pad that served as a mattress. I will not give names but one or more of my sisters gave us grief by doing "night time irrigation activities" that flooded the bed at least  three times during the week. You can imagine being awaked by mouldy smell of a flooded wet mattress pad. While the bed sank and sagged with our weights, the creaky noisy springs bent inwards towards the middle gathering the bodies of the sleeping four sisters into a messy cargo.  I had to share the bed with bed wetters. Well, I guess that's the glue that bound our sisterhood. Besides, perhaps a family that sleeps together, gets flooded together. And for that I am grateful.

Right beneath the girls saggy hammock bed was my brothers sleeping space. Joe and James shared a huge mat that could be spread out on the floor for their snoozy overnight sweet dreams. The mat was actually unbelievably comfortable as it was ingeniously crafted, weaved and sewn together like a big mattress pad using string fibres stripped carefully from a local tropical plant called sisal.(You can goggle "Sisal plant fibres" and see for yourself the magic of a tropical plant whose fibres would be weaved into a warm "mattress" for my mama's boys.

But then again, what other better bed had I ever slept on to give an objective comparison? The inside of this sisal fibres bag or "mattress" was stuffed with all manner of things ranging from old rugs, cotton wool balls, dried soft grass and chicken feathers and whatever else the boys managed to stuff in for more softness. And that was the family's sleeping arrangement every night for many years of my childhood. Now, come tour the living room....

In the middle of the room, which basically was the same space that was my brother's night time dreaming space, there lay an old hideous looking little table we always had ever since I was born. That old table seemed to follow and find space wherever we moved. During the day, it's put back to its space in the middle of the room. In my mind's eye, I still see the black edges, rough top with peeling floral Formica. Every morning my sister and I would carefully cover the old table with an embroidered garment that had recently been the family curtain dividing our house into convenient imaginary separate rooms for mama's privacy. You can tell it has had it's better days judging by the stringy hems and several burn holes. However, for some odd reasons, me and my sisters thought that table cloth gave our "house" some special opulence and ambience. .......

Okay, now come with me to the kitchen which is a couple inches around the formica table. Besides, there was not much cooking done in our house and it's not because any of us hated to cook. Most times if there was kerosene oil to light up the wick lamp, I would be reading my books silently. There were times that we would  laugh over little things. Deep hearty mirths over silly things. Perhaps that way,  we managed to build our own kind of contentment at the family "living room space". Now, Somewhere under the formica table was a kerosene stove that gave the room a pungy smoky smell. But over time we got used to the smell and everybody stopped complaining. Almost like an olfactory contentment with any hideous smells in the only room we called home.

Quite often if there was something to cook we would gather log sticks and make a three stone hearth as a cooking space. I loved the sounds of crackling fires and the ember splinters that occasionaly flew up as hot sparks all over the room, landing and making holes onto our skirts as we warmed our hanger pangs. One could throw more logs and fan the fire by blowing through the  mouth till the fire bursts into flames. I remember blowing into the fire was some kind of a chore especially on occasional days when we cooked githeri (mixer of corn and beans) for any meal. On such days there was activity at the cooking hearth. Well, our kitchen.

I loved sitting in silence  listening to the splashy noise of boiling cooking pot. My mama would call onto some one and ask them to gather back the burning logs together, then blow into the logs using your mouth to keep the flames up. I remember the embers splinters cracking away sending sparks flying all over the room. Sometimes making holes on our only skirts. It was a family cooking together. Those were special days. Sometimes we went for days without food and it was also hard to go to school on an empty stomach. All this while, my father had given up, abandoned us and escaped to the only safety and wisdom that made sense to him. God for us all and everyone else can toil for themselves.

As a 10 yrs old child I felt spent, forsaken, mangled, exhausted and empty. Life was dry and quite dull.
I had been sent home from school due to lack of school fees, school uniform and school supplies. Many children in the slums of Kibagare village stayed home and never went to school. Most of them had no parents or a real family. Life here was about surviving each day at a time. Due to lack of school uniforms and school supplies many children turned to the streets. I had always loved school and wanted to get away from “Kibagare” slums. School was a haven of peace for me.

But one day, the school principal ruled that no child could come to school bare feet due to frequent sewer burstings and flooded toilets. Also, no one was allowed to come to school without the right school uniform and books. The cost of a pair of shoes, fees and school supplies far exceeded the occasional one dollar a day my mother made cleaning houses.

The continued hunger problems also made it necessary that I drop off school.  So I had to stay home. I stayed home for a year and I had lost all hope of ever going back to school. For one year, I pondered my loss and saw my dreams get gravely shattered. At 10 yrs old, still a child I saw only grave darkness ahead. The likelihood of getting married at 15 yrs was quickly becoming a reality. I was sad. I felt crucified and stripped off my freedom to walk to the future. Without education, a child has no light. Just total darkness. Period.

If the physical look of my slum compound was anything to go by, then it depicted with clarity what I would expect my future to be like. When you look across the congested terrain from a hill, all you see is a patchwork of metal roofs, card board or tin walls. You see miles of corrugated iron and wooden shacks, caked in the mud, punctuated by mountains of garbage, Massive broken glasses everywhere, the walk paths are narrow and hideously wedged between one "house" to the other, piles of garbage strewn everywhere and tonnes of gutters with flies all over, disintegrating muddy paths with traces of concrete, little paddles or streams of stinky sewege contents snaking their way lazily around the compounds, there was not any kind of garbage disposal and we literally lived on top of our trash.

No decent toilets, blocked “sidewalks” full of empty eyed boys sniffing glue cans all day to numb their hunger pangs, almost every couple yards you will see a boy or two addicted to sniffing glue passed out face-down in the dirt, wearing no shoes and feet caked with dirt, black grease under his nails, and crawling with flies, men sitting idly with hardened faces and with hands in their pockets, women walking with their heads down, eyes on the ground almost closed with defeated looks afraid of being raped. Then there are the crowded kiosks hoisted on loosely grounded poles where men and women sell their merchandise, occasionally someone will insist on selling sour milk, tainted chicken, and spoiled meat and boiled eggs that have been on the market way beyond the healthy expiration dates.

Most times the municipal coulcil rations water and people line up for long hours for a single bucket of fresh water. Many Kibagare village dwellers suffered from starvation and the ravages of diseases, such as AIDS and the almighty vampire, malaria. Night time had frightening errie feeling to it as shadowy men and women hurried through the darkness to their rat hole-like shanties. You could see long shadows of people, cast on the walls of their "houses" through the gaping holes as the light burnt away  from lantern kerosene wicks dipped inside bottle cans. There was always the danger of girls and women getting raped or mugged. Okay fine, you get the picture. That was my childhood home for a couple years. Here I was at 10 years old, I knew my life was over. I was sad.

And then one fine afternoon, everything changed. A breathtaking chance of a lifetime knocked slithering it's way for my rescue. Help came from the most unlikely and unexpected source. A group of students had come from Holland or Denmark as far as I can remember although I always thought all white people come from America. I was 10 years old rugged and lost and now content with being at home just like other street children in the slum.

The Holland students had come to the village slum to do some study on poverty or whatever they were studying. Just next to the slum, a catholic nun called sister Martin Wanjiru had just opened a children’s feeding center that offered free lunch time meals, occasional health check up and vitamins to the kids. That was where these group of  mzungus students had come to see if they can help in any way. Among them was this one woman who was conspicuously kind judging from her demeanor and a lit up spirit about her. She seemed genuinely touched by what she was witnessing. She liked to wave at the children shouting and running towards her  “mzungu! Mzungu! Mzungu! It is a usual spectacle to see children running on their little bare feet, waving and giggling at mzungus.

 It was really cool as sometimes the Mzungus would stop to shake hands with the excited kids; sometimes they gave us candies or perhaps just stopped and let us touch their hands and pull their long silky looking hair. I was one of those kids. LOL! God, the world and eyes of a child are angelic.

I remember running fast towards Judy and asked her whether I could touch her hair. It was long, silky and beautiful. I immediately struck an interesting friendship with her. I spoke English eloquently and with confidence at 10 years old. I loved to recite poems. I asked her whether she would mind to listen to a poem that I had memorized before I left school. I also had many swahili poems memorized and I thought it's cool to recite and dramatize that for her. I even asked her whether she would mind come visit to our "house", to say hello to my mom and siblings.

I happen to have been a very talkative child and wanted to tell her everything about me and my friends. I wanted to hold onto her hands and take her everywhere as she was really cool in my eyes. I asked her to get me an exercise book so I can write stories about my slum home like a composition. I have always loved writing and boy did I tel her stuff. Stories ranging from our childhood experiences, to hunger, to school, to my father abandoning us, to whatever. And so I was her story teller and village guide. LOL. She seemed to like me. I won her attention. I loved her alot.

At 10 years old and having stayed home for a whole year. I had forgotten all about school and all I wanted was a doll. I had a doll that I had picked from a trash bin as we rummaged through trash piles salvaging for food. The doll had no legs and had one arm still intact, one glass eye and very long hair. I thought Judy looked like my beautiful doll who I endearingly named “kanini” (Swahili for small). Kanini had long blonde hair like Judy.

In a child’s innocence, I asked Judy whether she can fix “kanini” and buy her a leg and the missing eye! Lol. She took “Kanini” into her arms, sat on a raised concrete block nearby, lifted me up and let me sit on her lap while she stroked Kanini’s hair. It was the most vividly great day of my life. I felt loved. She was white and I thought that was really great. She wondered why I am not in school. I told her that I could not go to school as I had no shoes, no books, school supplies. She asked me whether I can follow her to the new feeding center “Good News Center” run by the catholic church.

The new feeding Good News Center for children was where Judy and her entourage were staying and doing their student reports. I remember sitting on a lap as she spoke to one of the catholic sisters about my case and probing about what the prospects of me being educated were. I listened to her go on and on about her observation about me, creating a case for what she refered to as "we should not waste the great potential in this little girl".  She requested the catholic sisters  to assist in whatever manner to ensure that I stayed in school even after she had returned to her Mzungu-land  home, Denmark, Holland or Australia. Those days, I did not know the difference as I thought all Mzungus come from America. I dont know who told me that though.

Emanating from Judy's intervention, I and my siblings became one of the children in the Kibagare slums that sister Martin Wanjiru "adopted" for regular support especially meals. The Good News Center was quiote new and she was faced with all manner of stumbling blocks trying to keep up with the huge flocks of destitute children. I and my sisters ate the only one meal provided at the center every day. Lunch. The food was provided to feed all children under 18 yrs only and so we lived on one meal a day and to us one meal a day was enough and we appreciated. We were always worried about mama as she could not "legally" be allowed to eat there. She was an adult. The feeding center was for children only.

Now that Judy got us to the feeding center, I remember my sister and I sneaking some share of our meals into little plastic bags, hide them under our skirts so we can save some for dinner as well as take home some food for mama. One day we were caught hiding food to take home. We explained that it felt bad to eat while mama was asleep, pregnant with my little brother, hungry and lonely as my father had not been home for months. She was a strong woman of fierce determination, believed in her children and we cared for her too. Sister martin Wanjiru allowed us to carry food to her. She said we needed not hide kindness. Now with Judy's introduction, I now had at least one meal and could go to school.

You see, hunger was a reality and an everyday thing in the Kibagare slum village. Good news Center became true to its name. A place of good news and hope. I remember with gratitude the corn marsh meals and porridge we got every lunch time break at feeding Center. I tell you what, unless you have been hungry for days in your life, you might never understand the biting pain of hunger pangs. The porridge helped alot. It was a refreshment..  I am forever grateful for the monthly rations of corn, corn flour, beans, and cooking oil that saved us from starvation.  Picture this, You are hungry. You are in class and you have lessons to revise, homework to catch up with, and class lessons to attend. Do you think you can concentrate? 

At this time, it had been about 10 days since my encounter with Judy and Sister Martin Wanjiru. Judy had promised to come back and visit with me at our "house" the next time they came back to Kibagare. She would get to meet my mom who was very pregnant with my little brother at that time as well as my other 5 siblings. I remember dragging my sisters Njoki, Mary and  Rebecca, younger than me  all over the village so we can go gather all our little friends that we played with to come witness my special  guest. The prospect of Judy being my visitor became the news of the entire slum. I could not hide my excitement. I remember asking her whether she likes black tea. Kenyans will always offer you tea with milk at all times if you are a visitor. That is if they have it.

The 10 days before she came back seemed like an eternity. I waited like a little pupple for its owner to come home so I can wag my tail and salute the new friendship. In addition, I was hoping she would fix Kanini's leg and I would have a new play toy dolls which happen to have been popular among friends.

Judy had made arrangement for me to go back to school. She bought me 3 pairs of shoes, a dozen socks, 3 sweaters, books and a mathematical geometry set, a pack of writing pads books, a back pack for my school supplies...wooo hoooo! But wait! the most unforgettable thing of all is the beautiful purple dress! Brand new. I do not know whether words can capture the emotions that surged therough my entire body. But if I can attempt to do so, I will tell you that I was forever changed.

I do not know what it is about the purple dress as I thought it was the most beautiful gift I could ever have gotten from anyone. I had never had a new dress for most of my childhood as mostly mama bought us used mitumba (swahili for previously owned) and sometimes she would cut a whole bunch of fabric from old clothes and make a "new" dress for me or my siblings. I remember one time having a dress that had been sewed together with so many foreign pieces of clothes that you would never know which part of the dress was the original one attracting teasing from other kids? Such a dress was called Viraka or Vi-patch, (Swahili for patched up garment. Great!).

In addition to the pretty purple dress, Judy had paid all fees required for the remaining time at Kangemi Primary School. She changed my life. I wanted to cry out of my body, squeeze her with joy for an eternity. It was a moment of pure generosity that completely changed my life. I vowed to study harder than I had never before. And I did. Fast forward many years after, I got admitted on a scholarship to a Nairobi University; Kenyatta University graduating with honors and then later another scholarship to the Joseph Korbel School of International Studies, University of Denver, Colorado graduating with a dual masters degree in International development and public health.

She became the the most important person in my life.Her name in my mind is synonymous with the good samaritan. I wish I can meet her to thank her profusely about what she did for me.I wish someone can tell me who she was. Was she from Denmark or Holland? I am sure thats what I remember when I dig back to my 10 yrs old mind. I wonder what would have happened if she did not sponsor me back to school? She shaped my view of myself. I never thought I was important and she proved me wrong. She taught me the meaning of seeing oneself in another. Even if that “other” has physical attributes not like yours. Judy is my symbolic prove of the fact that adults and all people in positions of power can ignite the power of a child using very little effort, like a pair of shoes and a purple dress!

She taught me what I now teach wherever I speak to children and young adults in schools and universities; that each child is inherently talented and capable when given tools and loved albeit by one person. Judy’s act and declaration of me as a special little talented girl shaped me and has always fueled my efforts in all I do. She is the reason why I studied hard as she said to me that she has so much faith in me and was proud of me. Her voice as she uttered those words lingers on in my mind even today. Her voice and believe in me is why I wanted to study international development.  I want to do the same thing for a young girl or boy somewhere in Kenya.

The purple dress is why I am going back to Kibagare slum to launch the Alliance Vision inspirational support programs for education "PURPLE DRESS- OPERATION NO CHILD LEFT BEHIND". This is an educational section of our programs geared towards supporting education programs for poor slums boys and girls. Tune in for more in this blog or any of our other websites. I hope most of you will join our efforts by joining the fans page on face book and twitter. I must give back what was given abundantly to me.

Judy taught me to believe in the kindness of strangers. When someone gives you a declaration of your power even in situations that look desperate then your life changes. Through Judy I became a giver and always wanted a job about serving others. I now want to speak and tell people that in adversity there is strength. You need only one person to give you the epiphany of your own power at an appropriately crucial moment. I now believe in kindness and service to others. The kindness that opens doors to the inherently great potential hidden deep in the spirits of all of us. The kindness that lifts up human spirit and crush all manner of shadows that may block our progress. I will always remember Judy. I wish I can find her.

In honor of her efforts, I am proud to incorporate the Purple dress scholarship fund for students at Kibagare sponsored through Alliance Vision's social enterprenuership ventures.