My Journey Of Faith. Dr. Charles Mutua Mulli

where they came from. Some were dumped in the streets when they were barely two years old. They could not understand anything or even defend themselves. By the grace of God they managed to hang on to life, and the streets became their ultimate home. Others are in the streets as a result of having lost their parents and nobody else would come to their support. The streets became their last resort. Such children need to be understood and comforted, but not shouted at and called chokora.

      Through interactions with street children, I learned that street life—just like in the jungle—was about survival of the fittest and preying on each other. It was full of selfishness, anger, disorder, hatred, fear, blackmail and undue opportunism, among other vices. The children struggled to get something to eat by any means possible, including stealing, lying, pretending and even concealing their identity. In this jungle—where their ages ranged from as young as 2 years old up to 25 years old—the strong ones had it all while the weakest were hit worst. Life was not so different from the animal kingdom, where the weak ate only after the strong had their fill. Woe unto the young ones, because the big ones hardly ever had their fill.

      The girls in the streets were sexually abused by the big boys and even other members of the public. It was common to see small girls aged 12 years having babies or getting infected with HIV/AIDS. Most of the adult street boys and girls were already infected with HIV/AIDS. The situation was appalling. It signalled to me the need for urgent intervention.

      Besides the prevalence of the deadly virus, the children were also used by criminal elements for illicit trade such as drug trafficking—and abused drugs themselves. Selling and smoking of marijuana (bhang) was common in the streets. The huge, dirty, black sacks that some of the children carried on their backs—that were mostly believed to contain food leftovers—also contained drugs. Sometimes I would talk to street children who were too intoxicated to see me. When we later met again, they had no idea who I was.

      The jungle life was strongly exhibited when children struggled for food. If a small child, for instance, got a piece of bread and went with it to a given “camp” where other street kids lived, it would be grabbed from them mercilessly by the stronger ones and devoured as they watched. It was even worse if someone stumbled on food in the presence of others; they could fight for it and end up injuring one another badly. Every time I went to the camp in the evening, I would be told of cases where children quarrelled over food. Such living conditions left no room for love, courtesy, friendliness, orderliness, meekness, humility or concern for other people’s welfare. It only created men and women full of selfishness, anger and vindictiveness, practising blackmail and other anti-social behaviours.

      On almost any day, at almost any time, children dressed in rags with bottles filled with glue pressed to their faces roam the streets in Kenyan towns. Even today they can be seen, roaming in rural towns, too. Many have lost their parents to the deadly HIV/AIDS scourge and other diseases. Some have been cast out of their homes. Many are runaways, while most of the others are forced on the streets due to poverty. Remember, we have millions of Kenyans out there who live on less than half a dollar per day. These children are the poorest of the poor; they depend on begging, theft and prostitution to survive. Sniffing glue and smoking marijuana are also popular among these children.

      I would spend time with my wife and children in the evening, talking to them about God and His love for the poor, sharing with them my desires for street children. We would have dinner together and pray together as a family. When they went to bed at around 9 p.m., I would go out to meet the street children. I would stay there in the dark up to 3 a.m. or sometimes until morning before driving back to my house in Pioneer Estate. My wife and children were worried about my security at night, but I told them, “I’m doing God’s work, and He is watching over me.”

      Initially, the street children were suspicious of my intentions for visiting their riverside camp. Perhaps they thought I was a police officer or a security informer tracking their movements. Many of these children were involved in petty crimes and were repeatedly arrested and beaten by the police. The authorities simply called it discipline.

      But with time the children relaxed and welcomed me into their open abode, especially after I kept taking food to them every evening. They were used to people abusing, beating and harassing them, but when they saw me coming with food they opened up and warmly received me. After walking aimlessly in the streets and rummaging through dumpsites during the day, these children would rush back to the riverbank in the evening to wait for me. They were sure I would come. They were sure I would bring food. They were sure they would eat. I became one of them. This gave me a chance to get to know them better.

      My wife, Esther, would cook a lot of food and pack it in containers. I would deliver it to the children at night. Initially, the children fought over it, but I created order and supervised the sharing exercise. On other occasions, I bought them bread, soda and milk. This made them so happy, and they started longing for my arrival every evening. And while they ate the food, I taught them the art of sharing among themselves and appreciating one another. The rehabilitation process had started.

      As my relationship with them became stronger they started telling me their stories. I even learned their language—the popular street sheng—which we used to communicate with each other. For instance, they would get excited when I greeted them with “Ooooyeeee.” To them it was a moment of excitement, but for me it was a learning session. This expression would later become synonymous with MCF. In our interactions, the children frequently used words like buda (father), msosi (food), niaje (how are you?) and many other words that I have since forgotten. Today when I interact with the MCF children I still greet them with “Ooooyeeee.” This phrase also means “Peace be with you.”

      While visiting the street children, I discovered that some were very sickly, especially the young ones who were less than 10 years old, because of the cold temperatures they were exposed to in the streets. In the months of June, July and August, it would get as low as 10 degrees Celsius (50 degrees Fahrenheit). These children had no choice but to brave the cold by the riverside or on wet pavements. Some of them would cry in my presence, cough endlessly and shiver throughout the night. Others had acute cases of fever and diarrhea. I took them to the hospital, where they were treated for malaria, typhoid, acute flu, skin diseases and other ailments.

      Furthermore, these children were dirty and smelly—they operated in dumpsites, and some had not showered or changed clothes for many months—but I sat close to them and listened to their stories. Whenever they were happy, especially after I had delivered food to them, they would hold my hand, brush themselves against me, pull me around, climb on my shoulders, struggle for my attention, play with me, and do all manner of things that ended up getting me dirty like them. When I went back home one might imagine that I had been rolling in a pool of mud. My clothes were extremely soiled. Furthermore, these children were infected with crawling pests such as lice, and I ended up catching lice too.

      These are some of the minor challenges that I faced while reaching out to the street children, but they never deterred me from focusing on my main goal of rescuing and rehabilitating them.

      For example, each time I returned home from Sosiani River, my clothes had to be thoroughly disinfected. However, to control this situation among the children, I would bring them soap and advise them to bath by the river and wash their clothes. This ensured that we all remained clean. This was a tall order for some of them, who had a phobia of water, but others took it with enthusiasm and practised some personal hygiene.

      After continued interaction with the street children—playing, greeting and holding hands—I began getting itchy hands, especially at the back of my palms. My irritated skin began peeling off. I constantly kept scratching my hands. I later found out that I had contracted scabies, an extremely itchy skin disorder that spreads from one person to another through close skin-to-skin contact.

      Medical experts say scabies is contracted from prolonged hand-holding with an infected person. It is caused by a parasitic infestation on one’s skin. Itching is the main symptom of scabies. It is often severe and tends to be in one place at first (often the hands) and then spreads to other parts of the body. If the skin becomes infected with bacteria, it becomes red, inflamed, hot and tender. Scabies can stay in your skin forever if not treated. It can be cured by applying a medicinal cream or lotion as