Shutting the Car Window

It's easy to get overwhelmed by other people's needs in Kenya. But where do you draw the line and set your boundaries today? When do you shut the car window to shut out the line of jaywalking street hawkers? At the third person who engages you in a sales pitch for a rescue triangle, some bananas or impulse purchase of a pet rabbit? The fifth? The one who talks at you as you try to maneouvre through a tight gap in the cars? For me it varies daily, depending on my mood, the time of day and how secure I feel, hot and bothered-levels, and the rapport I build up with the same vendors who are willing to extend my faltering Swahili.

The agenda of a straightforward language lesson shifts sideways as my language teacher tells of her three year old son who has been taken critically ill, of the 7000 shillings paid for an essential scan, and of the 15000 shillings she doesn't have to pay for his prescribed medicine.

Our gardener cum handyman came to work last week saying that his cousin (age 38, three children) had been poisoned, most likely by rival taxi driver colleagues, and had died. Two days later the cousin's father in Western Kenya had also died, overcome by the news. Now our gardener and his family needed to hire a matatu to take the cousin's body and funeral party to Western Kenya (50,000 shilllings), pay for a double funeral, and try to drum up some cash to meet the needs of the family, now without a breadwinner.

Everyone has their stories and their difficulties, and for me, part of the experience of being here as an expat is to listen, to learn, and to be willing to be moved to action. Not all the time, and that too is part of the learning - do I give when I have an employer relationship? (Yes, when the need is for the immediate family, though sometimes I give as a loan rather than as a present.) Or a personal friendship? (Yes, often, in moderation.) To someone with whom I have no relationship who presents themself at our gate (no, in general not, though I realise their need may be more.) And to an employee when the need is great (as with our gardener, double bereavement) but the relationship (first cousin) to European eyes is not so very immediate, though to Kenyan eyes it is?

For me, it matters to give with an explanation of where I am coming from. 'We can contribute to your school fees at present because we have people living in our house in the UK and our parents do not need our help for hospital care at the moment. But this may change.' 'We want to make a contribution towards your cousin's family - either towards the cost of the funeral or the children's schooling. My mother brought me up on her own. Sometimes money was very tight, and occasionally friends made very generous gifts to help us out. We are giving because that made a big difference to us, and maybe, when things are easier for your cousin's family, they will be able to make a present to others that they know are in need.' The relationship matters to me, and it matters that I'm not just seen as a wealthy moneybags mzungu or an easy mark but as a person, an equal.

So I was maddened when discussing the dilemma with our gardener with fellow parents at school last week. The attitude of some was 'I don't listen to my staff's problems.' Or 'You have to treat them like children, they can't plan in advance.' 'I refuse even the smallest loan.' Sounds of the car window shutting. I refuse relationship. You aren't my equal. These aren't my problems and I'm not going to listen. What I have is mine, and I have no responsibility to others. The consensus was that to listen, and to give, you're a naive gullible idiot, taken in by another tall tale from a profligate wasterel. But as I said then and I say again now, 'I grew up in a welfare state. I'm the product of a free education and health care system. If we don't give, sometimes, to model what we have benefitted from, and what we believe in, and to show fellow feeling and kindness to those who have less, well how will anything ever change?'