Showing posts with label The Isaiah Trust. christian. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Isaiah Trust. christian. Show all posts

Friday, 24 March 2017

Tales from Nam Lolwe


Monday saw the spring equinox, when the sun is directly over the equator, when the days last from 6am to 6pm and life is at its hottest in Kisumu. Moses and I had travelled the roads of Nyanza and Western Provinces, meeting up with some of our older boys & girls, now young men and women.

But today, with the sun still high in the sky, burning down on the beautiful gardens of Sunset Hotel, we had planned to swim.

We arranged to meet at 11:00, to give the sun time to rise above the Yellow Oleander, the purple Jacaranda and the red Flame trees that line the grounds of the hotel and to warm the waters of the pool from the relative cool of the night air.

At midday they hadn’t arrived, so I went down and slipped into the pool. It was a perfect temperature. I swam through the calm waters, surreptitiously avoiding the many insects, both large and small, that had succumbed to the pools watery depths, enjoying a little down time in what had been a hectic week.

I swam a few lengths of the small pool, then stood for a while in the water, watching the many coloured birds in the trees above. Below the pool, beyond the grounds of the hotel, I watched a pair of zebra wander through the trees with a few small impala for company.

As I sat, submerged in the cool depths, I saw Moses and the children coming down the path at the hotel above. I waved and he waved back, then led the children down to the pool.

We paid the fee for visitors and the children quickly changed before heading into the shallow waters of the pools short end.

It was lovely to see them all. I had met a few of them at Kibos on Sunday when we had gone to church, but we had rushed away to get to Kachok, to attend the service there too, so I hadn’t spent time with the children at the house. Dennis and James, two of the more confident swimmers, were soon jumping from the diving board at the deep end of the pool, their splashes rippling across the water and drowning those who were paddling.

Malenya (or “Wayne” as he is known in the house, though nobody could tell me why!) is the smallest of the new boys at Kibos, he is 8 years old. Wayne lost his mum in a tragic accident when he was just five. She was lighting a paraffin stove to cook food for the family when the stove exploded and she was very badly burned. After a short while in hospital she died of her injuries, leaving Wayne alone. His father fled and hasn’t been seen since. We don’t know why he left, but it is an all too common occurrence that children are abandoned by single parents who can’t face the responsibility to bring them up.

Wayne went to live with a distance relative in Kondele, though he wasn’t put into school, the family making him work in the house, looking after their own, younger child. Regularly beaten when he got things wrong and forced to wander the dusty backroads of Kondele during the day, his plight became known to one of the boys that used to attend our outreach program, and who now runs a small kiosk selling fruit and vegetables. He spoke to Moses about him, concerned for his welfare.

Wayne began living with us earlier this year and is beginning to feel at home with the older boys. I was delighted to see his smiles and laughter as we played in the shallows of the pool. Later this year he will start school, in Class 1.

Griffins, by contrast, is already in Class 7 – he will do his KCPE next year. Griffins is a bright boy, with good English, and I was able to chat with him for a while. He is currently 6th in his class of 130 children and is hoping for a good grade in his exams. He loves science and hopes, one day, that he could become a Doctor, but if not, then something in the medical profession.

This week I have met Collins, Mary and Daniel, all of whom started where Griffins is, and all of whom are now at university. It gives me confidence that a bright boy, with the right determination can also make it.

As the boys swam, so another familiar face arrived. Florence, another of the older children in the Trust, had come from her university in Eldoret to greet us, all smiles and happiness.

I had carried a gift for Florence from one of the Trust’s amazing supporters, a handmade blanket to give her warmth in the cool Eldoret nights. Florence was thrilled with the present, “No one has ever done something like this for me before” she said, a beaming smile across her face.

She is studying for a degree in Geography combined with special needs education. She will shortly go on an attachment at a school for the deaf and is busy learning the sign language for complex rock formations, which she will be teaching in a secondary school.

Kenyan’s never cease to amaze me with their ability to learn languages. Florence already speaks three – English, Kiswahili and the local tribal Luo. She has now added sign language to her many other gifts and abilities.

The boys played, splashed, jumped and dived in the warm pool for two or three hours, before Moses called them out to get dressed. A chicken dinner from the shacks in town was offered by way of temptation – and they ran to the changing rooms like matatus vying for an important customer!

We all jumped into Moses small Toyota (I say “jumped”, sardines spring to mind!), and set off for town.

This evening, as I sit on the balcony at the hotel, a cool breeze comes off the hills surrounding the lake and flashes of lightening crack through the dark clouds, gathering to bring night time rain. The sun slowly sets the sky ablaze with golden light as it sinks into the watery depths of Lake Victoria.

One evening this week, as we had been driving, Moses had told me an old Luo story he had heard from his Mother when he was young. It spoke of "Nam Lolwe", the local name for Lake Victoria, from a time well before British explorers first thought of heading down the Nile.

“There was an old man”, he began, “who lived on the shores of Nam Lolwe. He didn’t possess a penny. The mice in his house held a meeting and all agreed that, even they, should move out.

His home was empty.

Then one day an old woman came to his house. They became friends and, after some time, she moved in. The old man’s fortunes began to improve, they kept a few chickens, then goats and then, even, some cattle.

One evening they argued, no one knows what it was over, but the argument was fierce. The woman threatened to leave and to take all of the animals with her. “You can’t take them,” the old man said, “It is me that has brought them here!” And with that, he threw the old woman from the house.

In the evening light she was seen walking down to the lake, singing an old, traditional song. 

As she sang, the animals, one by one, began to follow her, leaving their fields and their enclosures.

She walked, slowly, into the lake, the animals behind until all were lost to Nam Lolwe”.

“It isn’t a very happy story, is it?” I complained to Moses.

“My mother used to tell it to us as we sat by the fire in the compound at home” he replied, 
“She told us that we must never forget those who help us along our way”.

I have been delighted to meet, this week, with some of the older children who the Trust has been supporting in their journey to an independent life and future. They will forever be part of our family and I am proud to know them.

I am grateful too, to the many supporters of the Trust who have made their stories possible, who have “helped us along our way”, giving them a bright future.

Today I met with Wayne, Griffins, James, Dennis, Norbert, Ben and Maurice. The next generation of children in our family. I hope and pray for their futures too – may they know the fullness of life. 

Thank you for all you support.

Wednesday, 22 March 2017

Rickety Bridges



There are some words and phrases that Moses uses occasionally, that I know, from my years of experience of travelling with him in around the busy roads of Nyanza and Western Provinces, do not mean exactly what they appear to say.

So when he turned the car onto a dusty mud road, some miles before the busy town of Bungoma, and announced “This is a short-cut”, I have to say my suspicions were aroused.

We had been travelling back from Malaba, a border town in the very western part of Kenya, grid-locked with lorries, laden with goods they had collected at the port of Mombasa and then driven across Kenya, bound for Uganda. Huge wagons, nose to tail, queued for miles to reach the border post, to have their papers checked and their trailers weighed, before being allowed to roll through the Ugandan hills towards Kampala, some two hours away.

“Will it be bumpy?” I enquired, preferring my own comfort to any potential time saving. “No”, Moses replied, “It will just be smooth, apart from one small bit by the bridge”.

That should have been warning enough.

It was a far cry from the peace of Noah’s rural home. We had gone to Malaba to visit him and his family. Noah had been with the Trust for a number of years, living at Kibos with Moses and Tatu. He went to school, but then chose an apprenticeship in car mechanics, which we were able to fund for him. He spent two years in Bungoma, the nearest large town, learning his trade in an established garage, before graduating.

He was a quiet boy, who has matured into a lovely natured man. Now 25 he lives an independent life, has got married to the beautiful Jocelyn, a teacher in a nearby primary school. They have a 7 month old son, Brian – another lovely grandson for the Trust.
They live together in the traditional family compound, though Noah and Jocelyn hope, soon, to be able to build their own home a few hundred yards away on a plot of land his father has given him.

We met Noah in Malaba town, amongst the high sided wagons and trailers. He guided us through a maze of back streets and onto ever smaller rural roads and footpaths (footpaths in Kenya become roads if someone has a mind to take a car down them – and Moses has such a mind).

We walked the last few hundred yards to the compound, through fields planted with maize and cassava. The unmistakeable smell of wild mint rises from the small purple flowered plants that grow at the field edges, carried on a cooling gentle breeze from the Ugandan hills a couple of miles to the west. The fields were planted a month or so earlier and the maize has pushed its tender, green head above the deep red earth in time for the early rains.

“It gets very wet here”, said Noah, as he led us around the field edge towards his home. “We have some rice growing in these fields”. He gestured to his right at what looked like an acre or so of spindly grass which I had assumed was for grazing the families cattle. On closer inspection it became clear that the small, thin green leaves had been placed a few inches apart in neat rows and were growing well. “When the rains come,” Noah continued, “this whole are can be under water. The rice can do well”.

As we entered the compound Noah’s mum rushed to meet us, shaking our hands and thanking us for coming, clearly delighted that we were there. 

Noah’s reunion with his mum, some years earlier, was one of the most moving moments in Moses experience. 

Believing Noah to be dead and thinking she would never see him again, we took Noah back to his family soon after he came to Kibos after a few years on the streets of Kisumu. She broke down in deep tears of joy to see her son again and is so grateful for all that has been done for him.

Noah, for his part, has matured into a lovely, independent young man with his life ahead of him and his family. Not for the first time this week I felt very proud of what God has done through the people working for the Trust here in Kenya.

We were soon joined by Jocelyn, returning from school, with baby Brian on her back, wrapped in blankets and with a bobble hat to keep out the cool of the breeze. 

We talked and drank sodas under the cool of a mango tree in the corner of the compound, maize fields stretched out behind us and iridescent blue sunbirds jumping between the branches, seeking out the fresh fruits and flowers. Smoke rose from a small charcoal stove behind a traditional hut on the other side of the compound where Noah’s mum was preparing fresh Ugali and Chicken for her visitors.

“We should go inside” said Maurice, Noah’s uncle who had joined us from his place on the other side of the road (footpath), “there is rain coming”.

He picked up the table and chairs and carried it into one of the small, traditional mud and thatch huts that make up the homes in the compound. Inside it was cool and dark, my eyes taking some time to adjust from the brightness of the afternoon sun.

Then, from outside, lightning and thunder, a strong wind blew up and the rain began to fall. I say fall, it, quite literally, pounded the earth until every blade of grass was crying for mercy, running like a river from the cut ends of the grassy thatched roof of the hut. It felt quite appropriate to be in Noah’s place at the time of a big storm!

After twenty minutes or so it stopped as suddenley as it had begun, the sun came out again and the earth began to gently steam.


We ate our food gratefully, then talked with Noah, with Jocelyn and with his family. 

Noah is of age now and has his own parcel of land which he has planted and maintained. It is enough for him to feed his family, but he would like to continue with his mechanics. We would like to buy him a toolbox, with which he will be able to attach himself to a garage in Malaba and which, ultimately, will enable him to work for himself. 

Jocelyn is praying to be absorbed into the Kenyan teaching system, though this process can take many years until she had an official post.

As we left, Noah came to me with a chicken as a gift of thanks, at which the family burst into laughing and clapping. We took our final photos as the sun began to fall in the sky, before heading back to the small Toyota for the three hour journey back to Kisumu.

“It’s ok”, said Moses, “this way will be quicker. I know it, it goes past my home”.

We sped down the dirt road, made red from the afternoon storm, throwing a cloud of dust over a group of schoolchildren on their way home from a busy day, their blue and yellow uniforms now showered in iron rich soil.

Then Moses slowed and stopped the car at the top of a steep and rocky incline that led down to a small stream, over which someone appeared to have lost a load of wood from the back of a boda boda.

“What is that?” I said to him

“That’s the bridge”, said Moses, somewhat stating the obvious.

On the road below us was a precarious structure, a few thick logs covered with, what looked like a few lengths of 4x4. It was clearly aimed at bicycles and pedestrians, but its ability to support a vehicle convinced me considerably less.

“Shall I get out?” I said to Moses, thinking it might help to lessen the weight of the vehicle.

“No”, he replied quickly, “We go over together!”

We arrived back in Kisumu at 9:30, it had been a long day. For some of our children, Noah included, life has confronted them with a number of “rickety bridges” – challenges they need to be brave and courageous to overcome.

For some, like Noah, we have been able to cross them together.

Saturday, 18 March 2017

"Now that you're here ....."

As I write, the rain is thundering on the tin roofs of the walkways at Sunset hotel. Constant lightning flashes illuminate the wide expanse of Lake Victoria and the wind is throwing the purple flowers from the delicate branches of the Jacaranda in the hotel gardens.  

The gentle low pitched grunts of hippo's, joyfully resonate through the rain and the mosquitos have temporarily run for cover (though I am convinced that every bug and insect in Nyanza province is poised, ready to spring into action - full biting mode - at the first sign of new life).

Jacaranda flowers by Lake Victoria

It has rained every time I have visited Kenya. Yes, every time for the last 16 years.


I arrived in Nairobi yesterday to wet pavements and standing water on the roads. I asked Douglas, my taxi driver, when the rains had arrived. “This is the first we have had since last year” he said.


“Typical”, I thought, “I have brought the weather from Lancashire!”


You see, I know a thing or two about rainy places. I lived for a number of years in Preston, officially the third wettest city in Britain after Cardiff and Glasgow. 

I now live near Burnley, which attracts an enormous 1154mm of rainfall every year – no wonder our reservoirs are always full “oop North”.


“In some parts of Kenya, you know, it hasn’t rained for more than three years”, Douglas continued


And then I felt bad.

Parched Lands in the Rift Valley

As I took the short flight from Nairobi to Kisumu, above the volcanic craters, steep hills and great lakes of the Rift Valley, I could see for myself how dry things were. Fields and plantations, usually great swathes of fertile green valleys awash with maize and tea plantations, were brown and parched.


I had read about the drought, of course. The Disasters Emergency Committee have launched a huge appeal for funds and people throughout Kenya, Somalia, Ethiopia and South Sudan face the very real prospect of starvation. 

In Northern Kenya people are dying, fighting over grazing land for cattle and livestock, over access to water and the army are being deployed to sensitive areas to keep the peace. 

Last month the Kenyan government declared the drought a national disaster and the Kenya red cross estimates 2.7m people face starvation. 

As if the lack of food weren’t enough cholera outbreaks are on the increase as the lack of clean drinking water takes it’s toll.


I suddenly felt very fortunate to live where I do, to know the cool of winter, the rains of spring and autumn and the graciousness of a summer to grow enough food for our needs.


Moses (not the one who can part waters!)
I met Moses at the airport in Kisumu and we drove the short distance to Sunset Hotel, my regular resting place in Kisumu on the shores of the Lake. We talked all afternoon, catching up on news, ideas and plans and on the work of the Trust. 

We talked about food security and the availability of fresh, clean water. Moses shared that the well that we dug at Kibos is now one of the few wells in the village that hasn’t dried up, with queues snaking around our acre or so of land as people line up to fill their jerrycans. 

We organised our week together over a cup of hot Kenyan tea while little vervet monkeys scurried around the grounds, jumping on the tin roofs and the hotel tables, scurrying into the safety of the trees when the staff tried to chase them away.


“Has it rained here yet?” I asked Moses, an hour before the storm hit.

“Not yet”, he replied, “but you are here now, so it will come!”