For a while in my childhood, we lived next to a drive-in cinema in Nairobi. Many nights, my teenage self would stare out the window in our room and watch the moviegoers with envy and confusion. Here were some middle-class folks in fancy cars carrying snacks; who chose to watch a film without the security of a roof over their heads – as a form of entertainment.
I longed to swap places with them. Mostly because I wasn’t shelter-less by choice. At the time, my family was being put up by an older very kind church friend who lived in a bungalow. She offered us what’s called a ‘servant’s quarter’ to stay in while the place was under construction.
Ironically, the servant’s quarter was being built in an affluent suburb. Though that didn’t reflect the state of our living conditions. The room we shared in the servant’s quarter fit not much more than a single bed. The mattress we owned was even smaller – half an inch narrower than the bed base. We plugged the gap with our clothes so that we wouldn’t sleep on hard wood. Even then, the mattress was so thin that we still felt the unforgiving stiffness on our ribs.
We had no television, no seats, no cooker and no fridge. But what little we had would shelter Mum, my sister and I for the next six months.
My mother, an operations manager for one of the most notable non-government organisations in the world, worked hard and smart and was a fearless provider. She was, however, also a single parent of four children – two of them studying abroad while I was a child. This meant that despite her best efforts, she struggled at certain points.
My mother was a single parent of four children – despite her best efforts, she struggled at certain points
During one of Kenya’s hotly contested presidential elections, the political dispute turned into vicious tribal clashes and resulted in mass deaths, large-scale destruction of property and widespread economic wipeout.
Like many others in the country, my family was caught in the crossfire. I became an internally displaced person, Mum and thousands of other citizens lost their jobs, and we lost our home as a family.
It was then that we found ourselves in the servant’s quarter next to the drive-in cinema.
Nighttime was a challenge for us. We would use the two sufurias (cooking pots) we owned to boil water and cook various meals on wick stoves. Whenever there was leftover food, like rice or stew, we would leave them in the sufurias, cover them with lids, and store them under the bed.
After dinner, the three of us would try to sleep on the same single bed. My younger sister would lay on the far end of the bed by the wall, I would be in the middle, with my head facing the foot of the bed, and Mum would be at the other end, like my sister, facing the head of the bed.
Every day was about making the impossible work.
Eventually, Mum got a new job with a different NGO, we moved out of the servant’s quarter, and our lives finally got back into an upward trajectory.
I’ve since immigrated to Melbourne, where I’m pursuing a Master’s degree, and I have a job I love. Being able to afford a modest, semi-furnished rental apartment is a luxury my teenage self couldn’t have imagined.
I recently read that , where I now live, is one of the most affluent suburbs in the state. But instead of sadness, like I felt as I watched the middle-class folks at the drive-in, all I feel is a sense of gratitude.
Now, all I feel is a sense of gratitude
Gratitude at being able to turn the keys at the door every evening when I come home; gratitude that I have a place to take refuge from the world at the end of the day; gratitude at being able to choose between cold and hot water when I turn the taps on, or put laundry in my own washing machine, store anything I like in the fridge – whenever I want.
On the winter day I moved into my apartment, something interesting happened when I left home for the first time.
As I walked away from my door to the main gate outside, the sensor light above the door automatically went on. So did the one closer to the gate. What was happening?
It was such an unexpected moment that I paused at the gate, stared back and was tempted to return to the door and repeat those same steps, just to soak in what the sensor lights meant – a sense of security.
It was something I never had during certain parts of my childhood. And now, I would be welcomed home by it.
