It Happened on the Way to War by Rye Barcott Page A

Kibera?”
    â€œWhat kind of question is that? You know, when you’re in the ghetto, you know all the slums. I can go to any slum in Nairobi and feel at home.” I instantly felt a connection to Salim because he pushed back. When I asked him if I could record our conversation with my tape recorder, he slapped his desk and laughed. “Mista, what are you gonna do with that?”
    â€œIt’s for research. I’m an undergraduate at the University of North Carolina, the home of Michael Jordan. You know Jordan?”
    â€œOf course I know Michael Jordan. I’m not a mshamba ,” he said, using the pejorative that translates to “farmer.”
    â€œA mshamba like me.” I pointed to my muddy boots and cargo pants.
    â€œYes, yes, that’s it. That’s a very funny outfit you’re wearing, by the way.”
    â€œIt’s good for me because it has a lot of pockets for my tapes and stuff.”
    Salim’s face grew suddenly serious. “You know, I also know research. People in Mathare, we’re tired of research.” I admired the pride in his voice, and I was beginning to harbor misgivings about my role as a researcher. I would get a senior honors thesis out of it, but what would Kibera receive? I opened up and told Salim that I wanted to do more but didn’t know where to begin. I didn’t want to cause dependency. “Money can cause more problems,” I said.
    â€œOkay, Omosh. What you’re saying is actually what I believe, so you can record. But only if you send me what you write. I’d like to read it.”
    We had a deal. I placed the silver machine on the table. As Salim took me through the background of MYSA and his role as a founding member, I tried to turn the conversation back to him. There was a natural flow because several of the most formative experiences of Salim’s life paralleled the development of MYSA from a twenty-team soccer program to a world-renowned pioneer of youth development programs with a professional soccer team called Mathare United. However, when I asked questions that were too personal, such as how he spent part of his childhood with his grandmother on the streets, Salim stopped and asked me about my own upbringing.
    For security reasons I made a habit of concealing my identity in Kibera. News of who I was and what I was doing traveled quickly in the slum, and I thought it would be safer if casual acquaintances didn’t know too much. While I didn’t usually go so far as to create cover stories, I was often deliberately vague with information or said preposterous things in Swahili that made people laugh and distracted them from their own questions. Yet something about Salim and his quiet confidence was reassuring. I felt I could trust him. Plus, I was in Mathare, not Kibera. So I opened up. I even told him my most guarded secret about training to be a Marine.
    â€œI hate war,” Salim cut me off.
    â€œMe, too.” He looked intrigued as I explained how I believed that the military fundamentally promoted peace. Salim didn’t ask follow-up questions, though as our conversation progressed he made allusions to a sense of suffering from hunger and other physical duress to which he assumed I could relate because of my chosen profession.
    We had been talking for more than three hours and gone through three double-sided miniature cassettes when Salim finally exclaimed, “Okay, enough, mista!”
    â€œJust one more question, please?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œCan you tell me about Mama Fatuma? Is she alive?” She was the founder of the well-known children’s home that had adopted Salim.
    â€œShe passed away in 1997. Man, I really loved her. She was tough. She walked with a cane, but if you did something to upset her, she would drop that cane and run to get you. She liked me because, you know, I’m social. If she didn’t see me one day, she would ask where I