Whilst you Dreamt, I Played a Role in Other’s Nightmares

I have been writing stories since I was 5 years old; tales of far off lands, heroes and love. In creating those each one of those stories I used my imagination to create stories I thought others would like to hear about.

The stories I will be writing about today will not be created by my imagination, in some cases they are the stories that people don’t want to hear about; stories that stir feelings and emotions about people whom you have never met, but who are sure to touch your life in the end. Although the images I have seen can never be accurately described in words, I hope that you will use your own imaginations to follow the story as if you were traveling the polluted streets of Kibera yourself.

In Africa, I have said, there are things that I will always remember and some things… that I will never forget.

Jumping off the packed Matatu around 10AM with my camera in hand I was off to make some of the first REAL impact I had made since I had touched down in Kenya 3 short months ago. I was off to visit patients who were confined to their homes due to the HIV/AIDS pandemic that has been sweeping the slum for years now, killing indiscriminately. I didn’t know anything about the patients, where they lived or what their situations were like, but I was sure that this experience would be one of the experiences which would change my entire outlook in life. I prayed that my camera wouldn’t fail me in capturing the images I saw around me as to share them with those back home, to capture the mood and the feeling that is the slum and the people living within it.

I arrived at the Ushirika Medical Center after a short hike up the twisting road which bisects the entire slum and acts as a boarder for the majority of the 9 villages that make up the slum itself. After waiting a mere hour and a half for the rest of my companions and the guides to show up we were instructed that we would be visiting 4 families who had been affected by HIV and who were now struggling to overcome sicknesses such as TB which has been making the AIDS treatment difficult and which had been shortening their lives considerably. After purchasing a few small gifts and food items for the families we were finally off to the first destination, a house in the Kianda-Saweto Village, Kibera Slum, Kenya.

House #1 - Suzanne

As we approached the house, ducking under clothes lines and passing by lines of giggling children our male guide rushed ahead to ensure that our first patient was awake and ready for visitors of the foreign persuasion. We were given the green light, and as I approached the house I noticed that there was a real door, and a light was streaming out onto the darkness of the street. In most of the houses I had visited in Kibera had no power, so I was shocked when I entered and saw a TV shining and a light blanketing the room full of furniture and pillows. Not a common sight for me in Kibera. We all approached a lady sitting on the middle of the largest couch, clutching a little baby in her arms. She was introduced as Suzanne and it was obvious to see that by the way she stood up to shake our hands that she was struggling with her joints and that each time she got up was a labour in itself.

Being that we were quite shy to begin with, the guides began asking her questions in Swahili about her health, her children and various other basic questions, which she was able to answer in English so that we could understand her.

She told us how she was having a good day, but no day was without the sharp pain she felt in her head and in her bones due to the virus. Suzanne has been HIV positive for the last one and a half years, a period of struggle which started shortly after the birth of her youngest son, which she now clutched in her arms. During this period of 1.5 years, her husband has passed away, her family has deserted her, and her neighbours have shunned her. Her husband, who died one year earlier at the hands of the same killer which will inevitably cut her life short, had a decent job before he got sick and was able to provide his wife and 5 children a life with electricity and nice furniture in their small 10*20 house. Now, unable to work, she is forced to sell off pieces of the furniture and the memories of a happier time where both her and her husband could afford to provide for their family.

Suzanne had not lived all of her life here in the slum. At 32 years old, she had been brought to the slum at the age of 17 to try and scrape together a life in the same way that 5 million people do everyday. Now, being often too sick to leave her house, she is completely dependant on the kindness of strangers and organizations like Ushirika to ensure that her family will continue to live on in one of the biggest slums in the world. On good days like today she says that she is able to set up a small shop to sell fruits and vegetables to buy school supplies for her 5 children. Her children have managed to escape the virus and have the opportunity to attend the various impromptu classes put on by the various education centers located in the slums. But, statistically speaking, one of the children will contract the virus before the age of 25 and die before the age of 35.

Suzanne was given access to ARV’s (Antiretroviral treatment designed to slow the progression of the virus and the decay of the immune system) about two months ago in a government funded initiative. While the ARV’s prolong her life, the side-effects make life less bearable in some cases. Vomiting and continual headaches are just some of the consequences of taking a drug which is essentially keeping her alive… most likely just long enough to see her youngest enter the equivalent of kindergarten here in the slum.

As we left Suzanne with the foodstuffs we had brought to help keep her till the end of the week it was clear that she appreciated any help and visitors that she got. Although it was also readily apparent that what we had brought was not nearly enough. While we can provide some hope for her children, her life is sealed to the same fate as all with this disease; to leave those she loves behind due to a disease which has no cure… prevention is our only safeguard.



House # 2 – Hanna

Winding down paths made of dirt and garbage we made our way to our second stop. Past houses of dirt and straw we climbed up hills and down valleys of the washed out village of Kibera-Saweto. Creeping through a gate made of old planks nailed together we approached a house smaller than that of Suzanne’s and awaited the go-ahead nod from our guide to enter the house and meet its inhabitants.

As we waited for our guide to make initial contact I had a look around the street which this house sat. Children slumped down over buckets of coal picking up pieces making their hands black with dirt that could not possibly be washed away without soap. Those same children looking at you with a sort of distant look in their eyes, as if they were existing beyond the flow of time itself, a look that is not common in most children’s eyes. Most children sit with a glint in their eye about the world; the possibilities, the wonder and the excitement. When, at the age of 7, you will usually have a job washing or chopping or carrying something to help you sustain the family… maybe that glint goes away, the reality of your situation sinks in… and that is far too young of an age to have something like that set in…

We entered the second house and you could immediately smell the stagnate air that could only come with a bed-ridden patient. We were greeted, however, by a woman standing with a thin smile across her face welcoming us into her house. We all introduced ourselves and the woman standing waiting to welcome us was introduced as Hanna, the patient we had come to visit. The bed she usually slept in was covered in a bug net, but you could tell that it had been used thoroughly in the past weeks. The house itself was covered with plastic bottles of all shapes and sizes. The bottles were obviously sold off to those who would need them for water or oil storage, but based upon the amount of bottles in the house; it has been a while since Hanna had been out to sell them. Having sat through a meeting quite similar to the one we were about to have, the girls I was with began asking some of the questions that they had regarding Hanna and her overall health.

Hanna is a 36 year old mother of one. She has been HIV positive for two years, on ARVs for around 6 months and has had TB for the last month. Up until today she has been in bed for a month straight. Today is a good day, so she is really excited to receive company. Her husband died 6 years ago because of HIV, and her daughter, 13, is out washing clothes as the sole bread-winner for the house. Her daughter was not born with AIDS and Hanna considers herself very lucky to have a daughter who is able to help her afford to live in the 8*12 room they both share. Apart from her 13 year old daughter, Hanna has no family willing to help her, no income and is dependent on other organizations to pay her rent for her.

She has plenty of medication and says she has been feeling much better with the ARV/TB medicine she has been receiving from the various groups who aid her. She says the only problem she faces on a day-to-day basis is money to help feed her and her daughter.

Just money to feed her family? I guess you can’t survive on government prescribed pills alone…

After unpacking the paltry gifts that we had brought I could see light enter her eyes as she realized that she would be able to feed her child for the remainder of the week. It certainly seemed like we had hit the nail on the head in terms of gifts and as we turned around to leave I asked her if I could take a picture of her.



As we left the house I wondered how many miles the daughter had to travel through the uneven hills to get to a family who could afford her for even one day to help with the washing or other chores… I probably didn’t want to know.

House #3 – Beatrice

As we began the trek to our third house I began to get a sense what these poor families were going through. After years of reading the stories, hearing the ads and generally trying to comprehend what goes through the heads of those dying with AIDS I had finally come up with an answer. Survival.

As a stood atop the railroad tracks, which acts as a transportation route for the people of Kibera twice a day, I decided to take a picture from the best vantage point in Kibera. I wanted to show everyone back home just how many people were fighting everyday for just that… survival. While not everyone in Kibera has AIDS, it is a struggle every day for the type of things that Hanna was talking about, just the money to feed your family for a month, week or even a day. Pictures, sadly, will never be able to capture the faces and stories of the nearly 5 million people living in this small valley, but I hope this can give you a glimpse of the magnitude of the situation.



We trekked down the railroad tracks until we can to a major bar in Kibera, which we quickly walked by much to the chatter and cat calls of the patrons inside. We were told that it was one of the best proprietors of illegal booze in Kibera… which a bit disheartening itself. But not quite as disheartening as the bucket of water they were using to serve their illicit brew from. An old rusty basin filled with a murky white water, the contents of which I could not even guess.

As we approached the next house the guide once again dutifully checked to see if our patient was at home. Meanwhile a curious little girl had seen my camera and started shouting “picture, picture!” The other guide informed me that the little girl would like her picture taken, and as I bent down to start getting in place for the little one the little girl began to scream as loud as she could. Apparently the thought was exciting when it was not being presented directly to her… I got up and slowly backed away as the various other kids just stared at me awkwardly.

The guide came out to inform us that the patient we had came to see was not in at the moment so we pushed on to the next house that they had on their list.

The house which we stopped in front of was a bit more organized on the outside, with clothes hanging on the line and a welcome mat in front of the door. The smell that drifted out from the house was clean and you could tell that upkeep was very important to the residents.

As we all entered the home, I noticed the vibrant colors which covered nearly every piece of furniture. Quilts and throws made from fluorescent wools and fabrics decorated the house giving it a feeling of life. A tired, old looking woman immerged from a bed, which I could only assume was the patient. We all introduced ourselves and our guides told us that this was Beatrice whose husband had died years ago from AIDS… a story that is unfortunately all too common.

Through our conversations we learned that Beatrice has had AIDS for the past 2 years and has been on ARVs for about 8 months of that period. The drugs, which were provided to her by MSF Belgium, have made her extremely tired all of the time. She has a lot of trouble getting out of bed and you can see in her eyes that she doesn’t get much sleep despite the fact she spends the majority of her week in bed. The pain she gets from the side effects of the various pills she is on to combat the sicknesses that run so rampant in Kibera never allows her much sleep.

Thankfully, unlike the rest of the women we had met, Beatrice has some family to help take care of her, which of course explained the kempt nature of her house. Her step mother, the stepmother’s husband and their tiny baby, live in this tiny house with Beatrice and help to pay the bills that Beatrice is unable to pay for. Unlike the rest of the families, her family realizes how HIV is transmitted and are not running away afraid to get the virus themselves like the past two families we had seen. Ignorance to the disease and its causes tear entire neighborhoods apart in Kibera. Neighbours stop talking, family disowns and those who have had the misfortune of contracting the virus live out the short years of their life alone, struggling to feed themselves and the immediate family that they are responsible for.

We then learned that only two short years ago, Beatrice had been a tailor and had created all of the wonderful fabrics and quilts we saw around us. Back when she could support her family she loved colors and creating things with her hands. Because of AIDS she can barely get up long enough to share a 15 minute visit with us.

As we all got up to left I snapped a picture of Beatrice sitting feebly in her chair and left her the gifts which she could use to help support the rest of those staying in the house… a notion you could tell she was proud to do.



The final question posed to Beatrice asked her how old she was. As we crossed the threshold to her little house the guide translated her answer into “28”. This seemingly frail old woman was not 7 years my senior. In 2 years the virus had snatched the glow from her eyes and left her broken and old before her time. I could not imagine contracting a death sentence at the age of 25, at an age which, for most, means renewed life…

House #4 – Patrice

As the final family’s house was upon us I tried to gather my thoughts. Writing notes frantically which I could use to help me write this story. As a walked down streets filled with people, dogs and garbage I searched my brain, my vocabulary, and my emotions to come up with words that would remind me of the things I saw… not only for the purpose of the story, but for my memory when I returned home. To recall this instant whenever I was feeling sorry for myself, ready to complain in my fashion… there was but one word I managed to scribble down throughout the entire last leg of the journey: Perspective.

Was this it? Was this the moment in time that I had designed my trip for? Was this the moment that was to help define my outlook on humanity and the strength of human character? No amount of time in my life will be able to tell. Something like that, I realized, is something that others see in you long after you pass away. As they sit around the dinner table discussing your life and its purpose. A little snippet of a blog you wrote in Kenya when you were 21 may come to mind…

As we approached the last house I got an odd feeling. Perhaps it was sadness that our journey was ending, and I would not have enough time in this country to really make an impact in the capacity which I sought… but no. It was something different. As the guide approached the door I realized that something was dramatically different about this house than the rest of the houses we had visited. The guide attempted to open the door. A feat which was taking him a lot of effort. His efforts popped one of the hinges off of the dilapidated door.

We all entered the very tiny house and at around 8*8 it was crammed full with all measures of boxes, crates and old cabinets; the type of stuff you would expect to find in someone’s shed back in Canada.

That is when we saw her, peering through the darkness. Sitting up in her bed which was composed of a few blankets on the ground. Our last patient, Patrice didn’t have enough energy to welcome us into her house, and instead only produced a weak little cough to announce her presence in the darkness.

The house was dark, cold and smelled of all the smells of Kibera. The garbage and boxes that littered the house were soaked with the water that flowed freely through the holes in the roof, and being that it has just rained the day before, the house was soaked giving off a moldy smell which would only spell sickness in the days to come.

Patrice’s children huddled in a corner of the tiny house, sitting on nothing, as there was nothing to sit on. I did a quick count of the children while totaled 5, ranging from 2-10 years old. Being that the mother was too sick to answer some of the questions, the eldest daughter answered questions about her dying mother at the tender age of 10.



Patrice’s husband had abandoned her after learning that she had contracted the virus. Being that he was most likely the source of the virus, it was assumed that he had died some years ago, although he had never taken the time to send money to his dying wife and 5 struggling children.

All of her relatives have abandoned her with her 5 children of which, thankfully, have not contracted the virus from their parents. Being that no one wants to deal with the nearly dead, her neighbours have also stopped visiting, sensing the worse. The guides tell us that they cannot remember a time where they have seen Patrice out of her bed walking around.

Patrice relies completely on the hospital for medicine, counseling and hope. One thing that the hospital does not provide, however, is the money for rent. Her rent is 3 months overdue and she tells us that she will be evicted before the end of this month and her children and she will be out on the streets at the mercy of the neighbours who have deserted her. Just in time for Christmas.

In writing this now I can only recall the blank stare in the eyes of mother and children. The realization of the hopelessness of the situation now brings tears to my eyes. As I write and as I you read you can only begin to imagine the constant pain that keeps Patrice in bed, unable to care for her 5 children, who, upon her death will become like all orphans of HIV/AIDS... totally dependant on a system which will simply perpetuate slum mentality and activity.

It goes without saying that upon leaving that house no one said a word. What could you say about a situation like that which could possibly do it any sort of justice? I’m afraid that even my words now will not give you the full scope of the emotions and thoughts that fill your head as you talk to a person who has nothing but time… and even that is a resource that is running out fast.



Leaving the houses, the slums and the chaos… I rode the bus back to my haven not more than a kilometer more from the houses of Suzanne, Hanna, Beatrice and Patrice. Four single mothers who have a disease which is still growing in intensity. A killer who does not care about color, lifestyle or religion. These women, according to many organizations, account only for a statistic. A statistic for a virus which affects 2 million Kenyans alone. These women I have met are no longer statistics. But people which I can put a face and name to.

Everyone has a different life before they are struck down with this virus; tailors, merchants, carpenters. When you become positive you try so hard to keep up with that life that used to provide you and your family with a sort of life which keeps them fed and happy. But as your body begins to fail and your life slowly become dependent on sleep, medicine and the kindness of others… life changes dramatically. Those dreams you had of seeing your children grow up and get married gets replaced by a nightmare which you cannot ever wake up from. The type of hell on earth of which you can neither escape nor defeat.

There is nothing more to be said that hasn’t already been said about this pandemic. But now I hope that hearing about this through the words of a friend… the situation will be made much clearer and all the more dire.

I will be putting these and other pictures I have about this particular experience together in a 4 part short-video. I hope to have it all shown at NC in Edmonton, Canada this Christmas break.

If you would like to see the video please hound the MC to let me show the videos (all four) so that I can get the whole story across to the plenary.

From these videos if you feel the need to give to the organization who was out supporting these people on the ground level with food and medicine every week, please get a hold of me and I will make arrangements for you to get the contact of the head of the organization and the treasurer in charge of their newly expanding HIV/AIDS project. The Ushirika Medical Center is a reputable organization whose chairman recognized that we were students and therefore allowed us to travel around to these patients’ houses free of charge. He was the only one in all of the NGO’s I visited who did not require something for HIS organization just to see those who they were helping, so I really appreciated this whole experience a lot more.

I leave Kenya in 2 days… and I finally have nothing more to say.