Mai Chai Mzungu

I stared at the phone screen. No reply to my SMS. Sighing, I leaned back against the white-washed corrugated metal door of the youth center. I was standing on a dusty corner, partially down an alley that led to the field site I was visiting for the day. John and the taxi were long gone, the trail of dust no longer visible where the tires had screeched away. I squinted a little at an armed guard pacing in the not distant-enough distance. Nervous, I glanced at my watch. 9:13am. I fidgeted, rang the number again, fingers crossed this time. It just rang. John T., co-worker and day’s guide, was running late. Finally, he picked up. Any minute now he assured me. Ten at most. Where are you standing? Nowhere special, I shrugged to myself. Just on a random dusty corner next to Nairobi’s second largest slum. Great. Perfect. Exactly where I meant to be.

After a few tense moments (pretty sure I was still breathing, not certain, but pretty sure), I got a brilliant idea. Like something out of a bad spy movie, I shrank to the ground in a deep squat, hidden just beyond a staircase. (If I can’t see anyone, then no one can see me…right? Right?) I slipped my notebook from my back pocket and pretended to busy myself as the beads of sweat started to collect on my brow. Several young boys passed by laughing and jabbing one another in the ribs. Startled, I lost my balance and fell over (still not sure how, but I did.) I righted myself, praising British Airways for losing my luggage and leaving me in three day-old now-dusty clothes I wasn’t too positive didn’t reek. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the guard’s shadow moving towards me along the wall. I crouched lower as he spoke to me in rapid Swahili. After a moment, he paused and repeated himself in English. I sighed. Disguise fail.  

As I stood up, he beckoned me to follow, saying he knew where the youth center's office was and this was nowhere for a lady to be standing alone. The phone rang again. Two minutes, John swore. He was nearly there. Two minutes and not a second more. I smiled at the guard and backed away as a group of schoolgirls passed. Sawa, sawa (okay, okay), he laughed, shaking his head and retreating. A cloud of dust erupted as the car pulled up and John T. hopped out. He looked around for a few moments, confused, and stopped not far away, staring at me. You’re not a mzungu? I paused for a second, searching for the word. No, no I’m not a white person. We both laughed. Well, you had me worried, he added as we headed inside.

Kibera slums (online image)

The rest of the day went by in a blur. John showed me around the youth center and took me to a partner organization where we wandered about, meeting and greeting with staff and a few beneficiaries of their joint program. Shortly after midday, we locked our things in his car and ventured into Muthare slum, second only to the far too well-known Kibera slum. Low squat structures, most with corrugated sheet metal roofs and patched walls lined up one after the other in ziz-zagging rows that stretched on for miles. There was a small place labeled kinyozi (barber) in one spot next to an even smaller place with chicken necks on a wooden slab out front. A vendor's blanket was stretched out with shoes stacked neatly in lines and hats and jackets in a mound beside them. Men, women, and children sat on makeshift stoops watching as others passed by carrying bundles, bags, stacks of wood, piles of scrap metal, rubber, you name it. We danced around piles of trash and odds and ends as children in rubber soled shoes and cloth slippers skipped past. No one watched as we passed. No one stirred or looked after us. 

As we walked, I could feel my phone vibrating in my pocket about a split second before the ringer sounded. John T. threw me a warning glance and I silenced it through my jacket pocket, careful not to look around. No phones he had said. No jewelry. No watches. Nothing. And no talking at least not with that accent he'd added with a wink. We came to a clearing where a group of people stood, fanned out and silent with a teenage girl slowly gathering her things from the ground and crying soundlessly. Some shook their heads in silent disapproval, but no one spoke. All eyes were trained on the girl except ours as we continued on. Rattled, I tried not to look back as John T. pressed on. We can’t meddle. Even if it looks bad. You don’t want anyone to know you’re an outsider. I waited until we had climbed the large hill that led back to the main road out of Muthare. Do people actually think I’m Kenyan? I asked, incredulously. Of course. You look just like us and you’re definitely no mzungu, except when you talk, he laughed. I stopped for a second and looked around. He was right. It was the first time I could remember being overseas and not being the odd woman out. Everywhere else it was always so obvious I didn’t belong. In a way, this was comforting. As we crossed the street, I made a mental note to start devouring the Swahili books tucked away in my bags somewhere.

Muthare Slums (online image)

Later, as we drove past, I couldn’t help but stare at the squat structures flying by with their sheet metal roofs glinting in the fading evening sun. I’d been a lot of places, but this was not quite like what I’d seen before. John pointed. Those homes? In the slums? They cost about $10 per month. These houses? He lifted a finger to a row of slightly shabby, but sturdier two story brick homes on the opposite side of the street. $100 per month. It’s no wonder people don’t leave the slums.

*Mai chai (Thai meaning not, negation) Mzungu (Swahili meaning white person, white foreigner)