The Refugees Hustles

Dr. William A. Twayigize

DR. WILLIAM

THE REFUGEE’S HUSTLE IN THE STREETS OF NAIROBI CITY

The Refugee’s Struggles through the Hustles and Bustles of Nairobi

In 1996, a significant influx of Rwandan refugees found themselves seeking sanctuary in Kenya. This mass migration was spurred by a series of events in neighboring Tanzania, where the government, acting on the directives of the former Tanzanian president, Julius Nyerere, and the UNHCR spokesperson at the time, Kris (Krzysztof) Janowski, initiated the expulsion of Rwandan Hutu refugees from Tanzanian refugee camps. The aim was to repatriate over 535,000 Rwandan Hutu refugees back to Rwanda (Janowski, K. (2003, January 3). It is believed that once these people arrived in Rwanda, the Tutsi-led RPF army killed at least more than 10% of these Hutu refugees were killed, and another 10% of them disappeared. No one knows their whereabouts to this day.

My high school friend Jean Paul Igiribambe was a refugee in the Benaco refugee camp. When the UNHCR and the Tanzanian government expelled Rwandan refugees, he lost his entire family of 11 people. Since 1996, he has only managed to find his youngest sister Domitilla, whereas his father, mother, and his 7 siblings who were between 13 and 3 years old have never been found. They are believed to have been killed as they crossed Rusumo into Rwanda in December 1996. This expulsion was rooted in the aftermath of the Rwandan conflict, which had seen a vast exodus of Rwandans, primarily Hutus, from their homeland following the ascendancy of the Tutsis to power in July 1994. At that time, more than 80% of Rwanda’s population, predominantly Hutus, had fled the country, seeking refuge in neighboring nations, effectively leaving Rwanda devoid of its populace. This demographic shift posed a challenge to Western countries and organizations, including the UK, USA, and UNHCR, which had supported the Tutsis’ rise to power in Kigali with weapons, political backing, and propaganda. This massive displacement of people raised questions about the legitimacy of their assistance, as it appeared that the people of Rwanda did not welcome the new regime (Janowski, K. (2003, December 6).

In 1996, a grave humanitarian crisis unfolded as Tutsi soldiers, under the leadership of General Paul Kagame and with the support of various Western and regional entities, launched an invasion into the Democratic Republic of Congo (DR Congo). Simultaneously, Rwandan Hutu refugee camps in the region became targets of violence and tragedy. Amid this turmoil, the Tanzanian government made a fateful decision to expel over 600,000 Rwandan Hutu refugees residing in camps such as Benako, Lumasi, and Musuhura within its borders. The repercussions were dire, as tens of thousands of refugees began their treacherous journey back to Rwanda from these Tanzanian camps. Unfortunately, many Rwandan refugees attempted to flee deeper into Tanzania in a desperate bid to avoid returning to the perilous conditions awaiting them in Kigali. However, Tanzanian soldiers prevented them from doing so. Some refugees managed to find refuge within the dense forests of Akagera National Park, although not without encountering the dangers posed by lions and snakes. Those who survived these perils eventually escaped to Kenya, marking a harrowing chapter in the ongoing plight of Rwandan refugees.

Over 600,000 Rwandan Hutu refugees sought sanctuary in Tanzania during the violent conflicts in the Byumba and Kibungo prefectures, as Tutsi rebels waged a brutal campaign. However, Julius Nyerere, who had political differences with the recently assassinated Rwandan President Habyarimana, suspected of having been killed with assistance from Nyerere’s government, was concerned that the presence of these Hutu refugees could hinder his mission to establish Tutsi rule in Rwanda. In 1996, Nyerere ordered all Rwandan refugees in Tanzania to leave the country. One of the refugee camps affected was Benaco, which had housed a significant number of Rwandan Hutu refugees. In December, this camp came under siege by the Tanzanian army, compelling the refugees to return to Rwanda.

After their expulsion from Tanzania, the options available to these displaced Rwandan refugees became increasingly limited. Many among them reluctantly returned to Rwanda, where they were confronted with the harsh realities of the Kagame government, notorious for its mistreatment of returnees. Others embarked on journeys to seek refuge in neighboring countries, including Burundi, Zambia, Malawi, Mozambique, and South Africa. However, a significant number of Rwandan refugees who had been expelled from Tanzania eventually found their way into Kenya. Here, they encountered basic infrastructure, including schools, which held a sense of familiarity. Committed and educated refugees had joined forces to establish a school that welcomed refugees from Rwanda, Burundi, and Congo. This unique educational institution offered instruction in both English and French, maintaining a curriculum adapted from the Rwandan system, a legacy from the refugee camps in Eastern Democratic Republic of Congo, notably Kibumba, where it had been fine-tuned and customized to cater to the unique needs of the refugee population.

After their expulsion from Tanzania, many of the refugees found themselves grappling with limited options and a profound sense of betrayal, particularly from both the Tanzanian government and the international community, including the UNHCR. A majority of them were forced to return to Rwanda, a choice that often led them to confront the harsh realities of the Kagame government, which had a reputation for killing returnees. Others sought refuge in neighboring countries such as Burundi, Zambia, Malawi, Mozambique, and South Africa, hoping to rebuild their lives far from the turmoil they had experienced.

Kabiria Refugee School

Upon arriving in Kenya, a faction of the Rwandan refugees expelled from Tanzania stumbled upon a unique educational opportunity specifically designed for refugees from the Great Lakes region. This educational initiative featured a curriculum rooted in both English and French, closely mirroring the Rwandan curriculum. Driven by a collective determination, a group of educated Rwandan refugees, some of whom had arrived in Kenya in 1995, came together to establish a school tailored to the needs of children hailing from Rwanda, Burundi, and Congo. This educational institution, known as the Kabiria Group of Schools, provided instruction in both languages. Remarkably, the curriculum was meticulously crafted to align with the Rwandan educational system, drawing from the lessons learned and experiences gained during their time in refugee camps in Eastern DRC, most notably in places like Kibumba. This curriculum aimed to reflect the education system they were intimately familiar with before their forced exodus from Rwanda.

Due to the presence of the Kabiria Group of Schools, offering instruction in both English and French, numerous refugee families from Burundi, Rwanda, and the Democratic Republic of Congo (DR Congo) made the decision to settle in nearby slums such as Kibera, Kawangware, and Kangemi. Their primary motivation was to ensure easy access to this school, which received invaluable support from the Catholic Church and well-wishers hailing from both Europe and Kenya. To survive in their challenging circumstances, refugees sought sustenance at places like “Kwa Monika,” commonly referred to as “Monica’s place.” Madam Monica, a laywoman, extended her support to refugees at the Riruta Catholic Church in Kwangware. Monica diligently sourced assistance from European French-speaking countries like France, Belgium, and Switzerland through Catholic Church connections. This aid was directed towards helping refugees cover school fees and acquire essential educational materials, ensuring they were not left behind in their studies due to their refugee status. Unfortunately, the beneficiaries of this assistance were primarily girls and parents with children, leaving single male youth refugees, like myself at the time, to confront the harsh realities of life in Nairobi alone. Consequently, many young male refugees in Kenya found themselves sleeping on the streets, as the assistance system inadvertently worked against them.

During my time sleeping outside the UNHCR offices in Nairobi, completely devoid of assistance, I received word from a fellow refugee about a compassionate woman named Monica who offered aid to young refugees. Determined to seek help, I embarked on a journey to Riruta Parish, where Monica provided assistance to urban refugee families. On crutches, I walked from Westlands to James Gichuru junction with only Ksh 20 in my possession, of which I spent half as fare for a Matatu minibus to Kwangware. Upon reaching Riruta Parish on a particular Tuesday when Monica listened to the needs of refugees, I sought an audience with her. Initially, I was told that Monica didn’t see young refugee males, but with the advocacy of other refugees who had heard my story and witnessed my physical challenges, she eventually agreed to meet me. I shared my harrowing journey to Nairobi and the ordeal I had endured at the hands of Tutsi soldiers in Kigali. Monica, however, informed me that her assistance policies primarily focused on refugee girls and parents, not young refugee males. Despite my disappointment, she kindly handed me a packet of Jogo Unga (maize flour) and Ksh 200, approximately $3, before bidding me farewell. Though my expectations were not fully met, I expressed gratitude to God for the modest assistance provided—a small packet of maize flour and a few dollars—and continued my journey.

Kivuli Training Center, initiated by the Koinonia Community in 1997, was established with the primary goal of addressing the needs of vulnerable young boys. This initiative was born out of deep concern for the growing population of children living on the streets, as well as youth in areas like Kawangware, Riruta, and throughout Nairobi and its surroundings. Kivuli Centre represents a community-driven project aimed at improving the well-being of children, young adults, and the broader community. Notably, numerous refugees found valuable support and opportunities through this center, particularly because it was in close proximity to the Kabiria Secondary and Primary Schools, which catered to refugees from the Great Lakes region. Here, refugees had access to programs that included tailoring, crafting, and acrobatics, all of which played a pivotal role in empowering and enriching the lives of many young refugees.

At Kivuli Center, young women refugees are actively engaged in learning the art of tailoring. This training program represents a lifeline for refugees who have endured the loss of everything, often including their connections with family members, and have found themselves in a foreign land. In Nairobi, a number of refugees came together to establish community-based organizations, often with the assistance of the Catholic Church and institutions like Kivuli Center. Among these organizations, L’AFRIKANA stands out as a beneficiary of support from the Catholic Church and other generous individuals. This organization finds its strength in the realms of art and tailoring, which have become the two foundational pillars sustaining its work and mission.

The Little Sisters of the Poor

Leaving Riruta Parish, I encountered a compassionate woman who had closely followed my story and genuinely sympathized with my predicament. She revealed the tragic loss of her husband in Congo and proceeded to inform me about a place called Kasarani, specifically, the location of the Little Sisters of the Poor. These kind-hearted individuals provided assistance to refugees every other Tuesday. As it happened to be a Tuesday on that particular day, she advised me to wait and plan my visit to the Kasarani Little Sisters on the corresponding Tuesday, two weeks hence. She elaborated that the Catholic sisters at Kasarani extended a helping hand to refugees in need, offering Ksh 200 and two packets of Unga meal flour, all without discrimination based on age, gender, or marital status. Filled with hope upon hearing this, I made a solemn promise to embark on the journey to Kasarani.

Nevertheless, when the day arrived for my visit to the Little Sisters of the Poor of St. Francis in Kasarani, I had already spent 80% of the Ksh 100 that Monica had generously given me. My mistaken belief that the Little Sisters of the Poor and Kasarani Stadium were in close proximity compounded the difficulties I faced. During the early 2000s in Kenya, there was no technology for map navigation like Google Maps or cellphones to aid in searching for directions. Even if such technology had existed, it would have been beyond my means at the time, given my dire circumstances where affording food was a challenge. Consequently, we lacked access to maps or navigation tools to accurately gauge distances before embarking on journeys, relying solely on the experiences and estimations of others.

Under the false impression that Kasarani Stadium was nearby, I opted to take a Matatu (public minibus) from Nairobi to Kasarani Stadium, laboring under the belief that I could cover the remaining distance on foot. This choice, however, proved to be a significant error, especially for someone like me, navigating on crutches. I pressed on, walking and walking until I found myself utterly breathless, realizing that the journey was far more demanding and extended than I had initially anticipated.

As I arrived at the Kasarani Little Sisters of the Poor, the clock neared 11 a.m., and the refugee assistance session was coming to a close. As I passed through the gate, the sight of my exhaustion, hunger, and thirst elicited sympathetic glances from those already present. Drenched in sweat and rendered nearly speechless from the long and challenging journey on crutches, I struggled to convey my needs. Among the compassionate individuals at the center, there was a sister rumored to be from Uganda, entrusted with overseeing the refugee program at the Little Sisters of the Poor, particularly focusing on urban refugees who lacked support elsewhere. She possessed a deep understanding of the hardships faced by Rwandan refugees and the systemic barriers they encountered in seeking assistance. Upon noticing my condition, she uttered the Kiswahili word “Pole,” a gesture of empathy and understanding, before guiding me to a seat. This allowed her to first attend to the refugees who had arrived earlier. Additionally, she kindly provided me with a jug filled with fresh water to help rehydrate. Witnessing her warm reception, I felt a renewed sense of hope that this day would not conclude in tragedy.

Upon concluding her assistance to the other refugees, she led me to her office where she gently inquired about my experiences. I proceeded to share the harrowing tale of my journey through Congo and Rwanda, recounting how the Tutsis had believed they had taken my life, even going so far as to transport my supposed lifeless body to a Kigali mortuary. Yet, this seemingly grim turn of events had unwittingly become the escape route that God had fashioned for my survival. As I narrated these events, tears welled in her eyes, tracing down her cheeks, mirroring the anguish of my ordeals at the hands of my own country, UNHCR, and the intricate geopolitics at play. Moved by my story, she expressed concern for my hunger and promptly returned with a meal of rice, beans, and beef stew, a feast like none I had enjoyed in ages. She then selected clothing items from their store and offered them to me, accompanying her generosity with a Ksh 500 note, equivalent to approximately $10, and four packets of Unga maize meal. Departing with a heart full of gratitude, I praised God for hearing my pleas and bestowing upon me blessings far beyond my expectations on that fateful day.

On another intriguing day during my seemingly endless journey through refugee interrogations and bureaucratic procedures at UNHCR, fate introduced me to a young refugee lady who was diligently pursuing computer literacy and a secretarial course at Graffins College in Westlands. My heart had longed for the opportunity to study computer science at Graffins College, a fervent wish I had shared with God in my prayers.

The Kasarani branch of the Little Sisters of St. Francis of Assisi played a pivotal role in providing assistance, particularly to Rwandan refugees residing in Kenya during the 2000s. When many other organizations, including the UNHCR, were not adequately supporting urban refugees, especially those without families, the Little Sisters welcomed me and extended their helping hand. Our institute, founded on May 1, 1923, in Uganda by the late Mother Mary Kevin, Servant of God, is a missionary community of Catholic sisters dedicated to serving the impoverished and marginalized within society. At the heart of this mission was a compassionate sister from Uganda who spearheaded a program to aid refugees. She went above and beyond to ensure that refugees arriving at the center left with assistance, never empty-handed.

South B, established around 1970, emerged as a residential area catering mainly to Nairobi’s middle-class population. Comprising a diverse range of housing options, it included the Plainsview estate with tiled roofs and the Mariakani estate, constructed by the Nairobi City Council over a 10-acre area. Notably, Mariakani estate was once the residence of the legendary Kenyan footballer Joe Kadenge. Interestingly, Father Peter, renowned for his assistance to refugees, chose to reside in a private affluent neighborhood rather than within a convent or church compound in South B, despite the presence of a nearby Catholic church. Today, South B continues to host many affluent Kenyan residents, as it did in the 2000s.

Father Peter’s South B Estate

Upon learning that she was a college student at Graffins College, I couldn’t contain my desire to attend that institution myself. Each day, as I lay near the UNHCR offices in Westlands, I watched students from Graffins College pass by, both in the morning and evening. The mere presence of these students, so close to where I resided on the streets, ignited a burning aspiration within me to follow in their footsteps and become a student at Graffins College one day. Intrigued by her ability to afford the college fees, I mustered the courage to inquire if her parents were supporting her education. In response, she graced me with a warm smile and shared that her education was made possible through the generous sponsorship of a Catholic priest named Father Peter, who provided support not only to her but also to eight other young refugee girls. Filled with newfound hope and determination, I humbly requested her assistance in obtaining Father Peter’s contact information, believing that sharing my story might touch his heart and inspire him to extend his compassion and support to my educational endeavors.

Having bared my soul to her, emphasizing my urgent need for financial support to resume my college education, she responded kindly and calmly, maintaining her characteristic bright smile as she explained, “From what I’ve gathered, Father Peter doesn’t usually provide assistance to male refugees.” My determination unwavering, I clarified that, in accordance with our cultural traditions, I had not yet attained the status of a man; one typically achieved that distinction either at a marriageable age, often around 25 or older, or upon getting married. With a chuckle, she gently clarified, “What I meant is that Peter doesn’t typically offer aid to male refugees.” Undeterred by this revelation, I affirmed my resolute intention to meet Father Peter in person, firmly believing that recounting my harrowing journey and detailing the myriad challenges I had faced as a refugee in Rwanda, Congo, and now in Kenya, where I relied on crutches, would profoundly touch his heart and inspire him to facilitate my access to education. Acknowledging my unwavering determination, she eventually provided me with directions to Father Peter’s location, although she couldn’t supply a phone number, as landlines remained the primary means of communication during that period.

After meeting Adelle at UNHCR, I returned to the familiar gate outside UNHCR where we used to sleep in the dusty surroundings. The night that followed was restless, filled with nervous anticipation about what Father Peter’s response might be if I were to meet him in person. I lay awake, counting the stars in the sky, as if questioning whether God, residing beyond those distant stars, had heard my prayers. The night felt interminable, and I eagerly awaited the breaking of the next day’s dawn. Around 5 a.m., I woke up with the sole purpose of catching the earliest, most affordable Matatu heading to downtown Nairobi. Upon reaching downtown, I transferred to another Matatu bound for South B estate in Nairobi, the location I had been directed to inquire about Father Peter’s residence.

Upon my arrival in the South B estate, I approached a local resident and inquired about the whereabouts of Father Peter’s residence. To my surprise, one of them immediately recognized the name and exclaimed, “Ah, the priest who assists refugees!” Confirming this, another individual offered a word of caution, saying, “I’ve heard he mainly helps young girls, and you’re a boy. I’m not entirely sure if you’ll be successful, but that’s the gate to his place.” This person then called over the gatekeeper at Father Peter’s residence, a man named Makhoha, and made a special request, saying, “Makhoha, please assist this brother in meeting your boss. You can see he’s walking with crutches.”

I approached Makhoha at the gate and explained my purpose in seeking Father Peter. After a brief moment of scrutiny, his face broke into a warm smile. “Brother,” he acknowledged, “it’s evident that you’re in dire need and deserving of assistance. However, the world operates in a peculiar way. Not everyone in need receives help, and, strangely enough, those who seem to need it the least often benefit the most due to their connections. Father Peter is indeed quite selective about whom he chooses to aid. Nevertheless, I wish you the best of luck. You’ve arrived very early; he usually begins seeing people around 10 a.m. I won’t need to notify him of your presence because when he wakes up, he looks out of his bedroom window at the gate and discerns that those waiting are seeking his audience. If he wishes to meet with them, he’ll either call or have me contact him, informing his house help that someone is seeking his attention. Only then will I be able to grant you entry into the compound.”

Westlands, situated in Nairobi, Kenya, comprises an affluent district where a substantial expatriate community and prosperous Kenyan residents reside in spacious houses, bungalows, and stylish apartments. The landscape is adorned with contemporary office towers and modern hotels that overlook tree-lined streets adorned with a variety of restaurants, offering a diverse culinary experience, from Indian and Italian cuisine to traditional street food. Dominating the retail scene are shopping centers like The Mall and Westlands Market, while the vibrant nightlife comes alive with numerous bars and clubs. Notably, during my time as a refugee in Nairobi, I used to sleep on the streets near the UNHCR offices, which now stand amidst the towering skyscrapers that have risen thanks to Chinese-sponsored investments and the Nairobi Expressway. In the evenings, we would cross the highway to a nearby restaurant to collect leftover food.

In Nairobi, the Matatu is an iconic mode of public transportation, extensively utilized for city commutes and travel across Kenya. Derived from the Sheng street language, “Matatu” or “Mathree” denotes privately owned minibuses converted into shared taxis. The term “Matatus” was coined when the bus fare was merely Ksh 3. This exclusive Matatu culture not only distinguishes Kenya’s public transport system but also forms an integral part of the city’s character. In 2001, I relied on a Matatu of this kind for my journey to seek assistance from Father Peter.

I stationed myself by the gate and struck up a conversation with Makhoha, sharing stories about Rwanda, its people, and answering his curious questions. We discovered surprising similarities between Kinyarwanda and certain Luhya words, as both languages belong to the Bantu language family. Our engaging chat was momentarily interrupted when two refugee girls I recognized approached Makhoha, greeted him, and were readily allowed entry into the compound. Although I pretended not to notice, it became evident that something unique was happening. After about an hour, these two girls emerged from the compound, laden with shopping bags filled with goodies, and asked Makhoha to arrange a taxi for them, which he promptly did.

crop topsAs my curiosity and impatience continued to mount, I couldn’t resist asking Makhoha about the unfolding situation. In response, he wore a wise smile and uttered, “Brother, just keep observing. By the time you depart from this place, you’ll gain some insight.” Not long after, precisely around 10:20 a.m., another pair of young girls approached Makhoha, inquiring about Father Peter’s presence, and he granted them entry. They carried themselves with an air of familiarity within the compound, donning fashionable attire like Hipster Jeans, leather jackets, tumbo cuts, Cullotes, and crop tops. Much like the previous visitors, these girls exuded confidence and sophistication, bearing no obvious markers of refugee status.

At around 11:45 a.m., the compound’s gate swung open, revealing an approaching SUV. Father Peter, a man I had only heard described as a slender, grey-bearded white priest in his 50s, was at the wheel. Accompanying him were three young girls, including the same two I had noticed earlier, dressed impeccably in Hipster Jeans, leather jackets, tumbo cuts, and Cullotes. Father Peter’s stop was brief, offering me no chance to explain my presence as he swiftly instructed Makhoha to relay a succinct message: “tell him to go to UNHCR and seek assistance there.” With that, he sped away, leaving behind nothing but swirling dry dust as a poignant reminder of his fleeting visit. Despite being forewarned that Father Peter primarily aided young, attractive refugee girls, and realizing that I didn’t fit that description, I was still taken aback by his refusal even to consider my plea for transportation fare back to my base in Westlands. I had hoped that, as a priest, he would exhibit compassion to anyone in genuine need, perhaps providing me with bus fare given my physical disability and reliance on crutches. In a state of shock, with nowhere else to turn but the heavens, tears welled up in my eyes as I looked up into the sky and whispered, “Oh God!” This unforeseen turn of events left me with the daunting task of finding my way back to the makeshift sleeping area near the UNHCR offices in Westlands.

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DR. WILLIAM

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Dr. William A. Twayigize

DR. WILLIAM