Who will help me write my resignation letter?

I NEED HELP to draft my resignation letter. Reason is, for 13 years, I have been in the HIV trenches trying to improve the lives of those living in informal settlements. However, I still have lots of unanswered questions. 

Not so long ago, I visited Korogocho. Together with our donor, we visited Josephine, who is fondly called Cucu. She is a grandmother who lives in Korogocho, right on the banks of the smelly Nairobi River.

The river is basically a channel for garbage and “flying toilets”.

This is the only shelter Josephine can afford. As Kenya joins the world in marching “towards zero”, our donor says we need to move towards sustainability.

When we get to Cucu’s place, anyone can see that we are all struggling not to cover our noses.

We do not want to look impolite. The heavy stench coming from this river threatens to overcome us, but the fact that it is us, humans, who have interfered with it, not the other way round, is not lost on us.

Turning trash into cash

We take seats on empty plastic containers. Cucu’s house has been swept clean. She looks at the community health worker she is familiar with.

“I always hear of Asunta, but I’ve never seen her. The competition is very high where I work. Almost everyone who’s unemployed runs to her,” Cucu comments.

She is among the hundreds of people who call the Dandora dumpsite their workplace. She collects polythene bags, cleans them in the Nairobi River, and dries them in the sun.

One of her grandchildren keeps watch lest they are stolen. She then bundles them up and sells them to middlemen, who in turn sell them to open market retailers.

On good days, she makes about Sh120. But Cucu is quick to add that the middlemen exploit them, since they do not allow them to sell directly to retailers.

“Nowadays competition is high,” Cucu mourns yet again.

Sole breadwinner

Cucu is the face of many grandparents in Kenya. She lost three children to Aids. When we ask her how many grandchildren she is caring for, she counts on her fingers to get the number right.

“Five or six,” she answers, unsure.

When we ask how many she feeds, she looks us directly in the eye. It is unnerving and at the same time heart-rending. The look asks why we bother to ask, yet chances are that we will not help her to feed them. She is right. I do not know how to tell Cucu that KENWA is trimming her support due to donor demands.

Cucu steers the conversation as we study the seven-by-seven foot house. This is all she has.

“Sometimes there are turf wars at the dumpsite, so I can’t set a foot there. The rival groups go for each other’s throats, at times for days, making us jobless,” she says, when one of the visitors asks her what her greatest challenge is. I want to call these visitors aside and tell them that asking such questions is insensitive. Plus, they also remind me of failures or areas where we have not achieved much.

Cucu’s job has no retirement benefits. Apart from her grandchildren, no one cares whether she lives or dies in poverty.

“What’s zero?” Cucu will ask.

Zero. That is exactly what I feel I have done these past 13 years.

The helpless helper

We give Cucu the food basket that will take care of that day’s supper, in case she does not make it to the dumpsite that day. And then we leave, each to their homes or hotel rooms.

Still, something in me does not leave. It is not the stench. It is the feeling of helplessness. I am wondering. Thirteen years of service to this community, and this Cucu is a reminder that much more needs to be done.

I feel emptier than when I started this job 13 years ago. Even one unchanged, unseen life is just one too many.

Are you willing to help me draft my resignation letter?