It Happened on the Way to War by Rye Barcott

among the poor. It was a point of pride that Kenya was a peaceful country, and they had objected to my suggestions that ethnic violence in Kibera could spill across the country. If I mentioned the Rwandan genocide, most Kenyans became outright defensive. Kenya would never go the way of Rwanda, I was told, because Kenyans “loved peace so much.” I didn’t know much, but I knew enough to be skeptical of this peaceful-culture mythology.
    Everyone with whom I spoke agreed that Kibera needed a lot of help. Where was the government? It was one of my first questions, and I was shocked to learn that the president himself, Daniel arap Moi, lived in a mansion less than one hundred yards above the slum. I found this hard to believe, and most of my Kenyan contacts laughed about its absurdity, as if to say, “Good luck figuring it out, kid.”
    A Kenyan businessman sitting next to me on the flight from London seemed intrigued by my research proposal and its focus on youth. He managed a hotel in Nairobi, and he suggested that job creation was the key to fighting poverty and violence. When I asked him if he employed residents from Kibera at his hotel, he replied hesitantly, “You know the problem there is trust, not skills, trust. You see?”
    I could understand a businessman’s concern about trust in his workforce, but his attitude struck me as discriminatory. Did poverty alone make people less trustworthy?
    My attention shifted to the work ahead. It was a daunting to-do list. With five weeks on the ground I needed to identify at least a dozen youth leaders who would participate in life-history interviews, piece together Kibera’s past, and determine what organizations, if any, existed to help youth and prevent ethnic violence. I hoped to spend my nights in Kibera because living there could help establish my credibility.
    This action-oriented plan presupposed answers to two questions: Could I handle it? Would the community accept me? Deep down, I didn’t know the answers. Nevertheless, I felt an intoxicating sense of possibility that stemmed from the idea that I could help make sense of what appeared to be a forgotten part of the world. My research could make a real difference.
    â€œ JAMBO, BWANA . YOU military?” A Kenyan customs officer pointed to my dad’s olive-green duffel bag. Faint traces of black ink remained where his rank and service were once stenciled: FIRST LIEUTENANT, USMC. I viewed that old duffel as a talisman, a force that would help keep me safe when I faced danger.
    â€œYes, sir, I’m a student in military training,” I said in Swahili.
    â€œOh, that’s good Swahili. You’re welcome.” He waved me past without inspecting the bag.
    By the time I landed in Nairobi, I had only one solid point of contact near Kibera, a woman named Elizabeth. Elizabeth was the acquaintance of Jennifer Coffman’s who lived with her husband, Oluoch, in a housing development adjacent to the slum called Fort Jesus. Elizabeth and Oluoch welcomed me on my first night with a feast of beef stew, a maize meal called ugali , and sukuma wiki, collard greens.
    â€œ Karibu Kenya.” Oluoch greeted me with a firm handshake. “I am your father. This is your mother.”
    They certainly didn’t look like my parents. Oluoch, who coordinated homestays for an American study-abroad program, was built like an ox. His thick neck blended into his shaved head. Oluoch might have made a great lineman on an American football team had it not been for his age, which I assumed was about forty-five, and his beer belly. His aloof attitude contrasted with Elizabeth’s natural warmth. Her vibrant blue and yellow gown and kanga wrap draped elegantly off her body. She was full figured like the patrician women of Renaissance paintings. A Montessori nursery school teacher at a private school, she and Oluoch earned enough income to fall into the lower end of Kenya’s thin middle