It Happened on the Way to War by Rye Barcott

thinking, Omosh. Khadija, she always says, ‘Daddy, I’m going to Standard One [first grade] next year.’ I can’t let her down, Omosh. That’s what I’m meditating about, that and this choo .”
    We laughed, deep, long, and from the gut. Hard life can inure one to many things, but not the stale stench of an overfilled choo .
    I NEEDED TO stay focused in Kibera, but MYSA had come up too many times. One day I caught a matatu minibus to Mathare to see the organization for myself. Although it was the only road into Mathare, where more than 150,000 people lived, I expected a less perilous ride. But Juja Road defined mayhem. Even Iraq’s Route Ethan, one of the most dangerous, destroyed roads through downtown Fallujah, where I would be stationed years later, offered a smoother ride—provided a bomb didn’t explode.
    Juja Road had once been paved. Head-sized chunks of asphalt jutted out of the dirt like errant cobblestones. Yet vehicles blazed down the road as if they were ambulances en route to emergency rooms.
    The gangsta rap inside my matatu masked a cacophony of horns outside as vehicles swerved to avoid head-on collisions and craters big enough to swallow small cars or slice tires from their axles. One crater was so immense locals joked that it could hide an elephant. Our driver threw on his wipers to clear a layer of grime from the windshield. All the while, a grandmother sat next to me, dozing.
    I shouted, “MYSA,” twice to the driver, whose cheek was full of khat , a highly addictive stimulant that causes loss of appetite, sex drive, and sleep. I wasn’t sure he heard me until he slammed on the brakes and pointed at the door.
    An assortment of half-constructed cinder-block multistory buildings lined the roads. Up ahead the MYSA building stood out with its trademark forest green and yellow gates. As soon as I passed through the gates I felt as if I had entered a different world. A couple of youth wearing MYSA soccer jerseys practiced tricks with a soccer ball made of twine and plastic bags. A dozen girls were doing calisthenics in the main hall next to a wall that read GIVING YOUTH A SPORTING CHANCE. In another room a young man sang a Swahili verse while mopping the floor. As I walked around, a few young people greeted me but didn’t stop what they were doing. It was a good sign. In Kibera, a lot of young people dropped what they were doing when a mzungu showed up.
    I poked my head into an office. A slender man with a thin black goatee and a Muslim skullcap spoke with a boy in a soccer uniform. The man sat next to his desk with the boy’s chair facing him. He glanced up for a second to see if he recognized me, then continued to give his full attention to the boy. The boy seemed to hang on his every word. When they both stood up, I realized the man was not much taller than the boy. Only then did the man look up at me and introduce himself as Salim Mohamed. He had light brown skin and close-cropped, black hair. I assumed he was Somali because of his Muslim name and angular features.
    I handed the boy one of the Creme Savers hard candies from my pocket.
    â€œThat’s interesting,” Salim commented.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou carry those candies.”
    â€œSorry, I usually keep them for kids.” I reached into my cargo pant pocket and pulled one out for him.
    â€œNo, no thanks, mista. I’m not a kid.” He laughed.
    I took out a bottle of hand sanitizer and offered him a squirt.
    â€œNo thanks.” He grimaced. “You know, us, we find that a bit offensive, like why do you need to clean your hands every time you touch a kid.”
    â€œGood point. I should have used it before I touched the kid. Obviously I’m the dirty one.”
    Salim laughed, and I began what had become my typical spiel. I was Omondi, but people called me Omosh. I stayed in Kibera, in Gatwekera Village, near the river. “Do you know