Nancy and Shelvis

The rain was not coming down too hard, so I left the Church World Service office early and walked to the sidewalk where the matatus pick up (“Matatu” is the name of the 14 passenger van used for public transportation in Kenya).  I was looking for a number 48.  When the first one came by I was not quick enough to get on before it was full, so I continued to wait. 

Then the downpour broke through the clouds.  The rain drops were fat and coming down quickly, splashing in the mud puddles on the dirt sidewalk and soaking the many people waiting for a ride.  Since I did not have an umbrella or a raincoat with me, I was determined to move quickly the next time a #48 came.  When a #48 stopped about 20 yards away from me, I made a dash for it, but I found myself at the end of a line of many. 

The young man working to gather passengers for the matatu stood a few feet away, and he saw me run to the van trying to get on.  “Do you want to go to Kungware?” he asked.  I nodded.  He started walking towards the van with a look of determination on his face.

Everyone waiting in the line got on, and then the matatu was full, overfull.  The young man motioned for me to get in, and he began speaking in Swahili to the woman sitting in the seat by the door (I could not understand his words).  I thought he wanted me to squeeze past the woman into the back, but peering in I couldn’t see how it was physically possible.  I gave the young man a puzzled look. Then he shouted at the woman by the door and hit her on the leg.  She sat tight clinching her bag, not saying anything. 

At that point I realized what was happening. The young man wanted the older woman to get off the bus and step back into the rain so that I, a white foreigner, could sit down.  I stepped back shaking my hands to show I did not want the seat.  I walked away.

Riding the matatu was usually one of the highlights of my day.  Packed closely in the seats, hitting the bumps and potholes together, I felt connected with the local Kenyans.  But this particular incident highlighted the difference between me and the darker skinned Kenyans whom I usually join on the ride. 

I walked away from the roadside upset and taken aback.  The rain was still coming down strong.  I looked at the school children in uniforms waiting a few feet back from the road to catch a ride home.  The young boys and girls leaned up against a wall to try and avoid the falling drops.  I joined them by the wall. 

The children giggled, squealed and shouted in the rain.  They made me smile.  I was glad to be in their company.  I thought about walking back to the office, only a short distance away, to get out of the rain, but standing against the wall with the laughing children was too healing to give up. 

Not much time passed and another matatu arrived.  I walked up to the #48, made sure all the children got on first, and found a spot waiting for me in the back.  The man working to gather passengers for this matatu seemed to have compassion on our wet group.  He welcomed us all on board with a gentle hand.  The ride home made my heart full.  With water running down our faces, we were all relieved to be in the van, and there was a sense of shared wetness and gratitude.

I traveled across the globe to a place where most people’s skin is a darker shade of brown than my own, yet I learned racism exists here as well.  The racism that, on the surface, seems to work in my favor, in reality dehumanizes all of us.  My encounters on the matatu remind me that change is still needed.  Yet, the feeling of togetherness that sat with us on the wet ride home that day, points to the hope that equality and unity are possible.  I am grateful to God for the hope.