We’d been in Nairobi for hardly three days, in fact, I had been in Africa for hardly three days, when we visited one of the poorest areas in Kenya: Viwandani. On the suburbs of the capital, this slum was like everything you see on TV and read about in papers, except not, because this time it wasn’t on TV or in papers.
The smell of open defecation penetrated my nostrils, years of garbage crunched under my Vans, and surrounding my ears were all the sounds of life lived outside; screaming children, shouting vendors, singing churchgoers. It was a Sunday, which meant all the little girls squealing ‘how are you?’ were dressed in their finest attire: tiny colourful dresses that didn’t seem to match the environment of black, brown and grey.
I felt uncomfortable. Not because of the risk of a flying toilet (this is literally what it says it is:…
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