At first, I took Solomon Kariuki for what he said he was – shy.  In groups, he tended to stay at the back, contributing more smiles than dialogue during conversation.  “I sit back, especially around people of higher classes.  I am not the man to take control.  When I was young, I would have my own cocoon when it comes to leading others.  I have a phobia.”  Why, then, is this reticent young man interested in being a mentor?  For one, Solomon recognizes other youth in their protective wrappings, and knows how to talk to kids that seem unapproachably quiet.  And second: Solomon is not the introverted person he describes – he is, like most of us, more than he seems.

Solomon

The mentoring program in Nakuru originally started at Solomon’s university as an investment club for students.  Once they formed, members had difficulty identifying worthwhile investments, and it was Solomon who introduced the idea of mentoring.  Solomon then selected 20 students (10 men, 10 women), many from the investment club, to learn more about mentoring – all of them then participated in Ripe for Harvest’s first mentor training.  Each of the mentors picked two mentees; the mentees could be anyone – from the neighborhood, or a local school – the only guideline was to choose a person between 13 and 17 years old who is the same sex as the mentor.  Abby Onencan, director of Ripe for Harvest, believes this age is a crucial time for young people to have a mentor.  Solomon chose a neighborhood friend – a sixteen year-old boy – as his first mentor, and a second that was selected by a nearby high school (the principal chose students for the mentors that were going through difficult challenges in the hope that the mentors could straighten them out).

Solomon didn’t have any trouble talking with the neighborhood mentee; the other young man, selected by the school principal, was more challenging.  In their first meetings, the mentee hardly made eye-contact with Solomon, and he often made up excuses for missing meetings.  And this is where Solomon’s hidden talents of thoughtful observation and keen problem-solving came in.  For both mentees, Solomon anticipated some awkwardness of meeting in a formal setting, so he made the get-togethers more casual. His neighbor loved rabbits, so on his visits Solomon helped him make a hutch for the pet rabbits, and sometimes they would go on walks looking for herbs that the rabbits could eat. They would find themselves talking about schoolwork or challenges with parents as they played with the rabbits or collected herbs.

The young boy who was slow to open up loved video games.  He was often out of the house, spending his mom’s money at internet hubs with other gamers.  Solomon was worried about how much time the boy spent in the arcade – and mostly concerned with the company he kept there – so he suggested to the mother that she buy the boy a bicycle, and she agreed.  The boy loved the bike.  He and Solomon would get together and repair it, and with Solomon’s guidance the boy went to the arcade less and less.  Even after the bicycle was stolen, the boy didn’t return to playing video games; instead, he asked Solomon for help with his classes.  “He listens to me, and has respect for me,” Solomon said.  “I really appreciate that.”

I asked Solomon what qualities a mentor needed to have, and he told me about how he chose the mentors from his school.  “I didn’t pick the popular people – I picked the quieter students because I could tell they cared about people.”  These quieter students possessed perseverance, willingness to do voluntary work, were self-motivated and creative, and “they had an aspect of goodness” Solomon described, “like people who go to church.  Basically, they were honest people – and approachable.”

Leader of leaders

And it was around these students that Solomon shone – rallying them together for meetings, motivating them to engage with their mentees in creative ways, and listening thoughtfully to their frustrations that sometimes arose during mentoring.  Solomon was, despite his ideas about himself, the leader of this empathetic clan, calm and welcoming in every interaction I witnessed.

I asked Solomon what could be added to the mentoring program to strengthen it, and he didn’t hesitate: more training.  Sometimes the challenges mentees face are serious, and the mentors are not sure how best to help them.  The mentors also wanted more opportunities to be together – to learn from each others’ experiences and form a stronger support system between them.  Right now, there aren’t enough funds to have events or trips for the mentors; there aren’t enough funds to continue the program.

Do you want to continue being a mentor? I asked Solomon.  We have taken an afternoon hike and he and I were sitting on the porch of an abandoned house, away from the other mentors.  He has become more animated as we talk, and with this question there is renewed steadiness and certainty to his voice: “we have made a commitment to these kids,” he said, “so we will continue mentoring them even if there is no more funding and the program ends.  If we don’t, who will they have to talk to?”

Solomon at Menengai Crater

Now I’ve returned to where we should be: nearly in the present.  We visited Nakuru and the mentors before the IDP camp, so this is the last out-of-order set of entries.  The dates we were in Nakuru: July 1oth-13th (the IDP camp was the 13-17th).

The mentees and their mentors

Mentees and mentors from Nakuru gathered at Flamingo Primary School, ready to tell us their stories.  During one-on-one interviews with each of them, we learned how important Ripe for Harvest’s mentoring program had been for the mentees – and how much the experience had changed the mentors.  Here are a few of their stories:

Mentees:

Diane, Sarah, Becky, and Edith

Diane Chivadika – 14 (blue shirt in picture, far left)

Becky Chelimo – 14 years old (second from right)
Edith Akoth – 15 (far right)

Edith’s sister, Sarah, offered to mentor her and asked that she recruit a couple of her friends as mentees.  Edith chose her best friends Diane and Becky, and the three of them would meet with Sarah every week, going on hikes together or enjoying ice cream in town.  Individually, the girls were nearly silent – together, the giggles and conversation didn’t stop.  Starting and finishing each other’s sentences, they told me about having Sarah as a mentor:

At first, we didn’t understand what mentoring was all about.  But after Sarah explained to us, we would talk to her about our lives.  Sometimes parents can’t understand like Sarah can.  We like to talk to her – yeah, we really like it! [-others chime in]  When you keep problems to yourself, it can affect your studies.  When you have someone to talk to, you feel better. Some of the problems Sarah helps us with?  Boys, other students saying bad things about us because of what tribe we belong to.  Some of the boys at our school are doing drugs, and she talks to us about that.  Sarah helps us refocus on our studies.

Ishmael and Gerishon

Gerishon Muraya – 13 years old (on right, in blue)

When Gerishon and his mentor, Ishmael were together, they were always laughing.  They ran across the school field, chasing each other and rolling into a pile on the ground like brothers.  During group activities, Gerishon would keep his eyes on Ishmael, and drew noticeable confidence from the way his mentor led other students and made everyone welcome.  Gerishon told me in our interview how the mentoring has affected him:

You are free with Ishmael and he can consult with you.  Even in my classes, it has changed my studies.  He tells me how to handle my problems.  Even at home, I feel better.  My relationship with my parents is better – we used to have quarrels all the time.  When we started the mentoring, it wasn’t easy – we had to get to know each other.  But now, my performance is better.  I want to continue seeing Ishmael – he has clearly been nice to me.

Mentors:

Sarah Otieno

Sarah Atieno Otieno – 22 years old

Sarah is the eldest child of five, and is in her third year of college as a communications and technology major.  She loves singing at church and cooking pancakes for her family.  Sarah went above and beyond with her mentors – finding ways to take them out on every meeting, buying them snacks with her own money, and even encouraging girls to reflect on the challenges that young women in Kenya face (they each wrote a paper on the topic and shared it with Sarah).  Here she shares about her experience mentoring her sister and her friends:

It was challenging at first to mentor my own sister, but she opens up more in the group with her friends.  All of the girls are more able to open up with me now, after some time together.  We talk about challenges in school, discrimination from other students, boy and girl stuff.  I like to take the girls on outings when we get together – it breaks the tension.  We go hiking a lot.  How has mentoring changed me?  It opens up my mind.  You have to be ready for the mentors – if they have problems I don’t know about, I have to research, to talk with other mentors, so I can learn how to help.  With more training, we could do better.  If the mentors could meet more often, we could share what we go through and support each other.  I’d like more training in how to be creative as a mentor – like other techniques I could use, or how to help mentees with their difficulties.  We [as mentors] need to be able to address questions skillfully so the mentee feels empowered.  I want to teach my girls how to avoid being manipulated by young men.  If we could get more funding to take our mentees on outings and have snacks for them, I could do more; right now, I am using my own money.  Do I want to continue mentoring them?  Oh yes, definitely.

Ishmael Kingori

Ishmael Kingori – 22 years old

Ishmael is gregarious, quick to lead in a group and immediately comfortable around younger people.  He is a business of commerce college student, close to finishing his degree.   I asked him about his meetings with his mentee, Gerishon:

In the first meetings, the process of mentoring was still forming in my mind.  But I had a feeling from within about mentoring.  Sometimes we talk about drugs – he is just in 8th grade, but he feels a lot of peer pressure.  One of my mentees is often sent by his uncle to buy alcohol for him.  I advised him to do what he’s sent to do but to know himself.  I’ve changed because now I have someone to help out.  I have a role to play, and I know there is more to life.  Do I want to continue mentoring?  I can’t leave at this stage.  I know this boy is going to high school, and he will be in need because he’ll have things to share about how he’s expected to be in life.  This is a passion, you take it seriously – and to be our best, we need more training.  Some topics are challenging to talk about, especially drug issues and one how mentees should compose themselves.  Mentors also need a mentor to talk to during the training, and during our time with mentees.

I’d only be telling my side of the story if I didn’t introduce you to the children of Petah Tikva orphanage.  They are some of the most delightful young people I’ve ever met.  They were always fresh – in appearance and spirit, eager to sing, and beautifully open to just being together.  When I sat down beside them, the girls would lean in, sometimes competitively to see who could get the most body contact with me.  Their warm shoulders pressed against my arms completely softened me; their small frames contained so much love and readiness to be loved, I had nearly forgotten so much feeling was possible.

Snap

We met Felistus at the orphanage that Saturday, just after the four-hour mass and right before we received two bunnies as party favors.  Felistus told Abby she lived in Nakuru – the very town we were to visit the following week – and would be happy to house us.  In fact, she was delighted we were coming: the children would be thrilled.  Abby introduced this free housing to me before mentioning there was an orphanage attached – with 10 young children.  I tentatively agreed in Felistus’ presence, and on the day of our departure for Nakuru it was decided this was the most sensible (well, economical) option.  We thought the 10 children would be the challenge; they were, in fact, angels.  The devil is in the details.

We are going to get into a topic that you won’t like – how money is funny.  More specifically, how a focus on money can narrow even the most generous of people.  This story serves as an example of a common and nonetheless vexing money fixation that might as well be a drug habit, because it’s effects are the same on the human brain and internal organs.  This sounds overdone, but hold on: come to Kenya, or for that matter take a look around wherever you are, and you might find I’m not exaggerating.

Felistus’s home is about 20 minutes outside of Nakuru town.  When we arrived by matatu and then taxi, it was late afternoon and the grounds were peaceful.  We entered the main cement house, its windows open and wafting gentle breezes through the corridor.  The smooth and recently laid tile beneath our feet was like cool water (one begins to pay attention to textures underfoot when there is enough variation in flooring), and our rooms were complete with mosquito netting and a heated shower next door.  Felistus guided us to the dining room, where we laid our arms a bit too heavily on the table and ate several of the fat-fingered bananas.  She showed us her side of the house – her ample room with two walk-in closets and a shower almost as big as the room.  She gestured to her desk in the corner – complete with large computer and full stereo.  “I have internet all day long,” she smiled.  The wall decorations were pictures of Felistas with different hair styles, and some posters of Jesus.  Felistus was a Catholic nun for 14 years; she left the convent four years ago.

In the house there were also two young women (her nieces) and a man who did the cooking.  Felistus walked us outside across the gravel driveway to the adjoining building, one that was taller and made of unfinished cement.  As we entered the doorway, I turned to see a neat row of 10 little bodies, all sitting dutifully by the side of Felistus’s house.  No one made more than a mouse-sound, but all of them watched us carefully.  Felistus noticed that I had noticed them, so she redirected the carefully planned tour to introduce us to the children.  Each one of them extended a hand to me, bowing down full bent-knees when I shook their hands.  I began to mimic the bent-knee reaction with the handshake, and all of us were bobbing up and down, giggling at learned formality.  They returned quickly to their seats, and Felistus promised we would meet them again later.  We returned to the unfinished building’s doorway.

Children of Petah Tikva

The floor was different inside the second building – remember, variations abound – it was in fact, uneven cement.  “This building was built not long ago, and we are hoping to get donations for the floor.  Right now, we have no money for tile.”  We entered the stark hallways of the first floor, the white drywall spattered with stray traces of gray cement.  The kitchen and dining room were simple, “the children eat here – do I eat with them?  Oh”, laughing, “sometimes I come to visit”, and the bathroom at the end of the hall served as the shower and toilet for all 10 children.  “And where do they stay?”  We moved upstairs.  The stairs, also coarse cement, led us to another bleak hallway.  The room by the stairs, set apart from the others, was for the man who looked after the children day and night.  There was no similarity between his room and ours.  The grey of the cement was the only color, besides some blue and red clothing on the bed.  The children’s rooms were brighter, and that was because we knew the children had been there.  Their few belongings were neatly laid beside each bunkbed – backpack, shoes, sweater.  One of the girls came into the room when we were there, and lithely climbed up to her high bunk, smiling shyly down to us when we persisted in being there.  I moved into the next room; Felistus followed me.  “You know,” she whispered loudly, “that girl is a total orphan.”  “Okay,” I said.  I waited to hear what else she may have to say about the child, but she had moved on to another topic.  Luna entered the room a few minutes later and Felistus turned to her, and with the same sharp whisper said, “you know, that girl is a total orphan.”

Felistus was most excited to show us the third floor.  We walked gingerly up the stairs, some stray hairs of barbed wire jutting out from the cement pillars.  From the open-air roof, we could see the surrounding hills of Nakuru – “this is where we hope to build another level for more children one day”, Felistus’s voice was a little softer and her eyes widened with what she imagined.  “Someday there could be 200 children here.  We want to be able to accommodate that many.”  She continued, building the other floors for us, constructing the extensive network of school buildings and the in-house clinic that would exist when these hundreds of children arrive.  The building was almost the size of the entire block before she directed her gaze back down, to our eye level, and her tone changed to that of someone who has been abruptly returned to reality.

“All of these things take money, and you know we have very generous donors from Holland.  But they have asked us to find more friends – friends who can help us care for all of these needy children.”  She kept us on the third floor, going over each aspect of her project that was short of funds, and I listened with awareness and growing uneasiness.  For the next three days, Felistus’s intentions grew more apparent.  The second night, she turned to Luna at dinner and said, “you know how to make a website?”  Luna replied yes.  “You make one for me.”  It was unclear if this was a demand or a question.  The third day, Luna left early for town and I was to follow in the afternoon.  Felistus entered my room shortly after nine, and invited herself to sit beside me on my bed.  “I noticed you have used your sleeping bag every night, and not the sheets I put on your bed.”  I fumbled, saying something about liking my sleeping bag.  She raised her eyebrows and held them for a moment, to note her judgment.  I was familiar with this look – it was the same one I received when I said I ate vegetables, not meat, and when I said I liked hot water more than milk-tea.  These were inappropriate choices, I learned.

Felistus returned quickly – almost imperceptibly – to the facial expression that matched the reason for this visit; it was one of fatigue, and diminished hope.  “Kate, you know, it takes so much funds to run this place.  You have seen how happy the children are?  They are so happy.  This is not how they were when they arrived.”  She continued, repeating what I have already heard, but with bluntness.  And here is what is complicating – I know those children are happier; they are most certainly better off here, more loved here.  I have trouble, however, reaching the children through the woman in front of me, who both controls their future and seems to be progressively narrowing possibilities (for everyone) in her pursuit of the ever-elusive but highly sought-after money-pot.  The money-pot is the money-drug’s undying hope for salvation.  Felistus has (mistakenly) taken me for a money-pot, and I know there is no convincing a person otherwise when the craving has taken over as I feel it has in this room, on this bed.

Felistus informed me it is my duty to bring people here, white people like me who will stay for months at a time and play with the children – and pay for the room, and the food, and the children to have food, and rooms.  I told her I would try to inform others of her home.  She is disappointed in me; this is not money-pot behavior.  After she leaves the room, I have a choice.  I can give her some money for the room that I understood was free, hoping it will reach the children.  Or, I can let my frustration and my pride make the decision – she will not get any money from me – no, more specifically, her money-drug mind will not get any money from me, the false money-pot.

I walked to her room, my entire middle knotted in defiance.  “Felistus?”  I called, and she came.  “Here is some money, for the children.”  Her eyes widened, and she smiled.  I returned to my room, where she soon visited me again – “You know, I am very glad you came,” and she resumed her list of expectations and needs.

This is how the money-drug works: I, a student with debt and minimal funds, become – from the money-drug perspective – a white-person-with-money.  And Lots of money – so much of it, in fact, and so many connections to more of it, that I must want to give it to others in ample amounts.  To Felistus, who chooses to see me as white-person-with-money, I am everything she has dreamed of.  This is where the drug of money becomes dangerous.  When it is all you look for, it is all you see in others – whether they might have it, or might be craving it.  The seeking of money is a false divining rod that can lead a person to a poor student (me) or to a donor who may have money but may not be trustworthy.

[Note: I am oversimplifying, underestimating, and dramatizing – I know.  This is a story about a larger story and Felistus is a mirror for us, of all the parts of her that are in us and around us.  And, all the parts of us that are in Felistus and around her.]

The drug’s consequences continue.  Over the course of my three-day stay, I began to notice more about our housing.  The children were scuffling over rough cement while we skimmed across fresh tile.  Felistus’ room was adorned with more modern electronic equipment than most middle-class Western homes, and her closets were full of new, recently starched outfits.  Was there really a lack of funding for the children?  Was all this searching for money holy, in the end, if it was all for the sake of these children?  I wonder, especially for this former nun, where is God in money?

And this: in a country that has received so much on foreign aid over the past decades, and has come to associate – on a national level – white with funding, how much is this Felistus and how much is this the habit of historical, habitual relationships?  I take this precedence of my skin color over my individuality as a personal attack, but just like any drug’s effect or habitual pattern, this is not about me – and Felistus is not alone.

So we are left unfinished, and strangers to each other, in an almost three-story building with 10 children and a former nun surrounded by electronics and large closets.  The ways into the heart are fewer with so much between us.

Door of Hope Orphanage