I sat down with an eighteen year old boy the other day to interview him for a project I’m working on to highlight some of the street children who have been helped by Undugu. We sat eye to eye in the grass at the edge of a soccer field in Eastern Nairobi. I balanced my notebook on my leg and took notes as he laid out his biography for me in simple English phrases.

I asked him where he slept at night. I knew the answer before I asked it. I knew he slept on the street. But, in the name of accuracy, I asked anyway. He answered as I expected, “the streets in Mugoya.” I slowly wrote the word, M-U-G-O-Y-A; one letter at a time. Then, I traced each letter again while concentrating on my notebook, avoiding eye contact. I traced the letters a third time while digesting the thought of this boy sleeping on the street. I may have known it before I asked it, but I didn’t really grasp it until he told me. He sleeps on the streets……sleeps ON the streets…..on the dirt….on pavement….under stairwells…..under bus stops….in a field….in an alley….actually sleeps on the streets of Mugoya.