After the disheartening rejection at the Nairobi Central SDA Church’s guesthouse, where one of the pastors bluntly told me that refugees like me weren’t deserving of shelter at their church due to our financial constraints, I found myself with one single choice to be accompanied by Kiama, Caleb, and Ouma as the pastors had just instructed them. Together, we made our way to the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), although I was well aware that ICRC’s primary mission wasn’t geared towards assisting refugees. My limited English proficiency, coupled with my destitute state, left me virtually voiceless, so I allowed my newfound companions to articulate my dire situation to the ICRC security personnel.

As I had anticipated, the security personnel at ICRC suggested we proceed to the UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees) offices in Westlands, recognizing them as the appropriate authority for refugee matters. Kiama then empathetically remarked to his colleagues that he now comprehended the hardships refugees endure, often being tossed around like discarded objects. Then Mr. Caleb lamented, “If only we weren’t so financially strained, we would have gladly taken this boy William into our homes, but even here in Nairobi, we’re grappling with our own challenges. Unlike in rural villages here in the city we have to buy everything and rent very small rooms to accommodate us. The individuals with money, like those we encountered at the church, seem disinterested in extending a helping hand. We are the hustlers, struggling to make ends meet. The church may be wealthy, but they can’t even provide a haven for a handicapped and destitute stranger like this boy.” The late Kiama chimed in, “The wealthy take pleasure in watching their bank account balances grow while they find contentment in the lines of beggars seeking their assistance.” Young Ouma scratched his head and added, “I live with my brother-in-law, and I wish I had the means to rent even a single room in Nairobi. I would have taken you in to stay with me.” Then our conversation was then interrupted by the sight of the UNHCR sign ahead of us, prompting us to exit Uhuru Highway toward Consolata Shrine, where we arrived at the UNHCR offices.

Upon arrival, my companions, the late Kiama and Mr. Caleb, who were the elder figures among us, initiated discussions with the UNHCR security personnel, while Ouma and I observed in silence, absorbing the conversation. We soon discovered that refugees, regardless of their immediate needs, were mandated to secure appointments to gain access to the UNHCR compound, even if it marked their first arrival in Kenya. The UNHCR security personnel explained that they must adhere to the schedule, with Thursdays being designated for new refugee cases. That day was on Monday at around 10 am. One of the soldiers told Caleb that some of the refugees sleeping in the bushes among the flowers had been camping at that gate for over six months. When I heard that, my heart sank. Kiama expressed his deep concern about where I would find shelter, food, and water, given the circumstances. However, the security personnel told Kiama that they should go back with me and bring me back on Thursday because they, bound by their regulatory directives, regretfully conveyed that such matters fell outside their jurisdiction.

As Caleb peered ahead, his eyes fell upon an emaciated child and a weary mother stationed near the entrance of the compound. The mother confided in Caleb, expressing her fear that they might not endure much longer due to exhaustion and hunger. The security personnel offered sympathy but were constrained by the limitations of their regulations. Faced with the stern instructions from the pastors, which discouraged Kiama, Caleb, and Ouma from returning with me, they had no alternative but to leave me at the UNHCR gate. With minimal resources, devoid of even a blanket, and having run out of options, the late Kiama reached into his pockets and emptied the last coins, which perhaps were supposed to be his lunch or fare back to his house in the evening. He handed me all the coins he had on him, which amounted to Ksh 30. I thanked him, and as I stood there, I watched the church minivan fade into the dust on Rapta Road. Then the reality started sinking in. I was on the streets of Nairobi, something I had dreaded the most, and it was now happening in real-time, making life even more daunting.