A Tale of One of the Least of These

Having just arrived from Nairobi at the ever-bustling Matunda market, my first stop was to see Zadok. I like to greet him and get an update on how his family is doing. I left my bag with him at his tiny “jua kali” (under the hot sun) business, where he repairs bicycles. I then went to the little Cherangani View café for some “githeri” (a simple lunch of corn and beans).

As always, I wanted to get some produce and staples before I headed to my house. I walked over to the area where several crudely constructed kiosks are clustered together. A very disheveled older man approached me. His hand was extended in the universal begging gesture. The woman selling me avocados offered her unsolicited advice, “Don’t give him anything”. I silently agreed with her, as it’s very much my rule of thumb to not give to beggars.

The gentleman followed me as I looked for carrots and ripe mangoes at another kiosk. As I bought my carrots, the man enthusiastically volunteered (as if we were now acquainted), “Kenyan carrots are good”. His comment made me chuckle out loud. Both he and the produce vendor joined with me in my laughter. I found it amusing because, as he followed me around, he continually offered up non-stop unintelligible chatter. However, that particular sentence came out very clear and distinct.

Sharing that moment of laughter had perhaps caused me to take a second glance at him. Initially I saw him only as a destitute and homeless vagabond. To be sure, he was dirty and unkempt. He wore four layers of raggedy shirts and coats. His hands were filthy. Who could know when he’d last bathed. One shoe didn’t match the other and one of them was severely coming apart at the sole.

He next followed me to George and Jen’s shop. People always stare at me in the bustling Matunda market, but today they really had a reason with my tag-along friend. George and Jen politely requested him to leave, using the reverent title, “Mzee” (old man). He seemed to have rather selective hearing and remained at my side. Out of his non-stop ramblings I managed to hear him ask me to buy him bread. I told him, “No”. George, a kind young man, was tempted to give him something but didn’t want to encourage him stopping by for handouts again in the future.

The man’s eyes almost had a sparkle to them, in spite of his apparent ill health. So many passersby stopped to observe us. I wondered when the gentleman might have had a decent meal. In spite of this observation, I just wasn’t comfortable giving him anything.

As I headed back to Zadok’s, he was right there at my side again, still constantly mumbling and rambling. He always returned my smiles. His face was wrinkled face, his eyes kind.

I wondered what bad luck had befallen him to create his current circumstances. He was obviously educated to some level, because when he spoke coherently, his English was good. I imagined that his rather serious cleft lip had possibly caused him ridicule throughout his life.

I had “booked” Wycliffe to cycle me to my house at 2:00; it was now 1:45 and I couldn’t find him anywhere. I waited with Zadok as my new-found friend continued his non-stop chatter.

The man thanked me because it was “wazungu” (whites) who first brought the gospel to Kenya. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have known ‘Mungu’ (God),” he proclaimed, like a well-practiced preacher. He went on to talk about God appearing to Moses in the flaming bush and how Elisha wasn’t allowed to see God’s face – only his backside. At this point he used many gestures, bringing his hand down across his face and turning around to illustrate his backside.

Once I relaxed and waited for Wycliffe (secretly hoping he’d show up soon), I actually enjoyed the guy. He wasn’t in the least bit obnoxious (like so many similar people have been). I think he rather enjoyed the fact that I listened to him and made eye contact with him.

In fact, he’d long ago stopped begging. He simply wanted to share his stories and have someone listen to him.

A friend of Zadok’s sat down and joined us. He kept politely urging the man to leave, “Grandfather, you just go away now. Old man, go home.”

Again, the man gave absolutely no indication that he heard. By now, he was attracting a small crowd. I gave him 10-bob (14 cents), thinking he’d leave. But he didn’t seem at all interested in the money. I think he was simply enjoying my company.

He randomly rummaged through his pockets and pulled out stuff. He was completely oblivious to the fact that three one-bob coins fell to the ground.

Strangely, he had two small plastic bags filled with jumbled wads of trash. He turned one of these bags upside-down, allowing the treasured contents to fall to the ground. I couldn’t help wondering if the various items had any significance to him.

I picked up his three coins and handed them back to him. As he took them, I wondered if he was even cognizant of their actual value.

Eventually Wycliffe came. I helped the man collect his scattered items from the ground and put them back into his torn bag for him.

He seemed to understand that our encounter had come to an end and wandered off into the busy market crowd.

"'Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we ever see you sick or in prison and come to you?' Then the King will say, 'I'm telling the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me - you did it to me.' Matthew 25:37-40 (The Message)