Kindness in Kenya

Once the transformation from day to night passes, we normally stay inside the hostel, eating western food and perusing the view of Lake Victoria from the rooftop.  Tonight though, we throw caution to the wind, and venture out into the streets of Kisumu to a recommended restaurant. It takes ages to find, and I become panicky as we snake through streets, empty save for the security guards, who stand outside the shops the whole night long, shotguns upright.

Kisumu is Kenya’s third-largest city and certainly the most up-and-coming. In the daytime, students tumble out of university buildings, while cars and school buses are driven into Lake Victoria for a wash. As night falls, however, the markets are packed away and shutters are pulled down on the previously bustling main road.

Sunset over Lake Victoria

Eventually, our Italian-style eatery is found, and we settle into wicker chairs, surrounded by leafy ferns and paintings of safari in the Masai Mara. I drink something deliciously non-alcoholic, called ‘Fresh and Cool’, and my angst about the streets dissipates.

But we soon have to set off back to our lodgings. As we approach the first roundabout on our way home, a flock of street-children spies us, those rich tourists from a foreign land. Expectant of sweets or money, I think, as they rush up to us.  We are alone on the street against the group. I bolt. But the moment of successful bolting is delayed as my ankle gives way, and I end up on my knees in the road. My vision is fuzzy and pain courses all the way up my ankle. Concerned about the encroaching mob, I attempt to get back to my feet. But the world is still a lot fuzzier than it ought to be, my ankle unable to withstand my weight. ‘I’m going to faint’, I say.

Just a giraffe in the lake

My travelling partner likes to think he is an experienced medic: ‘Lie down! Lie back down if you are going to faint’. Vulnerable in front of the watching children, who have now gathered in a circle around us, I reluctantly return to my position in the middle of the highway. But instead of pouncing on my money belt, which is haphazardly slung around my stomach, one of the older children offers some condolence.

‘Sorry for falling’, he says, and then looks at my white t-shirt. ‘You are now dirty’.

He bends down and tries to rub away the mud from my shoulder. The children behind him take his cue, as if he knows the correct protocol for fallen-down tourists, and then they all join him in the bending down and the patting, trying to brush the dirt off my top in different places. One of the children runs for a tuk-tuk. I lie there in the middle of the tarmac, surrounded by twenty street children who are all concerned about my clothes, until our transport is flagged down to take us to the hospital, and we are whisked away from our assailants – and our rescuers.