1st Prize Winner: Flight Over Africa - by Sarah Spencer-Chapman
Mukuru, Nairobi, Kenya
You will need to wear masks in Mukuru,” Chris tells us. “TB is rife: mask up. Of course it’s your choice and I know many of you feel a mask is a barrier to communication... however, there is a real risk and I want you fit for more than one day…”
Chris stands, bracing himself against the lurching of the bus, his penetrating blue eyes holding the attention of each of the 23 faces turned to him. All 23 people are volunteers - most are Spanish, most are Medics.
As the bus rattles on through the outskirts of Nairobi, someone starts singing gently. It is one of the interpreters, her melodic voice clear as she sings an African song. We all know a hard day lies ahead of us and the singing lifts our spirits, uniting everyone as the whole bus joins in laughter and clapping.
Mukuru. You can smell it: the stench of poverty and deprivation. The bus grows more quiet as a stunned silence sets in. One by one, masks creep on, scarves and hands covering noses.
The mud is thick here, sticky, stinking of raw sewage. The houses where whole families live are not even shacks. Measuring 10 feet by 10 feet, they are just random slabs of corrugated iron, wood and cardboard - anything to make some kind of shelter. There are open doorways, one after another after another. The way between the shacks is just wide enough for the bus.
Eventually, as the way narrows, the bus stops. The shacks are pressing in too close for us to go any further, but we have at least reached our destination, our clinic for the day. Silently, we pile out of the bus, eyes wide, looking around and searching for something to re-orientate ourselves.
It takes a while for things to happen. People mill around, children with huge fly-crawling eyes, staring, waiting. We are here to help, to do what little we can, for three long days.
In comparison, to the larger slum, Kibera seemed positively alive and vibrant with its busy matatus, stalls, hot mandazi, music and chatter. In Mukuru there is nothing to lift the spirits. This is a slum of the worst order; a sense of disease and despair fills the air.
"...A small child, her hair in braids and beads, with wide brown eyes crawling with flies, tugs at the teary-eyed Anna and holds up her little hands..."
Anna, a physio, starts to cry. The tears pour down her face as she looks around. People are gathering slowly, standing staring at us, gathering around, hemming us in. Finding a bench Anna sits with her head in her hands and sobs. Someone sits with her, gently sitting allowing her the space she needed. "Anna it’s all right. Soon we will work. We will help these people." She is inconsolable. We feel an empathy with her. We are all on our own personal journeys and each one of us knows we will encounter a point when something will come to the surface. We also know it is a necessary part of the process. Anna needs to work through this, we are with her, but she is on her own journey.
The rest of us wander around waiting for Chris to let us know where we should set up the clinic. Someone finds a key for the building we are to use – a large brick and corrugated hall-like building with large iron doors and bars on the windows.
It is a church, loaned to us for the days we are here. The tall, narrow corrugated gateway to the enclosure is flooded with stinking black stagnant water. We place some planks from the bus to make a walkway of sorts and someone produces a rock or two. We form a line: those in the gateway straddling the stones and plank as the supplies are passed hand-to-hand. They are heavy boxes of medicines, couches, clothes, spectacles and so on and our energy lifts as we work, faster and faster to get this clinic going.
A small child, her hair in braids and beads, with wide brown eyes crawling with flies, tugs at the teary-eyed Anna and holds up her little hands. Stooping, Anna hugs the little girl who strokes her hair, gazing over Anna’s shoulder solemnly. Anna stops crying, and with renewed determination she takes the child’s hand and strides in to set up her couch. Together for that day, Anna and the child work, Anna seeing patient after patient, the child sitting scribbling with huge crayons on paper close to Anna's side. They are a little team, an island of peace in the heart-sinking depravity of the slum.
We clear the room, opened any windows we can, sweep up, arrange chairs and benches to create a waiting area, hang sheets to give privacy where the practitioners will work, set up the pharmacy near an open window. The doctors and nurses are placed next to the pharmacy, then the midwives, then the osteopaths and physiotherapists, and at the end the dentists.
Chris comes to find me while this is going on, a small boy holding his hand. “This boy needs you,” said Chris. “It doesn’t matter how much time – do your stuff,” he says, holding my gaze with his own. The boy has a problem, and it is important, it seems.
"OK," I say, "leave him with me.” Crouching down, I tell the boy my name. He looks at his feet. Taking his hand, I find my translator and say we need to set up a couch on its own between the doctors and nurses and the osteopaths – far enough away for privacy, close enough to be part of the rest.
The boy's name is Leonard Mambo. He stands rigid, dressed in tatty shorts and a red t-shirt too big for him that is stained but clean and has been washed and washed so often that the threads are only just holding it together. His little legs and knobbly knees tremble with fear, and he stands with his back rigid and his arms by his side like a little soldier. His chin is determined, however, and looking straight ahead he answers my questions quietly.
He says he is seven years old but might be anywhere up to 10 or maybe 12. He tells me he has pain in his neck all the time that has been there since he was a little boy aged 3. He adds that three times a day he has nosebleeds. He suffers from headaches and the shivers and his eyes don’t like the light.
Then, the Doctor's hand gently rests on his head, which is the traditional greeting for a child from an adult, meaning: "I see you". The Doctor looks closely at the child.
"This boy is traumatised,” he announces, smiles at me and leaves, his stethoscope swinging.
I ask Leonard to lie on the couch so I can look at his neck, and where he can answer more questions.
His head is heavy in my hands, his little neck rigid. I examine his neck and back, feel the tension and allow his head to rest more gently in my hand. I can feel the area of his neck that has the problem. "How did it happen?" I ask.
"He says he fell as a little boy into a basin of water headfirst," Lucia states.
"When he was 7 he was hit by two egg-sized stones thrown by a friend on his right hand shoulder blade, it never bleeds but feels swollen on the inside.
In school he is given a punishment to walk for around 500m on his knees, the road has a lot of stones and broken glass…"
The neck I can treat, relieving the tension allowing the movement back into his spine as he relaxes into my hands. He smiles. I feel like crying. So little to achieve so much - it is heart-rending.
"He says his neck is better, his headache gone," translates Lucia.
"This is good".
"Does Leonard have a dream, does he know what he wants to do as a man?"
Gradually Leonard’s story comes out as I hold his head, allowing his neck and back to gently unwind. He is afraid we will tell someone, get him into more trouble. He says if anyone finds out that he has spoken to us he will be taken and never seen again. I look at Luisa raising an eyebrow. She looks straight back at me her eyes holding mine.
"This is true" she says seriously.
I am aware this boy and so many others need gentle handling, need protecting, but how?
His parents work in Nairobi while is left with his Aunt who has children of her own. She treats Leonard badly, taking his books from school and clothes he is given and giving them to his cousins. He sleeps sitting in a chair and sometimes cries in the dark because of the pain in his neck. He does not sleep much.
"An American man and lady came to his school one day and chose some children. He was one of them, he does not know why. They were given uniform, books and sent to a better school near by. His Aunt is very jealous and makes life difficult. He learns to hide good things he is given. At school he is punished. The punishment is to walk on his knees over broken glass and stones. Why? Because it hurts to carry the water he has to fetch, hurts his neck, he cries sometimes. The punishment is if noise is made." Leonard chatters fast, Luisa patiently translates her eyes soulful, feeling for him, empathising.
I have heard enough.
"So", I say to Lucia. "This is very difficult but we can help Leonard. I want you to tell him he is very brave. Tell him he is a boy who can be proud. I will try but cannot stop the things that are bad happening, or things that might happen later in his life. Bad things happen. He knows this. However, I can help him be strong and survive these things so that when he is bigger he can make the changes himself."
"Does Leonard have a dream, does he know what he wants to do as a man?"
“He does,” replies Lucia chatting away to Leonard. “He says he has a hero. His name is also Mambo and he is a DJ on the radio. And Leonard knows what he wants to be. He wants to be a pilot.
I ask if he knows what plane he wants to fly
"Oh yes. He wants to fly with the United States of America in a helicopter."
"Can he see this"?
"He can see this. He says he can see himself".
"How does he see himself"? I ask intrigued – this boy can do this stuff himself with so little guiding. Keen to know where he is in his mind right now I ask if he will tell us more. Meantime, Leonard is relaxing, a huge smile on his face, a river of tears on his face. He is happy, for the first time probably in a long time he is happy and free. His little body is relaxed. He is flying, away from the slums of Mukuru, away from the harsh reality of his day-to-day struggle for survival in this hell, the only place on earth he knows.
"He wears a uniform"
"Can he describe it"?
"Oh yes. It is a pilot's uniform – he has bands on his arm – he is the pilot".
"Is anyone with him"?
"Yes, he has beside him Mambo".
"Mambo the DJ"?
"It is him".
"His co-pilot"?
"That is right."
I smile. Leonard will be fine.
We go with Leonard on his flight, implanting and reinforcing the things he hears, sees, how he feels, flying faster, higher, his body humming with energy his tears drying, his smile turning to laughter. In my hands his head is warm, his neck relaxed, his shoulders have drooped - taking a break from the pain it is used to holding, the long-held patterns releasing.
Enough for today. The colour in his face is better, his eyes brighter, Leonard is in the room with us again.
"Tomorrow – can he return tomorrow so I can see how he is?"
"Yes. Leonard will come," says Luisa. "He will come when he can. He is happy."
Leonard leaves the clothes we have given him as insurance to make sure his Aunt lets him return.
The following day Leonard walks in, head high, straight over to my cubicle and says "I have returned."
"So I see” I reply. "That is good. I am happy to see you Leonard."
He grins and sits, waiting for his turn.
"How are you Leonard? Did you sleep?"
"He slept well." Translated Lucia. "He says he lay down and slept."
I am delighted. Amazed at the healing ability a young body has, the belief a child holds.
"Yesterday we flew with Leonard," I say. "Today I want to do that again. Is that OK?"
"He would like that."
"This time it will be a little different as I want Leonard to see how he can use this to help when he has a problem."
Leonard is in his pilot's uniform. He sees his helicopter and he has Mambo his co-pilot with him as they walk to the it. "This is a special flight today as they are going to visit Mukuru," I say.
"He is ready"
"Can he see his helicopter, smell the fuel, feel the engine vibrate?"
"He can. He is ready to go. Can he take off?"
I smile. Leonard is smart – "take off Captain Leonard"
He flies.
Can he see his school?
He can.
I want him to see his teacher…
Luisa holds her hand up. "Let him speak." she says.
"OK." I sit back
She says he can see boys on their knees. He says he is there, he is on his knees and he sees the plane. He sees himself and he is brave and proud.
"Good… amazing," I think intrigued.
"Can he see the teacher?"
"Yes. He says the teacher is very small. He says he feels sorry for the teacher."
I find it hard to speak. This boy is remarkable.
"This is what I want Leonard to do every time something hard happens," I say. "This is how Leonard can help himself. |nd when he is bigger, stronger as a man, he can have more choices. The most important thing is for Leonard to know he is so very strong inside and this is where he is above all that can happen that is bad."
"He understands," says Luisa. "He can do this."
Leonard is a different looking boy. The movement is back in his body. He has a presence that shouts "I am here". He is proud. But Leonard still rubs his eyes constantly.
"Is Leonard crying?" I ask Luisa. "Is he OK?"
"Leonard is not crying, he says his eyes hurt."
I ask the Doctor to check his eyes. Nothing obvious is detected.
I look at Leonard and have a thought. Sitting him on the couch I walk away and turning hold up my hand. Can Leonard see me, see what I am doing?
"He can see you. You are holding up one hand."
I hold up one finger. "Now?"
"You are holding up your hand."
Leonard cannot see! OF course, the boy is short-sighted!
I take him to the area where sight is being tested. This is organised by the doctor's two sons, 13 and 15 years old. The system is basic and very simple. The boys have set up a chart on the wall with shapes on it. A ‘U’ in various positions. On its side, upside down, other side.
They take Leonard and ask him to draw with his finger what he can see. Leonard draws a U and stops.
One takes his hand and leads him to the box full of random specs, used glasses bought out with the team to hand out. Not ideal but better than nothing.
“What about the rest of the shapes?" I ask
The boys look at me, "He cannot see," they state.
"OK," I think. "Let them do their thing. I’ll step back. Children have a way of getting to the point far more quickly with less clutter than adults, lets see where they go with this."
He stares at the chart and draws shapes. He gazes around the room. He stares.
My goodness he was myopic! Was this the first time Leonard was seeing clearly? No wonder he was in such trouble at school – if he couldn’t see the board..!
I take him back to my station. "Leonard I want to draw you a picture," I say.
He beams at me through his enormous glasses and nods enthusiastically. Leonard has drawn me many pictures since he arrived – it’s my turn I say. What would he like?
"Mickey Mouse," he says. "With glasses!"
Mickey Mouse it is. I draw him a large Mickey with large glasses on and write:
"This boy Leonard is very brave. Leonard is very clever. Now he has his glasses and can see properly, Leonard is ready to start to learn."
"Give this to your teacher," I say.
Maybe, without loosing face, the teacher will understand that Leonard needs to start his studies again.
I have done what I can for Leonard, but Leonard has done more for me than I can say.
For the rest of our time in Mukuru I ask to see only children. In small groups we practice NLP – journeys of happiness, bringing the smiles to their faces, hearing their little voices laugh, seeing them dance around, jump, alive and safe for a moment. They learn the tools to help them through their darker moments. Who knows, perhaps our future leaders may come out of these slums...
Imagine!
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