I finally got around to washing the hiking shoes I wore the entire time we were in Mathare Valley slum. I brought them home from Kenya in a sealed plastic bag because they were so filthy and smelly that I couldn’t put them in my suitcase unguarded. They have been in the garage since our return in an attempt to air them out. But the smell emanating from them was still pungent, sort of like rotting garbage, sewage, and general decay combined. Although indescribable, the scent revives in my mind (and nostrils) as I type this post.
Yesterday I took my shoes outside to rinse them thoroughly with a garden hose before tossing them in the washing machine. A week’s worth of muck flowed off
, spraying my feet and legs with dirty water in the cleansing. Turning them over, I discovered a tiny pink bead lodged in the tread. I began pondering who the bead’s rightful owner was. Perhaps one of the children who were constantly running up to encircle us and grab our hands as we walked the slum, calling out “How are you, how are you?” in their little sing-song voices. I contemplated the many different places those filthy shoes had been during our time in the slum. Hopping on and off matatus- public buses- while trying not to be thrown to the ground as the matatu sped away with the spotter hanging off the side. Trodding miles of dirt paths, picking their way through mounds of discarded garbage and trying to avoid any standing water laced with sewage. Exploring public markets with exclamations of greeting preceding and following us as we passed through. Climbing narrow and steep pathways to the doorway of someone’s home, where we were always invited in. Entering upon bare dirt floors, sometimes covered with colorful mats or rugs. Resting in the home of two teenage girls who, like any American teenager, worried about going back to school and being loved and accepted for who they are. Standing toe to toe with Christian brothers and sisters in circles of prayer. Carefully navigating wet, soapy stairs in a crowded school building being mopped by loving hands. Walking upon the floors of public toilets financed by the community, skirting squatty potties and primitive shower stalls. Standing upon the concrete floor of a community center/church to attend accountability group meetings for MoHI’s micro-finance program. Climbing up and down the stairs at Pangani Center at the beginning and end of each day, lingering on the upper balcony to watch the children endlessly playing out front.
, spraying my feet and legs with dirty water in the cleansing. Turning them over, I discovered a tiny pink bead lodged in the tread. I began pondering who the bead’s rightful owner was. Perhaps one of the children who were constantly running up to encircle us and grab our hands as we walked the slum, calling out “How are you, how are you?” in their little sing-song voices. I contemplated the many different places those filthy shoes had been during our time in the slum. Hopping on and off matatus- public buses- while trying not to be thrown to the ground as the matatu sped away with the spotter hanging off the side. Trodding miles of dirt paths, picking their way through mounds of discarded garbage and trying to avoid any standing water laced with sewage. Exploring public markets with exclamations of greeting preceding and following us as we passed through. Climbing narrow and steep pathways to the doorway of someone’s home, where we were always invited in. Entering upon bare dirt floors, sometimes covered with colorful mats or rugs. Resting in the home of two teenage girls who, like any American teenager, worried about going back to school and being loved and accepted for who they are. Standing toe to toe with Christian brothers and sisters in circles of prayer. Carefully navigating wet, soapy stairs in a crowded school building being mopped by loving hands. Walking upon the floors of public toilets financed by the community, skirting squatty potties and primitive shower stalls. Standing upon the concrete floor of a community center/church to attend accountability group meetings for MoHI’s micro-finance program. Climbing up and down the stairs at Pangani Center at the beginning and end of each day, lingering on the upper balcony to watch the children endlessly playing out front.Perhaps I was hesitant to wash those shoes because I wanted to keep a physical part of the slum here with me, knowing where those shoes had been. But I don’t need a physical reminder of the memories I brought home with me. My heart remembers and metaphorically feels the African soil under my feet, the magnetism pointing them eastward toward another continent, a bigger world to explore and cherish.
A Life Called to Love 