a never-ending series of varying degrees of crises
Again, it’s been long.
As I told a friend recently, my life these days feels like a never-ending series of varying degrees of crises. Take, for example, this week. I got back on Sunday from a couple-week vacation in England, and also (a land completely unrelated to England) Ireland, and a week-long work meeting.
Tuesday afternoon, I get a call. Some of the boys have been arrested, and are being held in the local police station. So I walk down to Riverside, and spend some time trying to figure out what has happened. Turns out, around 9 in the morning, a group of police surrounded the roundabout where they stay, arrested as many as they could. Many of the boys escaped with some beating, but six of them were arrested.
So, along with an entourage, I headed to the police station. There, I was shuffled from office to office, until I was presented with a dull knife.
“Evidence,” I was told.
Evidence of what, exactly? I had saw them using the knife the day before, to butcher a goat, but surely that’s not a crime, I argued. Eventually, I was able to meet with the new officer-in-charge, and promised the boys would be out the next day.
Fast-forward to the next day.
5:30 a.m I receive a call from Jack Omena.
“I have arrived in Nairobi,” he tells me.
This, despite the fact that I had asked him not to come. We had helped him get home (a long way) a few months ago, and he’s been there. Because of family issues, he hasn’t returned to school, and was hoping I would be able to help him find a job in Nairobi. I told him I would look, but didn’t make any promises.
But two hours later, my doorbell rings, and there stands Jack with two other boys, who showed him where we stay. So, of course, we invite them in for chai and bread and an early-morning movie marathon.