To make the point, Doreen pulls out a washing-up bowl from under her bed with a chicken in it sitting on several eggs. It’s such a surprise that we all burst out laughing.
The woman from Solidarité adds: ‘We give the hard workers six chickens and a cockerel so they can start breeding their own.’ She asks Doreen where the other chickens are. She looks a bit embarrassed by this. ‘Ah, I did something a bit silly over Christmas. I was really keen to give my children a special meal for once, and decided to kill one of my chickens because to buy one would have cost a thousand shillings, which is the equivalent of half a month’s rent. I thought I’d soon have another one to replace her, but then I realised that instead of one of the chickens it was the cockerel whose neck I had wrung.’ We all burst out laughing again. Doreen has a way of telling stories. But I’m shocked simply to hear that a chicken costs the equivalent of €10 when I think of how cheaply, thanks to the subsidies paid to chicken farmers, we can buy them in Europe.
‘But the upside is,’ Doreen adds, ‘that the children had a great Christmas dinner.’
Outside I can hear her neighbours chattering and a baby crying, and the roar of an aircraft engine; the airport is not far. Before we leave I ask Doreen if her neighbours and children know about her infection. To my surprise she answers loudly and almost jovially, ‘Oh yes, I talk to people about it all the time. It would be too much stress not to. I’m a realist: you have to play the hand life deals you. Lots of people act as if there was nothing wrong with them, but I think you just have to face up to it. If one of my neighbours offers me a Coke or a beer, I ask them if I could have some milk instead because it’s better for me. If you have to take medicines regularly then you have to stick to a simple diet. My children know all about it too. There’s no point in pretending. I just tell them they all have to work hard at school so they can help one another out when I’m no longer around. They know they have to pay attention in school. That’s just the way I am. Doreen’s way, I call it.
‘But as long as Solidarité is around, I think there’s no limit to what I can do. I can plant more sacks, get more chickens, and maybe go on to stage three soon: keeping rabbits. The only trouble is there’s not much room here in the slums. That’s why my dream is that one day I can afford to buy a little patch of land that my children can call home.’
We take our leave of Doreen and, as I did with the other people we’ve been to see, I hand her a month’s rent. For me it’s not a big deal, but for her it’s the equivalent of being paid for taking in twenty loads of washing. When I meet women like these and hear about the conditions they have to live in, and their modest dreams, I feel really small and ashamed of those days in my affluent life when I grumble about things.
When we come back to Nairobi five months later, Klaus and I go back to find the vegetable sack ladies. Once again Pastor Elly and some of the women from Solidarité come with us. By the time we get to Doreen’s hut, yet again having to jump over ditches filled with sewage and dirty water, it seems to me as if Kibera is even filthier and stinks more than it did last time.
In the meantime things have changed for the better for Doreen, she tells us with a broad smile. She’s been on a course to learn how to look after newborn children, the chronically ill and how to improve hygiene conditions in the slums. She’s now teaching everybody else what’s she’s learnt. That gives her a lot of pleasure but the absolute best thing in her life is that she has finally fulfilled her dream of giving her children a roof of their own over their heads. She’s bought a tiny piece of land back home in what she calls ‘Obama’s area’. Now she’s doing all she can to save enough money to build a little house there. It’s not easy, she says, because she still has to find the money to pay for her brightest boy to go to secondary school.
‘But things have gone so well for me over the past few months that I feel certain God will help me once again,’ she says humbly.
By contrast I’m shocked when we go back to see Irene. She’s even thinner than before and her school uniform skirt barely rests on her hips. She has weeping spots all over her arms and face, and even those that have healed up have left scars. She says her HIV infection has all but destroyed her immune system and she nearly died. ‘But as you can see, I managed to get through it. Take a look at my new business,’ she says, pointing to some corn cobs on a barbecue. With a grin she asks if we want to buy some, for 1 shilling [1 cent] each. The best we’ll get anywhere, she boasts.
We go back also to see Anne, who as ever is busy tending her veggie sack garden. She gives us big warm smile and invites us into her hut. There hasn’t been much change in her life since we were last here.
What I find most touching in my encounters with all these women is how delighted they are to see us so interested in their lives. It’s Anne who expresses it best, bringing tears to my eyes. ‘I didn’t have a visitor in years until you turned up to see me last February, and I haven’t had one since. I’m overjoyed to welcome you back again to my little home. You gave me such encouragement to carry on, despite all life’s difficulties. It was just so inspiring to know that there are people living outside the slums who might care about me and my life. You filled me with a sense of self-respect.’
JAMII BORA
A song and dance is not the usual greeting you get in a bank back home in Switzerland, but it’s standard in Kenya whenever you come into contact with the Jamii Bora credit union. Whether it’s in the bank buildings, somebody’s office or one of the projects they lend money to, guests are welcomed with singing and hand clapping. I can’t help thinking we should try it back in Europe. I’m sure it would do wonders for business.
We’re in the car park on our way to the main entrance of Jamii Bora’s head office when we’re greeted by six women singing and clapping, who run ahead to show us the way to the building. My mind is still reeling from the welcome as we go inside to find ourselves in a large hall with all sorts of tables and counters, and people patiently waiting their turn. There’s someone over in one corner filling out forms; in another corner someone else is deep in discussion. It all seems very calm and businesslike, with all the customers clearly content. The vast majority of them are women.
A tubby elderly woman introduces herself as Susanne and says she’s in charge. She sets about explaining the history of the business before introducing us to Ingrid, the founder, and some of the organisation’s biggest customers. She says she has rags-to-riches stories to tell us that you can only otherwise hear in the USA, about bottle-washers who’ve ended up millionaires.
‘This project began back in 1993, among a group of women beggars,’ she tells us, but her words only whet our appetites as she says the founder will want to tell us the story for herself. But she is happy to tell us how it all works.
‘This branch has been open just since 2007 and already has 12,000 members. Throughout Kenya in total there are more than 260,000 members, whether savers or borrowers. The system is very simple: you need five people who agree to act as guarantors for one another. Once they’ve got themselves together, they can register. Two weeks later each of them gets a card with all their data on it, including their fingerprint to guard against fraud. This card is absolutely essential. From the moment they get it, they can start saving. The minimal contribution is 50 shillings [€0.50] a week. After they have saved regularly for six weeks, they are entitled to borrow up to double the amount in their account. There is interest to be paid of course, but the rate is much lower than you’d get from a bank. Initially the cut-off figure is 10,000 shillings [€100]. If you have saved that much you can borrow 20,000 shillings [€200]. Then, if you pay that back, you can ask to borrow 40,000 shillings [€400] next time, and so on. There is also insurance cover provided in case of an accident or illness, which includes paying the hospital bills. Husbands have to take out insurance of their own, which costs more. Nearly all the borrowers are women with children.’ Susanne adds that Ingrid will answer any other questions we might have.
But
now the women have all started chanting again, singing the praises of Jamii Bora as they accompany us up the stairs to talk to some of the customers who’ve made good with the money they borrowed while we wait to speak to Ingrid, whom they all call ‘Mama’.
We go into a room where there are two young men and a slightly older woman seated at a huge desk. I’m not too impressed with the men, who look bored, but the woman is captivating. She is sitting there with a white headscarf framing a face that to me seems both marked with wisdom and goodness. Everything about her is totally African. She gives her name as Joyce, and starts to tell us her story.
Joyce’s story – from a single mother on the streets to a successful businesswoman
‘Originally I come from a rural district in the Rift Valley. My husband and I had a little house on a hectare of land, with cows, goats, sheep and chickens. Life was hard but it was good. We had five children: three girls and two boys. But then in 1992 the time of troubles began. We’re Kikuyu and back then everybody was at war with us. For weeks on end people robbed, stole, raped women and children and burnt down homes.
‘Everything was in chaos. I grabbed my kids in a fit of panic and somehow or other made my way to Nairobi. I lost my husband in all the commotion. It was the same for lots of people. Some seven thousand people died and another two hundred and fifty thousand fled their homes.
‘At first the children and I lived on the streets, subsisting from hand to mouth. We knew nobody and had to beg for a living. But God was good to me. After a while I ran into Elizabeth who had also fled from our village. She was working in a forestry plantation and had a big room and could offer us somewhere to live. I tried for a job too as a farmer’s daughter and Elizabeth got me a hoe and a sickle, what we call a panga. For the next few months I worked in the forest and bushland and must have cleared a hectare on my own,’ she says with a modest smile.
‘When the work there was done, I tried to see what else I could do. I did what lots of other people did: went from door to door looking for washing to do, though as I’m a fast, good worker, I could ask for more money than most of them. By the end of the week I’d earned 9,000 shillings [€90] and also got to know lots of people. They all kept telling me I should go into a government office and beg until they gave me a little piece of land to work so I could build up something for myself. So I did what they said and kept at them again and again and again until God had mercy on me and I got a tiny piece of land, just seventy metres by seventy but with some wood and tin as well, enough for me and the kids to build ourselves a little house with two rooms. We were very pleased with ourselves and I would have loved to have shown it off to my husband, if I’d had any idea what had happened to him. Kenya’s so big that it’s impossible to find somebody if you don’t know where to look.’
That reminded me of my own story. I know just how hard it is to find somebody in Kenya. Back then I scoured half of Kenya to find my great love, the Samburu warrior Lketinga, equipped with only a few photos of him. For days on end I travelled back and forth across the country until I ended up in Maralal in the Samburu country, which was more or less the end of the road. I spent days there wandering around showing his picture to people who could hardly understand me and asking them if they had any idea where I might find this man. If it hadn’t been for the will of God, and a lot of luck, my life would have been totally different and I can’t help but think I would never have had my beautiful daughter.
But all this time, Joyce is still telling her story: ‘I made a living by washing clothes until one day I heard about Jamii Bora. I was curious and found out all about it. I was told I had to save 50 shillings a week and make sure I fulfilled all the criteria necessary to become a customer. I did the best I could and within eighteen months I had saved 3,500 shillings [€35] and was able to borrow twice that sum. Me and my children got together and tried to decide what to do with the money to make more. They are more educated than me. I only attended school for a few years but I’m clever enough,’ she says, laughing.
‘We decided to use one room of our house as a tearoom. That meant we all had to sleep in one room but we didn’t mind. I used the money to have two tables and four benches made. I bought tea, milk and sugar, as well as lard and maize flour to make chapattis. We started out very modestly offering just tea and ugali, our local maize dish, and the chapattis. But word soon got around that this Kikuyu woman Joyce could cook well and ran a nice clean place. I went out into the slums and offered the food I cooked to the schools. Before long I had a contract with four primary schools. But I didn’t have enough money for that at first, and so I took out some more credit, 20,000 shillings [€200] this time.
‘Business went well. Anyone who had a bit of money bought either ugali or a chapatti. After a few months I was selling so much I couldn’t carry it on the bus any more, so I decided to buy a second-hand car. I sent one of my sons to learn to drive and saved hard so that within a few months I could borrow up to 10,000 shillings [€100], which meant we could easily afford a car.’
Every time it comes to money I have to tell myself that 1,000 Kenyan shillings is just €10. Buying a car for €100 seems very cheap to me, but I know that for somebody like Joyce it’s a huge amount of money. I keep having to tell myself to take two zeroes off the end of every sum she mentions so I can see how much it is in euros.
‘By now things were really doing well,’ Joyce goes on. ‘We were running three little restaurants. The children were older too and those who were nearly grown up could help out. Not only that, but I was able to hire a few people. We all worked really hard and our dreams were coming true. Thanks to the Jamii Bora system we could really build up the business. But I needed to invest the money or it would depreciate, so we began buying up little plots of land and had simple little huts built on them and rented them out. I’d become a landlord!’ she beams proudly.
‘Corinne,’ she says, ‘don’t forget that just a couple of years earlier I had nothing. I’d lost my husband and was living out on the streets with five children. When summer came and it began to get really hot in Nairobi, I branched out and started offering fresh fruit juices, which turned out to be really popular. The main restaurant was doing well and if it had been larger I could have done even better. I thought long and hard about it and in the end decided to rip it all down and put up a new building with three floors. I couldn’t do the design myself, but my educated children, the youngest son in particular, helped me. I went back to Jamii Bora with these new plans and had a chat with Ingrid. This time I wanted to borrow 1.5 million shillings [€15,000]. Such a lot of money, just think of it, Corinne. But I was sure it would all work out and I’d be able to pay it all back. I’m intelligent and a hard worker still, even if I was getting older. I got the loan, but then when we had built the new restaurant I found I needed another half a million shillings to fit it out.
‘At the same time I was starting to breed chickens. That was a business I’d known since childhood. It only takes six weeks before the chickens are old enough to be slaughtered and eaten or sold on. What I did was to add them to the menu. The money just poured in so before long I had enough to do a proper new fit-out. And all this time I was still selling my meals on the contract with the schools.
‘Then things went horribly wrong. One morning in May 2007, around five in the morning, my brand new three-storey restaurant, all built of wood, caught fire and burned to the ground. It was no accident, it was arson. I was horrified. Straight away I went to Ingrid, who called in the police and a loss adjustment man from the insurance company. But I was still left 70,000 shillings out of pocket.
‘I wasn’t going to give up though. I went back to Jamii Bora yet again and told them this time I needed to borrow two million shillings so I could rebuild the restaurant, out of stone this time so it couldn’t burn down. They gave me it, and 100,000 on top, the biggest loan they had ever made. And now I’m almost ready to reopen the new restaurant. Think of that!’ she finishes with a beaming smile.
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This woman sitting there so calmly, straight-backed on her chair in front of me, has a lot to be proud of. She refused to give up, and, despite her lack of education, has turned herself into a proper businesswoman in just a few years.
Just to round things off, she tells me jubilantly: ‘We’re not born to be poor, you see. That’s not what God wants. I’m proof that anybody can be successful. I lost everything at one stage, but with hard work and determination, I won out and today I have sixty-two employees, seven houses and I have to admit that over the past seven years, I’ve actually become rich. And even though I’m sixty-four years old, I still have big plans. God bless Ingrid and the good work she does, and may God give her the strength to keep going and help more and more people from the slums, by lending them money when the big banks wouldn’t even let them through the door.’
Yet again I find myself deeply moved by her story: her will to survive, her courage and self-confidence amazes me. She is, quite simply, a remarkable woman. All the time I’ve been listening to her, I’ve been impressed by the strength of character and energy she exudes. She may be sixty-four, but she’s not thinking of retiring any time soon.
Before we leave I ask if she ever heard any more from her husband. She grins and says, ‘Yes. We’ve been back together since 1999. We met by some miracle of chance in Nairobi. A year later I borrowed some more money and we held a big party to celebrate the renewal of our marriage. He’s seventy-six now but I’m happy to support him because, after all, he’s the father of my children.’ Then she laughs and adds: ‘Anyway, he’s an old man now and all he cares about is where his next drink is coming from.’