Nothing to celebrate on International Day of the African Child

It’s 5.45 pm on the eve of the International Day of the African Child. At the junction of Kenyatta Avenue and Moi Avenue at Nairobi City Centre, a 10-year-old boy sits on a gunny bag, holding a broken mirror, inspecting his brown eyes. His younger sister sits at his right, a transparent tumbler with a few one shilling coins before her.

With crocs on their feet, lights sweaters on and their backs leaning against a lamp post, the children watch as shoppers walk in and out of Naivas Supermarket, as though fate is mocking them for their lack. Between their feet and the Kenya Aviation College building that houses the value chain supermarket, people walk by fast, bags clutched tightly, as though they are sending a subtle message about the kind of future that awaits the children.

About five meters from where they sit, a toddler is in deep sleep, on a skinny gunny bag, unbothered by the scuffle of feet that pass by centimetres away from his face. This is home, and anyways, toddlers don’t care where they fall asleep. A young female adult sits beside him, scratching her dreadlocks and rubbing her hands. It’s getting cold.

Back at the lamp post, this writer asks Kevin (not his real name) about his mother’s whereabouts. A few minutes later, Aisha Mohammed Abdul stands before the writer, in a black buibui and black hijab. Her glasses sit comfortably on her nose.

This is the third month her children are sleeping in the streets, she says, and her son has even developed a cold. As if on cue, the boy coughs, then goes back to his mirror. His eyes are itchy, this writer learns, and his mother is quick to explain that she also had an eye problem.

Things had not always been this way, she explains. On April this year, her daughter fell seriously ill and was admitted at Kenyatta National Hospital for two months. Then everything went south. With her son, they camped at the hospital, fearing that her son wouldn’t be well taken care of. While away, her landlord locked her house for failing to pay rent, and her children stayed out of school.

Were it not for the social work department at the hospital, they may have never been released. Who would have paid the bill to secure her release? Her parents? They are long dead. Siblings? No. how could they do that when they chased her away? They have good jobs and money, and visit her once in a very blue moon, but they wouldn’t help her. “Wake wao ni visirani, hawawezi kubali wanisaidie” she sobs.

“I called my brothers to inform them that we had been admitted in hospital, and they told me that there is land at home where we can bury my daughter in case she dies,” she says as her eyes flood with tears.

She no longer considers them family-her brothers and friends. Her only family are her children, and a very elderly woman, differently abled, who dragged herself from town to the hospital to check on her daughter.

 “When we came back, and found our house locked, I begged the landlord to allow me to pick a few things from the house, amongst which, my children’s school uniform. My son was in class five, and my daughter in class two. The landlord refused, and we had to sleep in the cold. Even my neighbors couldn’t help me, because friends only come around when you are doing well,” she says.

“At Moi Avenue Primary School, where my children used to attend, I had fee arrears amounting to Sh8,000. They chased my children away. When I went to request them to hold space for them as I look for money, they refused, saying I need to clear the arrears first. Now here I am, begging, for Sh150 a day that I can use to keep my children from dying from hunger,” she adds.

With the little money, she buys food that they share as a trio. However, it is never enough, she says, adding that her children will pretend that they are full to ease her heart. “that’s not how my children looked like,” she says, implying that they have lost weight due to insufficient food.

At night, Aisha can’t sleep. How can she, when it’s cold as the bottom of the deepest ocean? What if her children are stolen? Her very reason for living? If they are stolen she will die of heartbreak. That she is sure of. So she stays wide awake, hoping she can stay with her children one more day. Also, how can she sleep when she needs to watch out for jerks that kick her in the back at night, asking” where is the father of your children? But that’s better, they could do worse, and rape her.

Her husband and father to her babies disappeared months ago, having given his life to drugs. Aisha doesn’t know where he went to, and she doesn’t have time to look for him. The children are the priority here.

“I don’t judge him. Who knows, I could fall into the same trap tomorrow. But I try to be sober for my children. Amongst all the mothers that live here with me, only my children do not go to school. And it breaks my heart every day that my children spend another night in the cold,” she sobs, as she takes off her glasses and uses the edge of her hijab to wipe her tears.

Her son, bless his innocent heart, loves school, she explains when she calms down. He loves to read books and newspapers whenever he can get his hand on them. And every day, he asks his mother when they will be able to go back to school. They miss home, and can’t wait to go back. 

“I would like to be a journalist when I grow up, but at the moment, I just want to go back to school. My friends pass by here on their way home from school, and they often ask me why I don’t go to school with them,” Kevin chips in.

Instead, every morning, Kevin and his sister fold their gunney bag, carton box and maasai shuka and give it to their mother, who hides it for use at night.  When the sun is up, and her children go back to their mats to collect coins from philanthropic passersby, Aisha will ask other mothers around her to watch her children, then she will take a power nap.

“We have no hope here. We have surrendered everything to God, let Him do with us as He wishes. My only prayer is that my children get a roof over their heads, “she pleads.

Her children, just like other African children living in desperate situations, have at tender ages, stared at the cruelty of life that breaks the strongest alive. And as the world marks the International Day of the African Child, the only thing that rings in these children’s minds is: “will I eat anything today? Will I be rained on at night? Will I see dawn?”

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