This realization has caused me to reflect on things I’ve experienced and moments I’ve witnessed. I remember walking through Mathare Valley and seeing a little boy with a runny nose, dirty face, and tattered clothes curled up in his mother’s lap in front of their shack. It’s a common sight in this slum but for some reason this time I paid more attention to how thin his arms were and how I could so clearly see the outline of his collarbone through his dusty skin. His mother was dusty and in worn clothes as well and they both watched me with tired eyes. I know they were hungry. It touched me deeply. I was moved by their situation and frustrated at my inability to do more for them, for people like them. But now I replay that memory and watch with a mother’s eyes and I grieve a different pain for them, I feel a mother’s pain for that little boy. Because of God, or fate, or luck I am able to provide my son with everything he may (or, more than likely, may not) need and still I worry that I am not providing enough. To know that there are mothers out there who have to tell their children there is no water to wash the dirt, no blanket to keep them warm, and nothing to eat to ease their hunger is almost more than I can bear.
There is a moment at the end of everyday when I begin to tally all the troubles and worries of the life, and then I stop and think…. “but at least my child is okay”. It eases the weight of the world and makes all my problems seem like small ones. But most mothers out there don’t have the luxury of that peace of mind. Since November I feel a new passion for Maji Mazuri’s cause. I think of the mother’s of Kenya and ache for their pain and frustration. I think of the children of Maji Mazuri and I now see my son’s face in every one of theirs.
