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.

A detailed profile about me. Interests, hobbies, personality,tendencies and more

Alice Kariuki is an inspiritional educator, speaker, clean water advocate and Eco-activist who uses the power of story telling, inspiritional speaking and poetry to educate, inspire, and empower audiences. She combinines biting social commentary, humor with a dash of eloquently told personal experiences to teach about the water crisis in Kenya as well as speaking on finding strength in adversity.

Alice was born and raised in Kenya before moving into the United States to pursue her graduate education and American dream. Her story touches deeply with a strong, inspirational, thought-provoking and timely message of finding strength in adversity drawing references from her life experience. She is a riveting natural born storyteller, a truly gifted speaker.

Alice Kariuki is the principal founder and programs Director for Alliance Vision Inc., a Massachusetts registered charitable foundation with the mission of offering a voice towards the global water crisis and related social-economic issues. She is currently lecturing at elementary schools,colleges and universities across the U.S. and in Kenya, inspiring and sensitizing young people on power of youth, she uses her message of finding strength in adversity to encouraging young people's to pursue their dreams while participation in global social economic issues.

Alice Kariuki is currently working on her books "the danger in one voice; Celebrating diversity" a book that chronicles issues about sustainable unity and development and also "The Purple Dress, Sketchy memoirs of my journey; Growing up in Kenya". Also an author and editor of several online blogs; Speaking for Africa; one world speak and Chronicles of my life.

Her business interests are in in social enterprenueship ventures and investments. She is a partner business owner and founder Smith Farm at Borderland Inc, a Massachusetts curatorship organization offering diversity training, Community programs, holistic treatment center, educational conferences workshops facilities, destination wedding venues and facilities, after school challenge programs for young people. Also a consulting portal for banks and US investors in development of low cost housing and estate development projects in Kenya, Philanthropic micro financing ventures anchored through the World trade Center.

My Interests...Bloggging, writing, poetry..family..romance?

My Interests are updated nearly every day, usually mostly on the weekends, that is if Iam not talking to my mom about family matters for endless hours or writing for my blog lol.I love family and family values. I am interested in making a foot print in saving planet earth, I love being at par with current issues, consider me an avid reader of politics and opionated casual debater

I love to travel. Traveling to someplace I've not been before is one of my favorite things to do. I love the feeling of stepping off the plane in a new city/country and setting out to discover what makes it so special. There's something exciting about the unknown, and something even more exciting about peeling back the mystery a layer at a time. You’d have to kill me to get me to stop traveling to new cities, new places, meeting people and asking questions and probing. I am a nomad at heart. Whether I am in the most untouched terrains of rural Africa or the illustrious Mediterranean Sea beholding the breathtaking Greek islands, a trip to some remote natural tribal spiritual place, a Hot Air Balloon adventure or whatever my heart is always greatly alive when I am in the midst of new experiences and global exploration.

I love culture,  let's put it that way. I've seen some truly amazing things in the few places on this planet that I have travelled to. I sometimes dream of taking off and living in different coutries for a few months at a time. I'm going to do it someday when the time's right. One such place is China. I hear its going to be the next super power...mhhh.

Deciding what place that would be my favorite to visit would be hard unless I am asked about places I have already travelled to. On my agenda of places I would love to visit is china I think China is top top on my list of favorite places to visit before I die. I always wonder about their deep history and culture and most recently their business empires. When we speak of American history, we speak in hundreds of years. When the Chinese speak of their history, they speak of thousands of years. So I think it would be fun to walk the Great Wall, and experience the history. It would be a spine tingling encounter Iam sure.. I aso would love to travel to other exotic places that have rich cultures and traditions.

You know the places that have unspoiled culture and people walk just about everywhere..so I can indulge in their cuisines and delicacies without worrying about the damn pounds. LOL! When I travel, it's mostly about eating. I go there to eat the local foods, whatever they are, and all the rest of the sight-seeing is just a way to walk off the calories so that I can eat more. Ti!hi!hi!hi! geez.....Well, I've already been to Frankfurt and Berlin in Germany, Paris, and while I haven't even begun to sample the restaurants there (it's hard to find bad food in Paris) what I want to do next is tour the French countryside.

 I hope you my beloved jaguar are reading this! wink wink...so I can have my favorite company in the next travels.tehehehehe! But anyway, Its so hard to pick a single region of France: the Mediterranean seafood of the south coast; the Atlantic seafood in Normandy (as well as getting to see Mont St. Michel and the beaches of D-Day), the rustic peasant food of Provence, the German tinged Alsatian food.mmmmmm...lets pack and go on an eating adventures...

All in all, I'd actually say the best place I've ever visited is London. There's actually lots of good things to eat there, but the array of things to do between meals is just astonishing. It's the only place I've ever been to where I didn't feel after a week that I'd seen all of the best stuff. Paris was magnificent, and I could sure stand to spend another day in the Louvre and hit a few other favorite sites, but I feel like I've picked most of the low-hanging fruit.

For the lovers of nature...let me tell you there is no better place to travel to than to Kenya. You can take short photo safari into Kenya, go to game drives in Amboseli National Park, the serengeti or the mara. he park is not a place that was created and had animals brought in. It is an entirely natural setting where the animals can be observed in their own habitat. You will visit with lions, elephants, rhinos,cheetahs, water buffalo,giraffes, wildebeest, zebra, many many monkeys and assorted antelope right there in their natural habitat. If you are a people lover, you will get a chance to rub elbows with the local natives. When out in the plains (Serenghetti), you can literally see for miles on a 360 degree basis. If you love nature and the outdoors, this is where you want to be. Call me for more details...well, Iam a native I can fill you in those of you travellers whose next destination is Africa......Woooo!hoooo!
I love collecting theme photography, cooking and exchanging recipes,making new friends is exciting too. I have also found interest in writing poetry prose, participating in poetry drama and recitals, writing short stories, keeping journals,reading old english literature, science fiction and fantasy, I read astronomy and religious mysticism, metaphysical science, visual art, Also interested in new technologies and their impact on our every day lives.

I trully love buying electronic tech gadgets or spending free hours in electronic shops. I never have a dull moment in my life.I like dogs but can't keep up with the walking schedule! so I keep none but loves to pet my neighbors dog. He reminds me of my childhood dog simba!oh, and yes I love an engaging debate with smart gray mattered folks LOL!It saves me from sinking into a "dunder-head" land if you know what I mean! Check out on the pages links to follow me on more interests and fun activities..

Favorite books?

whooo!hooo! I am a book worm. yes, I am.I must admit that Iam an avid reader of all kinds of books ranging from biographies and autobiographies spiritual/religious books epics and mythologies. But here are some favorite reads that i owe honor and rememberance. At the top is My sister's Keeper To Kill a Mockingbird .The Bible.Pride and Prejudice Gone with . Wind Harry Potter Anne of Green Gables Little Women Redeeming Love Jane Eyre Twight (series) Outlander (series Little House on the Prairie The Lord of the Rings (series)The Catcher in the Rye A Tree Grows in Brooklyn The Great Gatsby Where the Red Fern Grows Secret Garden The Stand Giving Tree The Notebook Charlotte’s Web

My favorite Movies

The Blind side The interpreter Rabbit Proof Fence The Inside Man Dark Knight Public Enemies While you were sleeping Hotel Rwanda Paparazzi Cruel Intentions Bourne Series Fly Away Home Slumdog Millionaire Man on Fire P.S. I love you The Guardian The Prestige The Illusionist Apollo 13 Everything is Illuminated Dirty Dancing Havana Nights LOTR Up The Pianist Cool Runnings Crash The Truman Show Pirates of the Caribbean Series A Beautiful Mind Australia Walk the Line Newsies Babette’s Feast The Phantom of the Opera 8 Mile Bella Fiddler On the Roof John Q

My favorite Music
I like to think that music truly transcends culture class race nationality politics religion. I have limitless boundaries when it comes to music. Music is my therapy and there was never a question in my mind that music possesses a strong element to help people emotionally intellectually or otherwise. But I don't really have favorite music to be sincere.You will catch me flying away into a deep trance and sways to a limitless choice of music genres. From the rock and roll music of today R&B Groovy 70s Funk to classical jazz rhythm and Blues Performances techno and dance music all the way to tribal drums and the chanting of monks.But there is something spiritually familiar about reggae.LOL. Done be offended if you hitch a hike in my car and all you listen to is different types of music genres every two minutes. But if I can summarise and say I choose my favorite song to be "Don't stop believing by journey.

What Kind of people intimidate me?

I think that all of us has our own little insecurities depending on where our journeys has taken us, beliefs, values, emotional stability, and also what we value in life. However, I think, mhhh! I am not quite easily intimidated, however I always stop to probe and pay respect to people I think are self assured, confident with themselves and have something to offer for my growth. Those kind of people make me stop and wonder. In my philanthropic work and business ventures, I have worked with presidents of companies, top government officials, successful business owners, sports figures, students, children and many other caliber of people. As far as I am concerned everyone puts their front on the same path, so to speak and must stand to be counted just as they are. So, I treat everyone with the same respect I want to receive while opening my mind up so I can deal with them at their own pace and stature.



I believe part of maturity is feeling confident in your own skin. You can only be intimidated if you allow yourself to be. My long arduous journey from Kenya to achieving the American dream and the many people I have met along the way have taught me that all humans have faults, fissures, gaping holes and issues. Who qualifies to intimidate who? Instead of feeling intimidated, I like to position myself to be challenged.

In the end, there is always a balance. No one has it too easy, or too good, and if by chance it is easy for a while, be assured that "balance" is on it’s way. Life was not meant to be easy but the socially constructed “counter-feit gods” of artificial success, fame, money make us believe that some people have it more than others. So, my mantra of not getting intimidated is derived based on the fact that I never allow anyone else to define me or give them the power to do so. I have also learned that the business types like to model after themselves, meaning, if I am meeting with someone confident and self assured, I always switch gears and put on my confident and self assured hat. Challenge me. Don’t intimidate me.

How I blow off steam and deal with frustrations?
When I am feeling overwhelmed or stressed from deadlines or inconvenient actions of others, fatigue, angry or any of those moments, my first response is to do this 30 second exercise. I stop, breath, and say a prayer. I have found meditation quite a calming way to blow off steam. If I have energy I love to walk into the woods and let nature speak to me. If not, I always like to look at something I love that I can see at that moment (picture of loved ones, the clouds, people who inspire me, animals). Then I identify what thoughts are causing my reaction. Finally, I counter them in my mind. Am I feeling upset because of unexpected events? I remind myself I can adapt, figure out what is important, and get it done.

I used to feel devastated when someone criticized what I did or what I am, how I speak and look. I think I was giving other people too much power over my life. Now, I am a better listener. If I start to take offense, I stop and consider what truth I can find in their comment. Then I figure out how it can make me a better person. If I still feel upset, I instantly know that I forgot the most important part: to remember my identity is not determined by the opinion of others. Whatever is not constructive is coming from their own issues, so I refuse to let it influence me. I dismiss it as their own problem. I still remember how amazing it felt the first time I really put this in practice. I no longer hold grudges (though I remember not to ask for criticism from those who only tear down).

When I first started to live with worries and stress, I needed a tangible way to draw powerful strength whenever I felt tempted. I found the beach. I have always had a magical relationship with the beach. I went there whenever I needed to feel God’s arms around me, and to remind me that anything was possible. The thunderous boom of the ocean waves, the strong tides pulling back the sand into various patterns, and the sun glistening on the water, all suddenly and dramatically cause currents of strength to flow through me. I always feel incredible, and incredibly loved. The beach reminds me how small my problems were when compared to the universe, and I relaxed as my mind instantly saw an aerial view of life. I could quickly discern what will still be important 5 or 10 years from now, and focus on my commitment to the moment. I used to need this transforming experience frequently. As I grew confident in my new habits, I have learned to use levels 1 or 2 to get me past any temptation.

Someone once shared with me the wisdom that what bothers us alot about other people, places or situations always has something to do with what is happening inside of us. In fact this wisdom is well captured by martin Luthers assertion that only light can drive out darkness. Indeed light begets light and dark beget more darkness. Unless this wisdom dawns unto someone at an individual level, I am sure not any guru or preacher of the preachiest kind can make one understand it. I began thinking deep of the statement above and immediately was awakened into seeing myself inside the very things, places and people I dislike, care-less about or absolutely avoid. It dawned on me that it's in what you hate and dislike in other people that is a true mirror of what lies deep within inside of you that needs attention. Needs solution not fixing other people.
Meaning, that the very thing that makes your guts turn inside out when people you "perceive in negative vibrations" pass by are a soft voice beckoning you to look inside of yourself....isnt it amazing how human beings are experts at explaining away what's wrong with others not knowing what they see as wrong in others is inside of them.....only they need a light illuminated third eye to see.

I have taught myself to meditate over things about others that turn my guts. Most often they remind me of what I need to fix within me. I have learned to take life as it is and seek contentment with the here and now. Whatever that is frustrating can never be larger than pursuing the beauty of my purpose and soul's mission on earth....okay there that how I try to handle my bad days. A shift in thinking. A shift in attitude.

Always remembering and keeping in mind the old saying that my friend reminded me about the other day...that Reminds me of the old saying, "There's something about you that I can't stand about me." Or, saying the same thing, "There's something about me that I can't stand about you."....And with that I have learned to digest annoying people, jobs or events ...understand them and let them be, taking them for what they are and where they are coming from.

Finding a gift and Strength in adversity.About coming to America.

Before I arrived at the alter where the certificate badge known as a masters degree from my alma mater, University of Denver, here is my journey and life to higher education. I have this little saying taped on the book shelf near my computer that says " while its hard to beat a person who never gives up, every adversity has an equal or greater benefit." I have incorporated it into my belief system and constantly quote it to my audience, students, friends and family. At first, upon hearing this statement one might be inclined to ask for further clarification. And that’s why I think you might want to read my story.

It would seem that adversity is anything but our teacher or liberator. If anything it would appear that adversity is a grand foe that we must devote our every strength and effort to defeat. Although this might seem to be the case, such is not the case at all. This I have learned after many years of struggle and growing up with little resources in Kenya. I have learned that often things are not at all as they appear to be and what turns out to be adversity and hardship can turn out to be a blessing in disguise.

You would not know me and where I am coming from until I give you a small sneak peek into what my journey has been like and why it changed me forever. My childhood? Well, let’s just say that every memory is a subjective vision of the past. Most people who have a background as dramatic as mine recall their childhood with a nostalgic blend of joy, fun, pains and regret, almost a paradox. I recall my childhood with pleasure balanced with pain. I grew up both in the deep gutter slums of west Nairobi and also in the rolling hills of a rural village in central Kenya.

I remember growing up happy, sometimes scared, often uncertain, mostly hungry, cold at night, sometimes playful, sometimes hopeful depending on the year, but generally in a neighborhood and home punctuated with mental, physical, emotional hang ups, struggles against hunger, school fees nightmares and many days away from school for various reasons, the nomadic moving periodically between rural home and city slums, occasional tribal strives, and most of all the physical burdens of working in the coffee and flower farms to help with the groceries at a tender age of 10 years or perhaps rummaging through dust bins for scrubs while we lived in a Nairobi slum.

Now, I am sure someone would ask how there can be a gift or a blessing in having to endure such a childhood. You may wonder how suffering and hunger pangs, and an absent father can be a strength builder ? Believe me, I asked that question many times when I was a child and when I reached maturity as an adult, I changed my mind and began hugging adversity with open love, seeking, asking questions and probing why I am in those situations with an open third eye.

The answers to those questions surprisingly have opened my eyes into my life’s mission and purpose. I learned that there were many blessings in store for me as a result of the adversity I endured at home. Adversity wound up becoming one of my highly regarded teachers and ultimately my liberator. Adversity taught me not to fear. Not to be timid. To knock doors armed with the boldness of youth and the innocence of a child. And I did.

What adversity did was open me up to an entirely different world where things are not as they appear on the outer surface. It opened me up to the inner world where I contacted my spirit, my own deeper self. It’s almost like there are these many invisible beings and guides who function as guides to become my companions and helpers. Soon you will see why as I share more stories with you.

The thing I have learned is that truly when we align ourselves with what is happening to us despite the chaos and extreme situations, we set into motion energies which move outside of us into the world , then bends right there for us to partake. We are able to get in contact with people, circumstances and situations that are in alignment with what we wish to create and to manifest. Magic and miracles happen when we adjust our thinking. I was long unaware of the magical universal laws or better still the laws of the universe that seem to holographic ally play games on me.
Due to the adversity at home I turned within me at a very young age reaching deeper and deeper seeking inner spiritual resources and solutions to the terrible life that I was living. I happen to be quite vocal and talkative, and I did not know that is the same thing of wanting to talk that brought my angels to me. It’s like working with creative visualization and imagination without even being aware. The awe of a child that could not stop talking and that became a crucial factor as to why I found my way to scholarships throughout my education.

For along time I had prayed to God and the angels everyday to give me access to higher education. To let it happen that I get delivered away from the rural dull life. I hoped that I would never have to live in a Nairobi slum in my adult life nor neither get married in a rural village where life is about hauling water, and surviving hunger pangs. For most young girls and women, these is usually the most prospect in life. I hoped for the universe to open it’s heavens and offer me a place in a college so this cyclical curse wont apply to me. I hoped. I faithfully hoped.

This was my wish list without the slightest idea of where to gather a fairy to make my wish come true. I had an inner knowing from a young age that higher education was to be a part of my life plan and I was willing to do whatever it took to achieve that goal. This is not to say that I just sat back and lived in a dream world and prayed! prayed,!. Prayed ! all day for the magic and miracles to come my way. No, that’s not what I did. In fact, wait until I tell you what it meant and took to study for a Kenyan exam just so you can get a spot at some state college.

For those of you from Kenya or East Africans in general, remember the monstrous end of high school KCSE exams that simply determined your future fate? It was almost like once fate was sealed by a single damn exam. Remember? Everyone in the family had a stake in the results. The pressure was enormous. However, I did quite well and secured an admission to a state university in Nairobi Kenya; Kenyatta University, later graduating with an honors B.A in Creative writing & Linguistics, English Literature & Sociology. My dream education did not end with that degree certificate. I wanted to travel to America for a higher degree and pursue my American dream.

The year now is 1998. The magical believe in self and bold alignment to the universe is about to be revealed to me. At hand, is an admission letter to the Joseph Korbel School of International studies, at the University of Denver, Colorado. A school that is my very own beloved alma mater. The tuition? Very high! And do I have a penny towards the tuition? Nope! Am I convinced that I will be a graduate at the University of Denver? Yes? How? I don’t know how at this point either.
But first things first, I needed a travel visa, money for an air ticket and at least little money for food and accommodation albeit for one month. At this point I was working as a Marketing Manager at a cosmetics manufacturing company in Nairobi, my first corporate job besides working in the farms picking coffee berries and flowers. Besides supporting my family and myself in my new life in Nairobi, I had managed to save some money enough for the air ticket and a balance change of 500 dollars to my name. I thought that if I can get the travel visa approved, that’s all I needed to begin my journey to the United States of America.
But things are not that easy even though nothing could stand between me and my American dream in my mind. I got my travel visa and soon contacted the university of Denver prior to traveling and requested that they find me a host family to live with for the one month before school began. It’s now 5th August 1998 and school was opening in the following month, September for the fall semester. Now I have this letter in my hands….I have a student travel visa…and a temporally place to live for a month before school opens. Rent for the month was 400 dollars! I have 500 dollars in my pocket and not a penny for tuition. See the picture?
I have a fond memory of getting onto a Lufthansa air-craft from Nairobi headed to the United States of America on August 12, 1998. In my pocket was a folded stash of American dollars that counted up to 500 dollars. This was enough rent of 400 dollars payable to my host family, leaving me with 100 dollars for whatever immediate needs. I thought it was enough. At least for now. Yes, enough.

And just like that, soon it was 11pm in Nairobi. Time to board and take off. I bid a tearful good-bye to an “entourage” of family, friends and whole bunch of villagers who had hired a bus to take me to the airport! Yes, a bus people! I get goose bumps thinking about that night as the emotional streaks of energy that rushed through my entire body left an indelible impression, the sounds, smells, textures of things at the airport all looked strange, the teary eyes of my mother and the softened looks in my siblings eyes spoke a language I couldn’t fathom. But it was a language of hope and faith in better things ahead.

The awe and amazement written all over the faces of those villagers?, wow! And this is including some of them that have never been to Nairobi city before let alone the airport, all became the fuel that pumped my boldness. I had to go. I had to represent some hope for all that loved me and wanted me to bring back to my village education from “ruraya rua America” (my native language for over-seas in America). And just like that, I was about to leave my country to a foreign country with little money in my pocket, a light suitcase and a lofty dream and yet I felt bold enough and determined that it was the right thing to do.

Now, I am on my way to the United States of America via Frankfurt, Germany. It sounded quite nice. Quite great. Quite hopeful I should say. I looked through the glass oval windows of the aircraft and Nairobi was fast disappearing behind me and I could see the flickering city lights get dimmer and dimmer as we fast climbed higher and higher into the skies. My eyes swelled with tears as I huddled myself together on a window seat, 17F. Never had I been on an aircraft before. It was fascinating looking down at the tiny lights that marked the city boundaries.

 I looked down amidst the darkness and wondered whether I could spot the Kibagare slums, nestled chaotically between Nairobi high school and the relatively wealthy Nairobi Loresho neighborhood. I could not see anything; besides my eyes had swelled with tears that I was fighting with a white handkerchief that my grandmother gave me for good luck. LOL! It felt like a symbolic flight escape to wonder land despite the fear of what will become of me in America.

Well, 18 hours on the friendly skies and boom we landed. The deep voice that boomed across the intercom at the Denver International airport announcing “welcome to the United States of America”! indeed felt surreal. The smells, the sounds, the helter skelter movement of travelers and their luggage scattered all over the airport was a spectacle to behold. Taking a deep breath and smiling with a nervous goofy grin, I felt good to be standing on the American soil. I am now in America. Wooooo! Hoooo! But……..

I knew nobody. I had no friends. I had no family to meet me at Denver International airport. Armed with light suitcase that I love to remember as my light luggage carrying a lofty dream; inside was a few pants, couple blouses and three pairs of open toes shoes, my family album, school certificates, and with me a soft well spoken personality, articulate, eloquent grammar punctuated with quite a heavy accent that announced boldly no matter what… I am a foreigner! I am a foreigner! Can you at least understand my manner of articulation? Well, my kind of accent? But that was the least of my problems at this time…..follow me onto PART II OF MY JOURNEY TO AMERICA AND TO DENVER UNIVERSITY. Coming up next.......

Arriving at Joseph Korbel school ;Denver University; The scholarship and the drama

It’s now September 2nd 1998. It’s busy, helter skelter chaos at every departmental faculty at the University of Denver. I am nervous and scared to death. I sit outside the Penrose library overlooking the Joseph Korbel School of international studies watching enviously at the students hurrying up and down to register for classes. I wanted to join them and register for classes. But I could not. I needed to first get clearance with the Financial Director and issued with a number that shows that I have paid in full for my tuition, books and in order to access the library facilities. I had not. I could not. But I am already here. Yes, here at my dream graduate school. Yes, here in America, far away from home.


So now I am watching people walking by. Some walking in pairs, some looking like lovers who are talking about taking the same class as they can’t get enough of each other, holding hands lovingly. I wanted someone to hold me and hug me at that moment too. I needed someone to hug me and tell me all will be okay. But I had no one to do so and I was all alone. Some students walked by in groups talking animatedly and I felt invisible and useless.

Some passed by looking silent and lost into their own thoughts to notice my miserable self seated there with my hands folded into myself scared and nervous. Some just had freaky faces that spelled bully, some had “interesting” accents that I couldn’t understand. Some students parted their lips with a slight smile to acknowledge me but did not stop to say hello so I got all the more confused. I wondered why one can smile at another and not stop to at least say a verbal hello. Why smile in the first place and what purpose is such a smile? I desperately needed someone to talk to and I was beginning to get angry at those smiles as they reflected a mockery of my situation. To calm down my senses, I took time to awe at the magnificent brown buildings that looked as old as education itself, the beautifully manicured lawns and once in a while was fascinated by the situation albeit the nervousness of what the future was for me at the University of Denver.

Now while seated there, I was contemplating many things. But I do not quite understand where to begin neither did I know what my options are. I felt lost, lonely and desperate. I do not know how long I sat there, but at some instant moment, I remembered my family and my mother’s embrace at the airport. I wondered what my family was doing and what they could be talking about as I sat there on the Penrose Library stair wells feeling lost and needing someone who could hear my story and help. What if they knew that they just bid me goodbye to a land where no one would help me? What if this was the end of my life? What if they knew that their bold first born child that always found a way out of issues is now lost in a foreign country? What if they knew that I felt empty ? I wept. I cried. Afraid to attract any unnecessary attention, I slowly rose up and lazily walked back to the Mr. and Mrs. Duffy’s house that I now called home. At least I had paid rent until the 15th of September, after which the likelihood of being thrown out and becoming homeless was slowly becoming a reality.

Meanwhile I still had at least three weeks to decide what to do and also plan on how the 100 dollars could keep me surviving for the remaining three weeks that I had a rental room at the Duffy’s family basement. In the 30 minutes walk, I remembered my grandfather’s advice that while you are lost, seek inside for directions. Yeah right grandpa! What has seeking inside got to do with this situation I am now in? I argued.



What’s the possibility of getting a tuition waiver or scholarship considering I am foreign student from Kenya and not sure if I had time to apply for any such help? What would the faculty say to me if they realized that I had no tuition to pay for my classes albeit the fact that I had indicated on my application forms that I had enough money to pay for my tuition? Would that be considered a lie? How can I explain that I had to tell them I had money so that I get the admission and how does that reflect on me? What if I wrote to the faculty and remind them that my country of Kenya is a big friend and ally of United States and on that basis they should give me a scholarship? Yeah, that’s sounded stupid and lightly ridiculous at best. Oh, what if I just went to the faculty seeking a meeting with the Financial Director and ask her to pay for my school tuition and I would work for her in return? Great! I could not as the law prohibited any one on a student visa to accept a job unless authorized to do so by the immigration department, at least you could work on campus for 8 dollars an hour for 10 hrs a week. Great! that’s 80 dollars a week! 400 dollars a month! Weep! weep! weep!

The faculty would not allow me to register for classes paying 80 dollars a week, besides, what would I have to eat out of that 80 dollars. At that moment, I was slowly giving up and losing hope of being able to make it in America. I was indeed lost and hopeless. I kept walking passed the Duffy’s house. I wanted to keep on waking to nowhere. It felt soothing and at least calming. So I kept on waking.

I came across a group of kids laughing out loud and chasing each other at a small park across the other end of University Boulevard couple miles from the University grounds. I stopped and watched them. I wished I could be them. For a moment I was transported back to my childhood days and I felt a surge of renewed hope. In that moment something stirred up inside of me. I was not about to give up. I had to come up with a daring solution. Just like the carefree laughter of the children I felt like a child needing help. And all I had to do is talk to someone about my situation. I had to.

Remembering my mothers hugs and tears, my grand fathers words of “fight like a soldier who knows what she fights for”, I had to strike a balance of the situation with every ounce of my spirituality and being knowing that this was a battle for my life. I had to fight for my life. I had to fight my American dream. And just like my grandpa’s “ soldier who knows what she fights for” I knew I had to fight for me. It felt like being called to get out of yourself, travel into the higher dimension within you and seek in there. It’s like being transported in an instant moment to an outer space within me, out of here but within here kind of feeling, if you know what I mean. I felt a whole surge of energy lift me up. Some inner inaudible but clear soft whisper that kept on telling me that I can go beyond what was happening and what I was feeling overwhelmed me. I choose to be an ambassador of my situation and communicate to someone else boldly without the fear of consequences. You see, truth sometimes is a good boat across a rough ferry bridge.

I began realizing that lot of students that got the same opportunity as me came from varied backgrounds and yet I was the same as them by virtue of my academic competitiveness unless I chose not to see it that way. I knew I can not let my people down. I couldn’t be a quitter. I knew I could not be timid and I had to boldly face my situation with truth. We are all kind of the same and yet that sameness becomes more beautiful when we are not afraid of what makes us different, unique and like our own self. I thought I am the same too with all those students I saw registering for classes only different and with a unique situation that deserved to be heard by someone.

I couldn’t afford to be timid or afraid of whoever is big out there, I’ve always been a person that’s a little bit unique in my thinking since childhood, in a way. I’m not quite a follower, I’m a leader of my own self. And this was a moment to prove my bold believe in self. You see, the universe works in a way that we don’t understand but there must be something about me in the damn universe that I had to find out what it is. I was about to reveal to someone that I had no money but I had to be at the Joseph Korbel School of International Studies of the University of Denver. I had to discover the mystery that is me.

I’m intrigued by mystery, I’m a devout Christian, and I like to balance spirituality with all situations that befall me. So a combination of my fascination and curiosity to find the unknown and my faith in spiritual intervention, I walked slowly back home just in time for dinner with the Duffy family. It was a Friday and I knew that Mr. and Mrs. Duffy are usually home early. I just thought I will break the news during dinner time. The conversation went something like this: Good evening guys? Oh..Hi…nice jacket you have on Mr. Duffy...hey…ahh…oh….anyway…ahhhh…well..Mr. ..well duffy and Stella, ahh..I Was wondering whether I can talk to you? Sure, Mr. Duffy responds. Well, you see….ahh. It’s kind of complicated…a bit insane…you see I will not be able to pay rent for next month and was also wondering whether you would be willing to pay for my first semester in school and I will re-pay you back as soon as I get a job….ahhh..pleaseee!pleaseeee! Ahh..I Know it’s insane. But please hear me out. I couldn’t believe what I was telling my host family. I shifted an intense nervous sheepish goofy look straight into Mr. Duffy’s wife, Miss Stella’s eyes and then stared straight back into Mr. Duffy’s eyes and hoped he could say something no matter what that something was.

I also thought I must be insane but felt a sigh of relieve that finally I have let them know my situation without caring what the consequences would be. Would they throw me out of the house? Would they call police on me for failure to pay rent? Would they call the university from which I was referred to them and demand that I be kicked out into the cold Denver nights? Would they not talk to me and ban me from their kitchen banishing me to the damn basement? What? What?
While my mind is speeding up with “what ifs”….there followed a heart wringing loudly deafening silence for a long one minute that seemed to be an eternity. No one spoke for a long while. The only sound was the sound of spoons, knifes and folks as everyone dug more servings from the salad bowl in the middle of the dining table and the occasional barking from Bagel the family dog and baby as he begged for bites. I can’t explain how much salad and corn on the cob I ate that evening as that’s the only thing I did to keep my embarrassment at bay and at least occupy myself while I awaited for my fate at the Duffy’s house.

I wanted the earth to open and swallow me leaving no trace of me anywhere on this miserable damn earth. And just like that, that Mr. Duffy breaks the silence by humming some inaudible song or whispers that scared the living day light out of me. He seemed to be humming a gospel hymn or something close to it. Perhaps he was humming a song whose lyrics had something to do with “how crazy can this Kenyan be and how crazily daring is her immigration to the united states? Or perhaps he might have been thinking “oh poor tribal girl from Kenya, how lucky it’s us that you chose for a host family otherwise elsewhere they would kick your damn black bottom and tell you to go die deep into the African jungle you came from! Damn! Damn you.

I could not make out what he was humming about but I knew for sure the song had something about how crazy I must be to assume that I can move to America, ask for free accommodation and then have the audacity to ask for school tuition! Damn! I can be daring. Quite the audacity to live and audacity to seek help even among perfect strangers. Damn, I thought of myself. But what’s wrong with being daring?

To cut a long story short, Mr. Duffy and his wife recovered from the shock of what I just told them. He lifts his weight off the chair and walks slowly to the kitchen. Pulls out a drawer that had a small booklet. Flips through the pages and fishes out a number. He points at the number and looks at me, gathers my right hand and holds it tight but tenderly, pulls his chair close to me, smiles with a friendly attitude on his face and says…”well, Alice, I don’t think that I can pay for your tuition babe. I just cannot. But I tell you what we can do, do not worry about rent at all. You will pay us rent when you get money. You do not have to worry for food; we have plenty in this house for all of us including Bagel the dog and family baby”. And so, my dear Kenyan friend, he continues his monologue.
What you need to do is take this number and write it down. It’s the number for a woman named Karen Middleton. She is the Financial Director and international students Co-coordinator at Joseph Korbel School of international studies at DU. Okay, Are you with me? I am now trembling, shaking and my skin covered with conspicuously goose bumps from no where. I raise my head from the ground that I had been staring at all this time, looked up and said. Yes, Mr. Duffy. I get that. “Now, what you need to do is go to sleep and then tomorrow morning I will drive you to see Miss Karen Middleton and you MUST tell her what you just told me. Okay, goodnight and see you in the morning 8Am American time! I could not dare be late.
I wanted to rise up and hug both of them. I wanted to scream with joy and praise God for such kind people and for their understanding welcome to their home albeit my disastrous situation and almost daring believe in them. I wanted to ask God to make them into millionaires and to give them eternal health and beauty in the whole state of Colorado. I wanted to cry with joy but neither of all these could explain how grateful I was at Mr. Duffy’s words.
That night I barely slept a single wink. I stayed up for most part of the night staring into the roof, wondering and pondering on possibilities and what will happen at the meeting with the lady, Karen Middleton. The name was synonymous with the person in whose hands my life depended. I was quite a nervous wreck.
By morning I was awakened from dreamland by the sounds of Bagel barking as Stella opened the front porch to let him out for his biological functions. I took a quick shower and walked upstairs to find Mr. Duffy already and set to go. We had very little to talk about but he seemed to be so concerned. I saw him and thought of the father I have never had. Al this time wondering what my life would have been like if we had a father that truly loved us and never abandoned us. I wondered whether that’s what it feels like to have your father at your side on your first trip to college.

I was teary eyed for many reasons but on that morning I felt loved and cared for albeit not knowing what awaited me ahead. We rode for the less than ten minutes ride to the admissions department at Denver University school of International studies straight onto Karen Middleton’s office. We all talked for awhile. Mr. Duffy filled her in on my difficulties and financial situation while informing her that him and his wife had decided not to charge me any rent and would let me live there for a while as I figured out my situation. Then he excused himself and left the room planting a friendly pat on my back and winked at me with re-assurance. I explained to her my entire situation reminding her of my academic prowess and capabilities. I knew this is my moment to shine if I would have to get a chance.



She pulled out from her drawer what was my file containing signed documents I had sent while in Nairobi. Took a moment to review all of the application forms and associated correspondences leading to my admission. Then she raised her head up and without asking any questions looked me and said to me “Well, well, Alice, there is a wonderful Program at Joseph Korbel School of International studies, formerly GSIS, sponsored by a very compassionate, generous and quite amazing wealthy woman, her name is Mrs patterson whose foundation donates money towards the education of bright, talented and promising international students especially women from developing countries. The goal of this program is to expand the university of Denver student diversity.

We have found it quite rewarding as we seem to be attracting the best students from all over the world. You see, she continued…ahhh, well, It s the pride of this school to see most of our students graduate from this school, well equipped to go back to their countries and change lifes over there. Its surely great”. We are all connected and this school is surely working its mission to incorporate a global agenda in its curriculum. And that includes have a certain amount of money set aside for students like you Alice. I will be glad to write you a letter of recommendation and speak to the dean about your case but to be honest, Alice, I think that the best thing that you could do is to write a personal letter to the office of admissions and to Mrs. Patterson foundation. Tell them what you told me. Just speak from your heart. That will give you as good as any chance at getting accepted at the University of Denver. Again I think Iam impressed with your grades and perhaps we can as well give you a chance.

Now at this point I am pinching myself to ensure that I am not dreaming or hallucinating. I cannot explain the enormous joy that lay stuck inside my chest. I wanted to burst out with a native dance and ululations. I wanted to shout and praise and praise and halleluiah and do all the global Amen’s…..So you get the picture? Anyway Karen then sets an appointment where I had to meet with the dean and some other faculty members to discuss my case and see whether I would qualify for the Patterson Fellowship and tuition waiver on Books tore and library facilities. I did have the meeting. I wrote the letter explaining all that I have narrated above. And yes. They deemed me a competitive candidate for the fellowship based on merit and my academic scores on my GRE AND GMAT testing evaluations. Viola! Two weeks later I received a life changing letter that read like this…..
Dear Alice Kariuki,
Congratulations on your scholarship and admission to the Joseph Korbel School of International Studies of the University of Denver. We wish you well and a smooth settling in to the rocky mountains and at the Denver community…………….welcome....

Let me say the rest is history. The letter changed my life. I am proud to say that this wonderful Rocky mountains great great University gave me a chance. They gave me a chance to freedom. They believed in me planting a permanent love and faith in the angelic nature of even the perfect strangers that cross our paths. Perfect strangers who seem to be angels walking on earth. For those students seeking admission into a perfect university, those pursuing interests in policy advocacy, international business, trade, philanthropic management, this is the school to apply to. A great mid west school that gives chance and also kindly caters to students with academic promise but who lack the financial resources to pay for a college education. University of Denver is my very own alma mater. Two years later I walked proudly to receive my masters degree certificate that gave me an academic badge that read something like this:
Alice Kariuki:
Masters of Arts
International Trade & Sustainable Development; M.P.A Public Health
The Joseph Korbel School of International Studies; University of Denver, Colorado

B.A [Creative writing & Linguistics, English Literature & Sociology }
Kenyatta University Nairobi, Kenya.

Coincidence? No. Not at all. Do you have a talent, use it. Lets explore how?

You might ask if it was it a coincidence that I landed in America to the hands of the Duffy’s and later the beautiful home of my beloved American cucu, (my native endearment name for grandma). Mrs. Marion Gottesfield a compassionate woman of such grace, understanding and a matriarch of a loving family of givers. A woman whose name is written in my mind as synonymous with real philanthropic kindness.

Why did I arrive to America just when their house was vacant! Was that vacancy

About to leave Kenya to seek my American dream. Preparations and more turns and twists...

The year now is 1998. The magical believe in self and bold alignment to the universe is about to be revealed to me. At hand, is an admission letter to the Joseph Korbel School of International studies, at the University of Denver, Colorado. A school that is my very own beloved alma mater. The tuition? Very high! And do I have a penny towards the tuition? Nope! Am I convinced that I will be a graduate at the University of Denver? Yes? How? I don’t know how at this point either.

But first things first... I needed a travel visa, money for an air ticket and at least little money for food and accommodation albeit for one month. At this point I was working as a Marketing Manager at a cosmetics manufacturing company in Nairobi, my first corporate job besides working in the farms picking coffee berries and flowers. Besides supporting my family and myself in my new life in Nairobi, I had managed to save some money enough for the air ticket and a balance change of 500 dollars to my name. I thought that if I can get the travel visa approved, that’s all I needed to begin my journey to the United States of America.

But things are not that easy even though nothing could stand between me and my American dream in my mind. I got my travel visa and soon contacted the university of Denver prior to traveling and requested that they find me a host family to live with for the one month before school began. It’s now 5th August 1998 and school was opening in the following month, September for the fall semester. Now I have this letter in my hands….I have a student travel visa…and a temporally place to live for a month before school opens. Rent for the month was 400 dollars! I have 500 dollars in my pocket and not a penny for tuition. See the picture?

I have a fond memory of getting onto a Lufthansa air-craft from Nairobi headed to the United States of America on August 12, 1998. In my pocket was a folded stash of American dollars that counted up to 500 dollars. This was enough rent of 400 dollars payable to my host family, leaving me with 100 dollars for whatever immediate needs. I thought it was enough. At least for now. Yes, enough.

And just like that, soon it was 11pm in Nairobi. Time to board and take off. I bid a tearful good-bye to an “entourage” of family, friends and whole bunch of villagers who had hired a bus to take me to the airport! Yes, a bus people! I get goose bumps thinking about that night as the emotional streaks of energy that rushed through my entire body left an indelible impression, the sounds, smells, textures of things at the airport all looked strange, the teary eyes of my mother and the softened looks in my siblings eyes spoke a language I couldn’t fathom. But it was a language of hope and faith in better things ahead. The awe and amazement written all over the faces of those villagers?, wow!

And this is including some of them that have never been to Nairobi city before let alone the airport, all became the fuel that pumped my boldness. I had to go. I had to represent some hope for all that loved me and wanted me to bring back to my village education from “ruraya rua America” (Kikuyu translated: over-seas in America). And just like that, I was about to leave my country to a foreign country with little money in my pocket, a light suitcase and a lofty dream and yet I felt bold enough and determined that it was the right thing to do.

It's Aug 12, 1998. I am on board a Lufthansa aircraft , Seated on Couch cabin seat 17F headed to Frunkfurt, on my way to my dream land, United States of America. Nestled amidst other traveller's luggage on the belly of the Lufthansa aircraft is also my little 40 pounds suitcase packed with everything I called mine on this planet and yet inside the small suitcase lay a lofty dream; My American dream. I am now feeling a hand of the divine, as my childhood home of Kibagare slums and my native homeland of central Kenya disappears below. Up and Up the boeing jet slithered and navigated throw the clouds. I felt my angels next to me.  I felt amazing grace next to me. I felt a soft voice reassuring ....the clouds assumed shapes of little angels that flew alongside the jet like co-pilots..and off the vessel became part of the skies. I left Kenya. This was and will always be a magical divine moment.  Soon I doozed off into dream land. (The picture above not the actual aircraft, you silly!)

Now Iam quite hopeful I should say. I looked through the glass oval windows of the aircraft and Nairobi was fast disappearing behind me and I could see the flickering city lights get dimmer and dimmer as we fast climbed higher and higher into the skies. My eyes swelled with tears as I huddled myself together on a window seat, 17F. I could see the wings of this airline vessel spread out like a man made giant eagle, souring determinedly into great heights. All this was soaking into my entire being as a symbolic flight to freedom. Freedom from poverty. Freedom from Kibagare slums. Freedom to higher education. Freedom. My freedom.  An escape to unknown foreign lands. A journey to hope-land. And I bid goodbye to my beloved African homeland in a hopeful search for the American dream.

I saw nairobi get dimmer and dimmer. Peered keenly through the night fog. Tears rolled down my eyes as I thought of my mother perhaps still gazing into the skies guessing which planes taking off is the daughter in. I thought of my sisters Njoki, Mary and Becky and wondered what would become of them while I was away. The image of their soft brown eyes at the departure gate haunted me while I remembered our childhood playing and being best friend sisters while growing up at Kibagare slums. I remembered us chasing each other into the corn fields in our Kandara rural home, I remembered all those days when we hurdled together for warmth when we had no food. I thought of my little brothers. They were my people. I was leaving them behind for a new place and a new life. I closed my eyes and pulled the light plastic window, adjusted my seat and braced for my travels to the new foreign home. I had to go.

Never had I been on an aircraft before. It was fascinating looking down at the tiny lights that marked the city boundaries. I looked down amidst the darkness and wondered whether I could spot the Kibagare slums, nestled chaotically between Nairobi high school and the relatively wealthy Nairobi Loresho neighborhood. I could not see anything; besides my eyes had swelled with tears that I was fighting with a white handkerchief that my grandmother gave me for good luck. LOL! It felt like a symbolic flight escape to wonder land despite the fear of what will become of me in America.

Well, 18-22 hours on the friendly skies and boom we landed. The deep voice that boomed across the intercom at the Denver International airport announcing “welcome to the United States of America”! indeed felt surreal. The smells, the sounds, the helter skelter movement of travelers and their luggage scattered all over the airport was a spectacle to behold. Taking a deep breath and smiling with a nervous goofy grin, I felt good to be standing on the American soil. I am now in America. Wooooo! Hoooo!

If Denver International airport was a symbolic mini America, I loved the sight as the plane hit the ground with a thunderous sound as if to announce the arrival of an important guest. Me! LOL.

The airport's distinctive unique white tensile architecture with unique fabric white roof is aesthetically designed to be reminiscent of the snow-capped Rocky Mountains during snowy  winter. You look from an aerial view and you see this magnificient steel cables similar to those on the Brooklyn Bridge wedged on the roof. You are met by a lovely pedestrian bridge connecting the terminals to the Concourses A, B,C,D,E..blah! blah! blah!..... I took a long look beneath the bridge as I walked to the baggage claim terminals and felt  elevated with hope...a strong deep surge of hope swept through my entire being. Here on top of the bridge one can see planes taxiing directly underneath providing a glorious sweeping view of the Rocky Mountains to the West and the high plains to the East. I marvelled at the majestic white roof tops that looks like a huge canopy of huge tents, beckoning a weary traveller to refreshments and rest, almost like they are speaking an alien language saying; come- on- my- child-welcome- home.Come my child-Denver-knew-you-will-be-coming. Or at least I felt that way as I walked inside the main terminal. The roof and walkways stood still like holy temples of travel, I am not kidding. As I glided off the escalator onto the main floor leading to baggage claim, around the corner of the security cordon I got myself to an an area with pure black leather seats. All I wanted to do is sink my black bottoms into one, throw my head back, throw my shoes into the air, lift my face up into the filtered light underneath the tents and let out a loud screaming ululations of joy. It was so cool. It felt like a point of no return, And I was like, oh, dear God! if this is America, then I am already loving it. This is where I belong. This feels like home. And I will stay.

Luckily for me, the university of Denver had arranged for my host family to pick me up. I hoped Mr. Duffy and his wife would be there to pick me up.  Armed with light suitcase that I love to remember as my light luggage carrying a lofty dream; inside was a few pants, couple blouses and three pairs of open toes shoes, my family album, school certificates, and with me a soft well spoken personality, articulate, eloquent grammar punctuated with quite a heavy accent that announced boldly no matter what… I am a foreigner! I am a foreigner! Can you at least understand my manner of articulation? Well, my kind of accent? But that was the least of my problems at this time…..follow me onto PART II OF MY JOURNEY TO AMERICA AND TO DENVER UNIVERSITY. Coming up next.......

The Village. It took a village to mold me

Every memory is a subjective vision of the past. All of us recall our childhoods with a blend of joy, growth, perhaps events that make our hearts jump with joy or may be sorrow and regrets, nostalgic feelings and everything in between. I recall my childhood with nostalgic pleasure balanced with pain. I grew up both in the deep gutter slums of west Nairobi and also in a small rural village in central Kenya before leaving for United States. I have to admit that one may be tempted to begin a Kenyan story by painting out lions, elephants and gazelles or perhaps the beautiful tropical equatorial weather that I think about when my car freezes in New England biting winter. But all these does not begin to describe where I grew up, why I have been changed for ever and why I chose to write about my story.


Firstly, deep in my roots , I am multicultural , being surrounded by multiculturalism, growing up in two different kinds of environments and knowing them well, knowing the tribal customs, traditions and related stuff. When I write about my journey on this blog, I don’t even have to think about it, Whatever comes to me, comes to me and I write it. And I think, God gives gifts to everyone. And that’s just me expressing myself in the way that I’ve been gifted by my surroundings. So This background about me is a way of expressing who I am and it’s only right if I’m being real to me while sharing my story with you.

Here is a vivid description of the village I call my childhood home. It’s a village ruled by strong, exotic natural beauty and vibrant tribal culture. Punctuated with traditions as old as the tribe that taught me my first languages of kikuyu and swahili. Every time I return here, I wake up to my mornings with the crowing of the cocks/roosters; then with the barking of the dogs; braying of  a distant donkey; mooing of cows whose udders are bursting mith milk needing the milkers attention, chuckles of children running to school, obviosly the distant singing of crows and weaver birds as they catch worms; the clutter and clang of women water jerricans as they match their daily treks to collect water form the river.

Here is a place where electricity never arrived, people there still believe in curses that befell people if they deviate from the cultural norms and ethical morals, there is still the talk of bride-price and its meaning to the marriage institution, while you are here you are not spared the “tic-tac” sound of women grinding corn with pestles that ring out in the mornings like church bells, women working the field and singing in unison as they bare their backs under the African sun. It’s a village where the rains provoke children to bathe in the dirt paths and ridges and the most coveted fashion trend is fabric with illustrations of Western cell phones. It’s also a place where AIDS threatens and poverty is constant, where women suffer the indignities of patriarchal customs, where children work like adults while still managing to dream,

But do not let the description above deceive you. Amidst all the chaos and uncertainty people have found happiness and gift of life to dream and dream big; and then again you will see people walking around talking on their cell phones while driving cows to the watering hole! You will also catch young boys dancing away around a radio cassette to rap music and embracing the whole culture of hip-hop African style. You might get Impressed by this raw talent. I tell you it’s funny.

It’s really fun to watch this unique blending of traditional and modern life, so much so that at times the lifestyles blur into something that you cannot see anywhere else in the world. It's here that I learned my first human language and so everything about this place is very personal, very sentimental. Going back there brings back old memories, the walks through the corn fields, making musical instruments with local materials with kids. Growing up there, I must say its true there lots of people having a lot, and lots of them in abject, but I’ve seen and experienced a lot of happiness. You see happiness here isnt about having a color TV. Its the people smiling, we appreciate life, people have faith in the divine and are trully content with their fashion of development and happiness. You see, things have changed nowadays almost everywhere. The whole world has gone materialistic. People might look up to someone because they have a good car, a big house, comes from the developed countries, but while I was growing up there in the 80s and 90s, it was simplicity, life was simple, and even now I still feed off some of the fun simple things we revered as a kid. And I am not kidding.

My village is a true microcosm of Kenya’s beauty, dignity, variety and culture. Its like a small cultural spot if you like. You can watch the children laugh, learn, and grow. It is here also that you are guaranteed to run into quite intelligent children who have dreams and aspirations like anyone else and most want to be pilots, doctors and even presidents, usually the only modern role models they are exposed to. Out of passion, struggle, determination and a love for life despite the material adversity the people of my village still stands.

Now back to me, well, I lived in a small mud hut where we shared it with my 6 other siblings. I am a first born of seven siblings. The hardships and gross struggles growing up are the reason why I believe there is strength in adversity, considering how my life turned out. When I look at the difference between where I grew up and today being a successful partner business owner and a founder of a charity foundation, I just have lots of faith and love for life. The desire to get out of the dingy slums paved way for my choice of jobs and what I now do. I cherish the gifts that mostly had no wrapping paper; like believing in oneself and diligently working towards your dream. The many strangers I depended on for food and shelter and all sustenance bore influence in how I think of humanity. I learned there is kindness amidst the chaos and brutality depicted by conventional media. My appreciation of other people's challenges, and the relationship I have built with my business partners, colleagues and friends is based on what I went through as a child. I am a kind and generous person as a lot was given to me. How can I not be? How can I not give back after all has been given to me?

I learned to appreciate every single gift of life. I am always reminded of how far I have come and that’s why I do not sweat small stuff. I want you to picture this scenario gathered from my village home. You picture the beauty of this woman. She is a mother of seven kids. Today, its early morning hours and she sprinkles water from a squat earthenware jar across the mud floor and begin to sweep the wet dirt floor with a brush of long grasses bound tightly together. She is singing as she sweeps her house away. Soon she will begin the long trek of 6 miles back and forth with the weight of water jars on her back every morning for she loves her family. But she still is singing. She has learned to appreciate and live with the exact amount available to her. She sees her wealth within the context of the word “enough”. Its women like the one I have described above that I learned gratitude either for my work, my friends, my family and my relationship. That woman is my mom.
My lesson from this scenario begins with a question. Is she a lesser love giver to her children than my friend Gracie's son who won’t sleep unless his favorite toy is fixed? What will happen when Gracie’s son meet a child from the background described above 20 yrs later? How do we prepare them to merge their realities? That’s for you to think about.

In the end, my childhood experience has taught me that miracles are as you create them. Poverty is relative. I have learned that thoughts become things and we create our own reality. Despite whatever the adversities, life is always rich if you choose to see it as such. Join me on more stories of my life…..