#JusticeinKenya

“How many people are you interviewing today?” Willie asked because I had been badgering him all week. 

“Just you,” I replied.  “Willie, there are no pictures of you and I want to start making short interviews of people in the office for staff camaraderie.”

“But I’m dressed so casually.  Look at this crazy shirt! Let’s wait until next week when I have a suit on.”

“Willie, it’s fine.  It’s just for the office and for fun.  It’s likely that no one will ever see this.”

As life would have it, I have yet to interview others.  My interviewing and camera skills were so horrendous that I was allowing myself at least a few months of recovery from my own embarrassment.

Now we find ourselves frantically searching for good pictures of Willie, our energetic and relentlessly positive colleague.  He would be forcing me to find another picture of him, but it turns out that day in the office I took his most widely seen photograph.  Willie, the man who promised me a bag of tomatoes from his garden which he called a farm.  The spunky guy who was so excited to go to Thailand for his job—I gave him my leftover Thai baht and told him to pay me in Kenyan shillings.  He said he would pay me in September when he went to training (no doubt hopeful I would forget his debt). 

We’re the same age—32.  We both just had birthdays.  I am feeling old since I’m spending this year in Kenya as a single Fellow after leaving my job and Willie is happily married with two young children.  We had an office email going around to finally celebrate the birth of his 9-month-old.  I planned on contributing but things got busy and I forgot, so I thought I would give it later.

Then there’s Joseph, my favorite taxi driver.  He picked us up and dropped us off from work almost every day.  When I talked with the other international intern and fellow, we all agreed the person outside of the office we would miss most is Joseph.  He also goes by Muiruri, which is a remarkably hard name for an American to say.  Too many “r’s” and they get caught between each other to sound like a speech impediment.

Joseph bought us all a bouquet of flowers and a bar of chocolate for Valentine’s Day.  He picked me up from the airport after my vacation with a rose and a hug and said he missed me and was so glad I was back.  I told him I missed him too.  We gave him a hard time because he was the youngest and boyish at times.  We loved to hear him laugh--a giggle, really--and would say whatever we could to hear that sound.  Every time I called, his high-pitched voice took me by surprise because it never sounded that feminine in person.  Once I called and said, “I’m looking for Joseph Muiruri,” and he replied, “It’s me!”  He wanted all of us to stay in Kenya and would give ideas of how to make that happen. 

They disappeared on my birthday.  I thought it might be a mistake and their phones died.  No one could harm these two men—they are too kind.  Then days kept passing and while we knew the team at IJM was doing everything humanly possible, all I could do is pray.  So I did and asked others to join.  We prayed and fasted. 

Friday, July 1, I woke up and said, “Today’s the day!  They are coming home today.” I rushed to the office to help finish off this hard week, hopeful that the three men would walk in and greet us all with the happiest of hugs and we would celebrate on an epic scale.  Instead it was bad news.  The worst news. 

I didn’t know Josephat, but he is the reason we are all here.  We serve our clients and walk through the most difficult circumstances with them.  I love our Aftercare workers who know the details of all the family members.  I love our lawyers who show little emotion but a lot of passion for their work.  There are many wonderful people to love in this place and to walk with them in this moment of grief is both beautiful and deeply sorrowful.

We will not stop fighting for our clients.  I will leave IJM Kenya, but the office staff will stay, empowered to fight harder.  We won’t let their deaths be in vain.  It was not the day I expected, but a new day is coming.  We will watch and fight and pray.  The God of justice will have the final word.

“I say to God my Rock,

     “Why have you forgotten me?

Why must I go about mourning,

    oppressed by the enemy?”

My bones suffer mortal agony

     as my foes taunt me,

saying to me all day long,

     “Where is your God?”

Why, my soul, are you downcast?

     Why so disturbed within me?

Put your hope in God,

     for I will yet praise him,

     my Savior and my God.”

Psalm 42: 9-11