
There’s a conspicuous class split here in Kenya. Due to colonialism, it’s more entrenched and socially pervasive than the economic divide in the US. At times I feel awkward and somewhat guilty, staying at airbnbs which for the same cost in the US might offer a tight one room studio apt and basic amenities, while in Kenya the same price provides huge, spacious settings, often with grand gardens or amazing views in gated neighborhoods. The disparity registers more when I take walks locally to do errands, and I intermix with the majority of the lower economic Kenyan populace who also walk because everywhere the roads are lined with those working hard or vying to sell crafts, plants and handmade goods.
It’s impossible not to notice how much hand labor is relied upon here. In almost every instance where Americans would have a power tool or use motorized equipment, there is someone doing it in a more physically demanding way with a simple tool. Everything from brushing sidewalks with a stiff-weed broom (often 1 meter or less, obliging the sweeper bend over!); or sawing off 6” x 6” beams with a hand saw on a new building; breaking concrete with sledge hammers; or tossing massive piles of rough mulch through a rickety natural-material lattice in order to generate finer mulch to sell to the upper class. We are often more efficient in the moment but we squander a tremendous amount of resources long term. And I can not say we are necessarily happier.
Wherever I stay I like to get to know the house managers, gardeners, or security personnel and learn a bit about them. I’m not sure they comprehend or believe that I also do a fair amount of physical labor. The difference of course being I am compensated far more and am in control of my time and work choices.
Jonathan is the general groundskeeper/carwasher/gardener at the place I’ve been staying for the last two weeks. Seen in the photo above, he’s proudly sharing a fresh-picked guava from one of his carefully tended trees. I haven’t learned his age but would not be surprised if it’s near mine. The lines on his face reveal decades of hard work, as does his lean, sinewy frame and especially his impressive hands. He’s always joyful, not uncommon among Kenyans, and speaks passing English—enough that we have brief chats, and he delights in my trying to learn a few phrases in Kiswahil. It’s painful to consider the things he’s been through, even if he’s only 60, but all the more if he’s older. To me it’s remarkable he retains such joy. But maybe that’s partly what has allowed him to endure. Within the deep creases and all he has witnessed, his cloudy eyes still sparkle with a genuine kindness transcending traditional concepts of beauty.
The “house manager” (aka “House Girl”), Agnes, cooks, cleans, launders, and keeps up the huge mansion above where I am staying. She lives on site, and in addition, attends to her boss’s many medications. I’ve been happy to do my own dishes and minimize how often she needs to clean my spartan spaces, and sense she’s very grateful to have a bit of relief from her many duties.
There are so many stories of heartbreak here. I can’t say if I’m sensitive to it or it simply is more common in traditional cultures esp as they jaggedly adapt to modern ways. Many are also now further impacted by technology, fresh social justice ideas, and ongoing corporate and political corruption.
Agnes is from a rural area near the coast, five+ hours of rough public transport from Nairobi. She has one day / week, partly off. She took the position less than a year ago. Her irresponsible husband left her with two children, four and ten. She seems conscientious and kind and says her father warned her about him, but she was young and headstrong choosing to mistakenly believe he would change. (Who among us hasn’t been there?) She had been working part-time and his sudden departure forced her to figure things out. She had established her own business, and was doing ok, but then it went under as the new president here (consistently declared corrupt by every Kenyan I’ve met) initiated so many new taxes it has handicapped the economy within less than two years in office. So her business venture failed. A friend in Nairobi knew of this position and suggested she come.
When I asked what of her children (now six & twelve), she said they are with her mother. “How often do you see them?” She looked down, put her hands out in light fists and in a determined, not pitiful way said, “Right now, I do not.” “Can you at least FaceTime or speak on the phone?” “Ahh but you see my mother doesn’t have Wi-Fi, or even cell phone...Once in a while she maybe borrows someone’s phone outside of our village, and says she’s available—then I must rush to call her back.” My pained face prompted her to respond: “It’s ok. It’s what I must do right now. For my children. I will make it!” she said with deep conviction.
I suggested maybe they could find someone at their school who would allow a brief interaction on a schedule.. just to keep in touch. She said for now they feel maybe it’s better because they would miss me more if we did so. I recognize this may be part of what many people who have immigrated to America do as well. Somehow it doesn’t hit home until you come to know someone whose family is sacrificing at this level. We may squabble about some things legitimately in the US, but we also take so very many things for granted. Occasionally I hear her working above me, singing softly as she attends to her many duties. Since learning her story, the strength and resolve beneath her soft features makes all the more apparent her profound inner beauty.