It's the Christmas holidays. FirstBorn, SecondBorn and I had been to see a film - Johnny English Reborn - at our local mall, and to have a sly pizza afterwards. And in typical Kenyan fashion, we'd taken a doggy bag of our left over pizza and cooling chips for sometime later.
Leaving the luxury mall at rushhour, we drove at snail's pace past the small children - aged around three, five and eight, - begging for money from the drivers. SecondBorn gets it, that that's where they live, on the street. But was loth to part with his bit of the pizza, which is a rare and relished treat for us here.
But I passed over our doggy bag, and we all turned to look at the eight year old boy's face. And his little brother, bright shining cheeks, aged around four, racing as fast as his four year old legs could carry him, through the traffic towards the cooling chips. How it made me ashamed. Children, younger than ours, who don't have enough to eat, in our bit of our town.
Food is domestic when you have it, yet political when its scarce. Living in a land where there's hunger makes me far more conscious of this. When we have leftovers from our evening meal we plate them up and pass them on to our guards. But if things get into the fridge, well they can linger there and be discovered a week later, wizened with traces of mould, a blight on our conscience when others around us would have welcomed them, but were too polite to ask.
It's not simple. My friends who grew up here handle it better. But we were at a dinner party recently, and I was chatting to an Ethiopian woman in her late twenties.
'I was in the butchers recently and saw the sign for 'staff meat'. How awful.' she exclaimed. 'We'd never do that in my country.'
Staff meat is the really ropy old meat, which is sold to the middle classes who don't choose to feed their staff the same as they eat. We give a food allowance so our staff can choose what they buy themselves. But intentionally buying for others worse than you'd buy for yourselves. Well that, to my mind, - and to that of my Ethiopian friend - is dire.
'In Ethiopia' she said, 'we lived rich and poor next to each other. We played together on the street. And the poorer family next door would come and eat with us each evening. Eat the same food.'
But its what I close my mind to much of the time here. That most children here are less well fed than mine. That by prioritising how and when I give to others, I am part of the posse who buy good stuff for my nearest and dearest, and tolerate a regime of chance scraps from my table - staff meat - for the rest.
Other posts like this one:
http://onthethresholdafrica.blogspot.com/2011/09/poverty-prison-visiting.html
http://onthethresholdafrica.blogspot.com/2011/06/please-look-after-this-bear-thank-you.html
Leaving the luxury mall at rushhour, we drove at snail's pace past the small children - aged around three, five and eight, - begging for money from the drivers. SecondBorn gets it, that that's where they live, on the street. But was loth to part with his bit of the pizza, which is a rare and relished treat for us here.
But I passed over our doggy bag, and we all turned to look at the eight year old boy's face. And his little brother, bright shining cheeks, aged around four, racing as fast as his four year old legs could carry him, through the traffic towards the cooling chips. How it made me ashamed. Children, younger than ours, who don't have enough to eat, in our bit of our town.
Food is domestic when you have it, yet political when its scarce. Living in a land where there's hunger makes me far more conscious of this. When we have leftovers from our evening meal we plate them up and pass them on to our guards. But if things get into the fridge, well they can linger there and be discovered a week later, wizened with traces of mould, a blight on our conscience when others around us would have welcomed them, but were too polite to ask.
It's not simple. My friends who grew up here handle it better. But we were at a dinner party recently, and I was chatting to an Ethiopian woman in her late twenties.
'I was in the butchers recently and saw the sign for 'staff meat'. How awful.' she exclaimed. 'We'd never do that in my country.'
Staff meat is the really ropy old meat, which is sold to the middle classes who don't choose to feed their staff the same as they eat. We give a food allowance so our staff can choose what they buy themselves. But intentionally buying for others worse than you'd buy for yourselves. Well that, to my mind, - and to that of my Ethiopian friend - is dire.
'In Ethiopia' she said, 'we lived rich and poor next to each other. We played together on the street. And the poorer family next door would come and eat with us each evening. Eat the same food.'
But its what I close my mind to much of the time here. That most children here are less well fed than mine. That by prioritising how and when I give to others, I am part of the posse who buy good stuff for my nearest and dearest, and tolerate a regime of chance scraps from my table - staff meat - for the rest.
Other posts like this one:
http://onthethresholdafrica.blogspot.com/2011/09/poverty-prison-visiting.html
http://onthethresholdafrica.blogspot.com/2011/06/please-look-after-this-bear-thank-you.html
Thank you for that thoughful post. The situation is similar in much of Asia where I grew up - One standard for yourself and loved ones and another for the staff. The difference here is that you sound painfully aware of it and are not (as much as is possible) perpetuating that nutritional divide. A good Christmas to you and your family:)
ReplyDeleteI don't know what to say (surprisingly, I usually have more than enough to say). I've never lived anywhere but the states and have lived pretty abundantly by the grace of God. I know there are poor and hungry around me; I give as I can to the rescue missions/homeless shelters. But I often think it is not enough. Like I said, I have no words.
ReplyDeletebetty