People say they will come back, and they don't. But Clifford keeps coming back

I have a policy about beggars on the street. More often than not, I don't pay attention to them. I treat them, as 'them'.

I don't believe in giving out money to people who live on the street. In my head, if you can walk, you can work.

I believe in having food in my bag to give out that will actually help, as opposed to money that could possibly be used to be buying drugs.

There are pros and cons to this mantra, of course. I don't look at them when I'm in traffic. I don't really see them.

And regardless of this philosophy, I rarely, if ever, have food in my bag to give out.

I tell myself that giving to charities is enough, and maybe it is, but sometimes, you need to see them. See who 'they' really are.

I don't remember how I met Clifford Chianga Oluoch. I know it was on Facebook, but I don't know what prompted me to accept his (or send my?) friend request. But I did.

UGALI ON WEEKENDS

Sometime late last year, Clifford was taking his daily walk in Parklands and he noticed two street kids fighting over mahindi (maize).

He decided to settle the dispute by buying one mahindi for each of them.

One of them went away and came back with others. Some guy was buying people mahindi, he said. Clifford ended up buying twenty mahindis that evening.

When he was leaving, one of them asked him “Si kesho utarudi” (You'll come back tomorrow, won't you)? When he said “Ndio” (Yes), he wasn't sure whether he was lying or not.

But he found himself going back every evening after work to feed the street urchins in Westlands, for the next three months.

He now takes offence at people calling them chokoras. He calls them “my boys.”

Today, Clifford feeds about 70 men, women and children (this number fluctuates daily) every day at 7:30 pm. Every single day. On weekends ugali is offered as a treat.

He has been doing this since late November, running solely on well wishers and donations.

POSSIBLY DESPERATE

After his day job, he goes home and starts packaging the food – each package containing eight slices of bread spread with Blue Band and jam, and a packet of milk.

Then he loads them into his car and drives to a dark little alley near Sarit Centre where the kids sit in a line, obediently, waiting.

I went with him for one day last week. I felt extremely awkward and very far out of my comfort zone. What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to say? Should I have taken out and polished my rusty sheng?

I was functioning on autopilot. Package the bread and milk. Hand it out. Smile. Don't meet their eyes.

Was I scared? Of course. A lot of the kids are high on glue and possibly desperate. It could be dangerous for me to be there at that time.

One of the kids came up to me and asked mockingly if I spoke Swahili, then started imitating my accent. He's quite a comedian.

In spite of my discomfort, I laughed. Did my discomfort matter in that moment? No.

I tried to imagine what I would feel like if I was a street child – a runaway from home, no hope of going back, or education, or food.

BROKEN TRUST

If a man started feeding me every day, expecting nothing in return, would I accept the food? Would I sell it for more drugs to block out my hard life, or would I think he would never come back, which happens often?

People come and say they will come back, and they don't. Some are known to form organisations that say they are helping these kids, but what they are really doing is fleecing the public of funds, and using them to line their own pockets.

Such people make it very hard for Clifford, because trust is already broken. Fixing it comes at a dear cost.

The kids ask Clifford every day if he will come back. He always says he will. And he always does.

I can't imagine what it is like to live on the street.

And I can see the need for this to become something viable – which Clifford and his compassionate crew are working on, slowly but surely, in terms of offering a way to garner a livelihood and so on.

But you can't tell a child to go to school and get a job if that child is hungry.

TEETERING UNSTEADILY

The ladies eat at a different area from the men, because sometimes the men steal their food, or assault them.

They usually come with their babies, who are fed first.

One of the babies, bundled in an orange bomber jacket, got his food, and went back to his mother.

Then he started teetering unsteadily toward the road.

I stopped him before he got to the road, picked him up, and handed him to his mother. He was just a baby – he didn't know where he was going.

And in that moment, where he slept or whose child he was stopped mattering.

As a country, we could do with more Cliffords. Not just in Nairobi. Everywhere. That way we won' t even need politicians.

Twitter: @AbigailArunga