A Kenyan Christmas story

It couldn’t have felt less like Christmas, writes Gerry O'Donoghue of Maintain Hope. Blazing sunshine, blue skies and no piped carols. The only concession to the Christmas spirit was a halfhearted attempt to decorate the shopping malls frequented by foreigners.

Julius and I were having breakfast outside a local cafe. A young girl whom we later learned was nine-year-old Purity, approached our table and whispered, “Will you buy for me food?”

She had boarded a public minibus in Bul-Bul six miles away, and had fare-dodged her way to Ngong. She hadn’t eaten since the day before. Her brothers had eaten at a neighbour’s house but there was no food at home. As she ate sausages and chips, Julius gently questioned her.

She lived in the slum in Bul-Bul with her mother, her four sisters, her sister’s baby and her two brothers. Her father had left to find work in Mombasa five years before and hadn’t been heard from since. She was in class five at primary school and was number five in performance out of a class of 60. The Catholic parish of Bul-Bul helped her during term time but now in the holidays she had to do without school lunches.

Like most Kenyans, no matter how poor, her mother has a phone. Julius called her to explain the situation. We later learned that Purity had left the house to play and hadn’t been missed. Because of the child- safeguarding implications, we called the police and the Children’s Officer, and between us decided that we would take her home.

In the local supermarket SHE pushed the trolley, and SHE chose what to fill it with. Flour, rice, cooking oil, porridge, sausages, a chicken, bread, Blue Band and jam. As we approached the checkout, she whispered to me, “Will you buy for me a dress for Christmas?“. In Kenya children don’t wish for Christmas toys, their greatest wish is for new clothes and if at all possible, new shoes.

We drove to her home in the Bul-Bul slum. The house was spotless. The few stainless steel cooking pots and plastic serving bowls gleamed. The charcoal burner was cold. As we unloaded the boxes of food, I was reminded of my West Clare childhood, when my mother brought home “The Christmas“ in cardboard boxes, containing such exotic treats as jelly and fruitcake and waxy candles as well as a “Christmas Box” from every shop in Kildysart where she dealt.

We listened to the mother’s story. A story of grief and abandonment and despair. She thought of our sudden appearance as miraculous. We left with a promise to do our best in the future and to visit again before Christmas.

Questions. Can we add one more family to our growing list? Where can we cut back to save some money to allow for more hungry mouths?

The almost unthinkable question is, what if Purity had met somebody else? She could be trafficked to Uganda or Tanzania by now. It happens.

As we drove back to continue our scheduled family visits, we didn’t speak because there was nothing to say. However it felt a little bit more like Christmas. Of course we bought for her a dress. A red one.

Happy Christmas to all our friends, families and loyal supporters. There is always hope.

Photographs use Policy — Privacy Policy