Where Roads Cross & Promises Stick
About the Far Porch: Years ago, I spent time living and working in Kenya, gathering stories about community, hope, and the small things that keep us connected — even from a world away. These reflections first appeared in my blog and my book Poverty & Promise. I’m sharing them here again on Porchlight Press to remind us that the far porch isn’t so far when we listen for each other’s voices.
Why I’m Sharing This Now: Looking back, I realize how much courage it takes to really see a place — and its people — for what they are. Not just a cause, or a tragedy, or an ATM. These moments with Walter and Priscah remind me that real community starts with standing still long enough to hear what someone needs — and then deciding if you’re willing and able to cross the threshold.
Nyalenda, a neighborhood in
KISUMU, KENYA
Meeting Walter and Priscah
White skin means “money” to folks in Kenya. I’m not wealthy — not financially independent, not making much as a volunteer — but I’m still better off than the average Kenyan. So I don’t blame anyone for looking at my pale face and seeing dollars.
I’m getting used to it now: the small schoolboy who doesn’t even hide it, holding his hand out as I cycle past, saying, “Give me money.” Grown men and women who’ve started non-profits to help their people. And the folks who just want to sell me something — anything.
Yesterday, on my way to lunch, an older woman stood in the road and stopped every passerby. She told each one she has a stand just around the corner — would they come see her Masai-made goods? When are they leaving work? What time tomorrow? They pin you down faster than any sales guy back home. And they’re good. I admire her grit — standing at the intersection of two dirt roads, recruiting buyers for her “shop.”
Wanting to be neighborly — not just the foreigner — I told her I’d stop by on my way to work the next morning. And then, of course, I forgot.
This morning, as I’m writing a workshop proposal in my office, Eric comes in.
“You have a visitor,” he says.
Out front, I recognize her face but can’t place her. It’s Priscah, from the crossroads — come to root me out. And she’s right to. We arrange to meet at the guard gate tomorrow at 12:30, so she can lead me to her stand. My sisters have birthdays soon. I’ll buy a thing or two.
Last night, after emailing at the cyber center downtown, I loaded my backpack with cereal, milk, peanut butter, bread, potatoes, carrots, and bananas from the Nakumatt. Walking home in the dark, I pass a young man. We speak — and because we’re dodging the same cars, walking the same dirt road, we begin to talk.
His name is Walter Odede. He started a non-profit three years ago: Pambazuko Youth AIDS Link Project — Pambazuko means “new horizons.” He wants to help street boys find a different future. Once a victim of drugs himself (his words), he says God spoke to his heart and told him to help others.
Walter pulls an introduction letter from his pack, scribbles in my name, and signs it as chairman. We exchange email addresses. He asks, “Are you single?” I laugh — no one else has cared to ask me that since I got here. “Yes, I am,” I tell him. “You’re the first person to ask.”
“Well,” he shrugs, “you’ll continue to be single whether I ask you or not. So I ask.”
I know what he’s thinking. White skin means I might help his organization grow. If I don’t give money, maybe I know people who will. And he’s not wrong — I do want to help somehow. But I need to see for myself: to know the money is well spent, that the boys are real, the need is real.
So I ask him if he’ll take me to the slum one day, to meet the boys he’s helping. He agrees without hesitation. I don’t want to go — but I must. Otherwise, I’ll never know how best to help.
We part company under a thin light on that dirt road. Tomorrow I’ll keep my promise to Priscah, to see her wares. And I will email Walter about visiting the slum.
I don’t want to go. But I will.
I must. Otherwise, why am I here?
That day, I promised Priscah I’d come back. I promised Walter I’d follow him into the slum. And I promised myself I’d look for the truth, no matter where it led. Promises stick. And some roads lead you places you’d rather not go — until you do.
Next stop: Nyalenda.
About the Author
Cindi Brown is a Georgia-born writer, porch-sitter, and teller of truths — even the ones her mama once pinched her for saying out loud. She runs Porchlight Press from her 1895 house with creaking floorboards and an open door for stories with soul. When she’s not scribbling about Southern music, small towns, stray cats, places she loves, and the wild gospel that hums in red clay soil, you’ll find her out listening for the next thing worth saying.
