UNJUST SOCIETY

CASE NO: 001

Somewhere in Kisumu, inside the slums of Manyatta at around 8:00pm, I hear a frail knock on my single room “empire apartment”. I had a long day at work (internship) and I just got home. I was hesitant to open the door for I was oblivious to the nature of the matter whoever was knocking wanted to summon me to. “tap! Tap!” the frail knock resonates for the second time and this time mad with rage I’m obliged to open the door.

“Let me tell you something about my door.

My door is made of steel, I don’t know why but it is not because of security purposes. Whenever I open the door, it makes a thin piercing screeching metallic noise merged with quagmire that arose from haze of getting in or out. You see my door is funny, it is tired and old, it was built just a year ago, yet it has the courage to sag its trousers that cause friction between it and the floor.  I loathe it. At this point it lets everybody in the neighborhood know that it’s “baba junior” getting in or out. They even use it as an alarm. For I wake up at 5am, and get back at 6pm daily.”

I open the door swiftly in a polite gesture, for I wouldn’t want my visitor scared. “Tunauza vitunguu”.  A voice whispers. Its dark and I can’t see the face of the persona of my story. He is male. His voice clear and soft. It lacks confidence. He is alone yet he said “tunauza vitunguu” which simply translates into “we are selling onions”’ I knew there are others. I opened my whining door wide to let my solar lamp hit him with bright. He is a child, innocently armed with basket full of onions dancing on his head. I take a deep breath, which forms round ball of air in my mouth and puff it out with a sigh.

“unaishi wapi?” I ask holding my head,

“huko chini” he points south, “Koyango”

“unasoma wapi?”

“kiswanini” I can’t remember the name but I swear the name he told was something I’ve never heard entirely

“unaishi na nani?” I ask, trying not to sound as blatant as you may think. He’s a kid. I have a bro close to his age, but he is at home studying. So I’m tryna know the dynamics that brought up “tunauza vitunguu”

“naishi na dani (grandmother)”

“na mama ako wapi”

“alikufa” he pauses, I shrink, “kitambooo” he adds

I ask him whether he is alone or not, but he shows me that his other two brothers are outside the gate. I went to meet them up and the child who knocked at my door seemed the youngest. They, the other two, have been standing in the dark waiting, hoping that the youngest would hit a jackpot. I gather them around with me at the center. down on my knees so as to be on the same height as they are, I look into their eyes as if I would notice some sense of malicious activities. I wanted them to feel free and comfortable with me as they would any of their classmates. I did not ask them their name, but the eldest confirm the story of the youngest.

Now the eldest was in class 3, the second one was in final class and the youngest in baby class (if you know what it means).

“nani aliwatuma kuuza vitunguu?”

“dani” the eldest reply

“mbona?”

He coughs in spasms for 5 minutes. It’s cold, it’s been drizzling since morning and they have no sweaters or jumper laced on their body. On a closer look, the youngest has nothing on his feet.

“ili tuweze kununua unga” he replies at last

“na mbona huyu mdogo hana slipasi?”

“dani hajamnunulia”

At this point I take a seat on the grass. We are living in the slum and its late. The distance to Koyango from where I stay is roughly 5 kilometres away and unlikely it would take less than 30 minutes . It’s been drizzling the entire day and the thought of the small kid with nothing on his feet stepping on a thorn, or pieces of broken barbed wire sends a chill to my spine. I wonder, what might happen in the dark if they would plunge themselves into a sewage or a collapsed septic tank. What if someone might attack them? Rape them? What if a cyclist would run over them? Who is this dani anyway? With the guts to send these kids out on a mission like missionaries, walking from door to door selling the gospel of “tunauza vitunguu”. I feel like these children should take me to these dani, look her in her fading eyelashes and tell her, “these kids deserve so much better” it is not so bad for children to help their guardians, and I know most dani’s living with their grandchildren are often hopeless and helpless. But there are some basic needs to be met, for instance the youngest should wear something on his feet, all of them should put on jumpers and sweaters whence its cold to reduce chances of pneumonia attacks. I am not at any cost against these dani, but it’s the time I am against. The children ought to be back at home by 5:00pm. Not still wallowing around the next slum selling onions.

I search my pockets only to find twenty-shilling coin, which I had saved for my fare tomorrow. I give it to the kids and they give me the onions. I tell them to go back home its late. And to tell dani that it’s so wrong to be out in the dark, alone whence its late selling onions. If you want to perfect your dani’s lifestyle and have a better life you need to go back home and study, mambo ya pesa achia dani. You can help her during the day. But for now please go home.

We are playing a political game. We are 12 months’ shy away from the next elections. I don’t know what policies politicians will use to seduce their voters. But a thing tells me it’s gonna be a promise to provide employment and empowerment to the youths. Right? The youths are the sole founders of the obvious target. How about the kids? The notion of children right? Who will push for those reforms? Street kids are out there begging for money, feeding on dumps, abusing drugs, yet the irony lies in the Kenyan constitution, “each child has a right to basic education” till we make sure that there are no street kids in our streets, or orphans tryna hustle their way out, we will not achieve sustainable development. They are not eligible voters, is that why we alienate them? Children are the backbone of our future generation, lets empower them.