The clock in the office reached 4 PM, marking the end of the CFK workday. Normally, I would pack up my things and begin walking back towards the stone buildings of Ayany. This Thursday, however, I changed into athletic clothes and waited outside the gate for my companion to arrive. Soon enough, David showed up at the office, wearing shiny dress shoes and a suit that was about three sizes too big. He is one of the coaches with CFK’s sports association, the organization’s longest-running initiative, and he was taking me to see firsthand how the program is run.

Kibera is a breeding ground for tribal conflict, with many different groups living in close proximity to one another. The most infamous intertribal conflict is that between the Kikuyu and Luo tribes, which reached a breaking point following the 2008 Kenyan elections. For weeks, Kibera was swept up in post-election riots and violence, killing many and ousting even more people from their homes.

In an effort to combat the tribalism that plagues Kibera, the CFK sports program runs an annual soccer tournament in which every team must consist of members from different tribes. Furthermore, instead of paying a registration fee, each team must participate in a community clean-up with the Taka ni Pato program in order to be eligible. This further helps build community pride and a sense of intercultural understanding, with members of different tribes working towards a common goal. A few years ago, another addition was made to the Sports Program. A CFK intern from the States was a champion jump-roper, and wanted to implement a skipping program within Kibera. As a slum activity, it made sense: it didn’t require much equipment or much space, and was fairly easy to learn. So CFK started the CFK Sprinters program, which was an instant success.

We were a little early for practice, so David took me on a quick detour around Gatwakera. He greeted friends and relatives along the way, exchanging firm handshakes and warm smiles. Soon we reached a little fruit stand where a middle-aged woman with a kanga draped over her shoulders was selling mangos and bananas. David introduced the woman as his mother. She welcomed me to Kibera, and invited me to come visit their home, motioning towards a little gate to her right. David led me through the gate and into a small courtyard, then beneath a small doorway. “Welcome to my home,” he said with a smile.

The home had a higher ceiling than I was accustomed to seeing in Kibera, but was otherwise a pretty standard slum dwelling: about ten by ten feet, made out of mud and corrugated iron, with large pieces of lace and other fabrics draped around to cover up the walls beneath. I met his little sister, who had just arrived home from school. I also met some other inhabitants of the home: David’s chickens, which lived in a coop right outside of the front door. He explained to me that he raises rabbits and chickens as a small business, selling them to local people in the community. “The pigeons I just keep for fun,” he said.

Soon it was time to head over the Kibera Primary School for practice. We swam upstream through the school’s mass exodus of students, all dressed in forest-green uniforms and heading home for the day. The sounds of soccer balls being kicked around and coaches yelling in Swahili floated over towards us. As we rounded the corner, a dusty school field emerged, with dozens of young men running drills and maneuvering soccer balls around orange pylons. On the other side of the field, a group of younger kids were grabbing jump ropes, getting ready to start their own training session. Feeling more comfortable with my ability to jump rope than to kick a ball with accuracy, I headed over to join the skippers.

It quickly became clear that either the children of Kibera are incredibly fit or I am just ridiculously unfit – or maybe it was a combination of both. As the practice began, I found I could barely jump for thirty seconds without my heartbeat ringing in my ears. Meanwhile, most of the kids performed the various tricks with ease, jumping from side to side, alternating legs, skipping backwards, and crossing their arms while barely breaking a sweat. While it was a little embarrassing to be out-jumped by nine year olds, the practice was a ton of fun and I was happy to see firsthand what the sports program does for the community.

This after-school practice was just another example of how the people of Kibera will jump (literally) at any opportunity that is given to them. By providing children with a physical outlet, the sports program has kept many young people from joining gangs or engaging in other counter-productive activities. It has also instilled a sense of hope and ambition in the children, showing them that if they work hard, opportunities will open up for them. Some of the CFK soccer players have gone on to play at the national level, and the jump rope team has competed in and won several competitions in far-flung places like Florida and Brazil. This goes against the conventional idea of slums as sad, depressing places with a pitiable population. To quote a wonderful article in the Economist: “Slums are far from hopeless places…but rather reservoirs of tomorrow’s winners.” And the kids I met at Kibera Primary, along with David with his chickens, are definitely tomorrow’s winners.

The clock in the office reached 4 PM, marking the end of the CFK workday. Normally, I would pack up my things and begin walking back towards the stone buildings of Ayany. This Thursday, however, I changed into athletic clothes and waited outside the gate for my companion to arrive. Soon enough, David showed up at the office, wearing shiny dress shoes and a suit that was about three sizes too big. He is one of the coaches with CFK’s sports association, the organization’s longest-running initiative, and he was taking me to see firsthand how the program is run.

Kibera is a breeding ground for tribal conflict, with many different groups living in close proximity to one another. The most infamous intertribal conflict is that between the Kikuyu and Luo tribes, which reached a breaking point following the 2008 Kenyan elections. For weeks, Kibera was swept up in post-election riots and violence, killing many and ousting even more people from their homes.

In an effort to combat the tribalism that plagues Kibera, the CFK sports program runs an annual soccer tournament in which every team must consist of members from different tribes. Furthermore, instead of paying a registration fee, each team must participate in a community clean-up with the Taka ni Pato program in order to be eligible. This further helps build community pride and a sense of intercultural understanding, with members of different tribes working towards a common goal. A few years ago, another addition was made to the Sports Program. A CFK intern from the States was a champion jump-roper, and wanted to implement a skipping program within Kibera. As a slum activity, it made sense: it didn’t require much equipment or much space, and was fairly easy to learn. So CFK started the CFK Sprinters program, which was an instant success.

We were a little early for practice, so David took me on a quick detour around Gatwakera. He greeted friends and relatives along the way, exchanging firm handshakes and warm smiles. Soon we reached a little fruit stand where a middle-aged woman with a kanga draped over her shoulders was selling mangos and bananas. David introduced the woman as his mother. She welcomed me to Kibera, and invited me to come visit their home, motioning towards a little gate to her right. David led me through the gate and into a small courtyard, then beneath a small doorway. “Welcome to my home,” he said with a smile.

The home had a higher ceiling than I was accustomed to seeing in Kibera, but was otherwise a pretty standard slum dwelling: about ten by ten feet, made out of mud and corrugated iron, with large pieces of lace and other fabrics draped around to cover up the walls beneath. I met his little sister, who had just arrived home from school. I also met some other inhabitants of the home: David’s chickens, which lived in a coop right outside of the front door. He explained to me that he raises rabbits and chickens as a small business, selling them to local people in the community. “The pigeons I just keep for fun,” he said.

Soon it was time to head over the Kibera Primary School for practice. We swam upstream through the school’s mass exodus of students, all dressed in forest-green uniforms and heading home for the day. The sounds of soccer balls being kicked around and coaches yelling in Swahili floated over towards us. As we rounded the corner, a dusty school field emerged, with dozens of young men running drills and maneuvering soccer balls around orange pylons. On the other side of the field, a group of younger kids were grabbing jump ropes, getting ready to start their own training session. Feeling more comfortable with my ability to jump rope than to kick a ball with accuracy, I headed over to join the skippers.

It quickly became clear that either the children of Kibera are incredibly fit or I am just ridiculously unfit – or maybe it was a combination of both. As the practice began, I found I could barely jump for thirty seconds without my heartbeat ringing in my ears. Meanwhile, most of the kids performed the various tricks with ease, jumping from side to side, alternating legs, skipping backwards, and crossing their arms while barely breaking a sweat. While it was a little embarrassing to be out-jumped by nine year olds, the practice was a ton of fun and I was happy to see firsthand what the sports program does for the community.

This after-school practice was just another example of how the people of Kibera will jump (literally) at any opportunity that is given to them. By providing children with a physical outlet, the sports program has kept many young people from joining gangs or engaging in other counter-productive activities. It has also instilled a sense of hope and ambition in the children, showing them that if they work hard, opportunities will open up for them. Some of the CFK soccer players have gone on to play at the national level, and the jump rope team has competed in and won several competitions in far-flung places like Florida and Brazil. This goes against the conventional idea of slums as sad, depressing places with a pitiable population. To quote a wonderful article in the Economist: “Slums are far from hopeless places…but rather reservoirs of tomorrow’s winners.” And the kids I met at Kibera Primary, along with David with his chickens, are definitely tomorrow’s winners.

The clock in the office reached 4 PM, marking the end of the CFK workday. Normally, I would pack up my things and begin walking back towards the stone buildings of Ayany. This Thursday, however, I changed into athletic clothes and waited outside the gate for my companion to arrive. Soon enough, David showed up at the office, wearing shiny dress shoes and a suit that was about three sizes too big. He is one of the coaches with CFK’s sports association, the organization’s longest-running initiative, and he was taking me to see firsthand how the program is run.

Kibera is a breeding ground for tribal conflict, with many different groups living in close proximity to one another. The most infamous intertribal conflict is that between the Kikuyu and Luo tribes, which reached a breaking point following the 2008 Kenyan elections. For weeks, Kibera was swept up in post-election riots and violence, killing many and ousting even more people from their homes.

In an effort to combat the tribalism that plagues Kibera, the CFK sports program runs an annual soccer tournament in which every team must consist of members from different tribes. Furthermore, instead of paying a registration fee, each team must participate in a community clean-up with the Taka ni Pato program in order to be eligible. This further helps build community pride and a sense of intercultural understanding, with members of different tribes working towards a common goal. A few years ago, another addition was made to the Sports Program. A CFK intern from the States was a champion jump-roper, and wanted to implement a skipping program within Kibera. As a slum activity, it made sense: it didn’t require much equipment or much space, and was fairly easy to learn. So CFK started the CFK Sprinters program, which was an instant success.

We were a little early for practice, so David took me on a quick detour around Gatwakera. He greeted friends and relatives along the way, exchanging firm handshakes and warm smiles. Soon we reached a little fruit stand where a middle-aged woman with a kanga draped over her shoulders was selling mangos and bananas. David introduced the woman as his mother. She welcomed me to Kibera, and invited me to come visit their home, motioning towards a little gate to her right. David led me through the gate and into a small courtyard, then beneath a small doorway. “Welcome to my home,” he said with a smile.

The home had a higher ceiling than I was accustomed to seeing in Kibera, but was otherwise a pretty standard slum dwelling: about ten by ten feet, made out of mud and corrugated iron, with large pieces of lace and other fabrics draped around to cover up the walls beneath. I met his little sister, who had just arrived home from school. I also met some other inhabitants of the home: David’s chickens, which lived in a coop right outside of the front door. He explained to me that he raises rabbits and chickens as a small business, selling them to local people in the community. “The pigeons I just keep for fun,” he said.

Soon it was time to head over the Kibera Primary School for practice. We swam upstream through the school’s mass exodus of students, all dressed in forest-green uniforms and heading home for the day. The sounds of soccer balls being kicked around and coaches yelling in Swahili floated over towards us. As we rounded the corner, a dusty school field emerged, with dozens of young men running drills and maneuvering soccer balls around orange pylons. On the other side of the field, a group of younger kids were grabbing jump ropes, getting ready to start their own training session. Feeling more comfortable with my ability to jump rope than to kick a ball with accuracy, I headed over to join the skippers.

It quickly became clear that either the children of Kibera are incredibly fit or I am just ridiculously unfit – or maybe it was a combination of both. As the practice began, I found I could barely jump for thirty seconds without my heartbeat ringing in my ears. Meanwhile, most of the kids performed the various tricks with ease, jumping from side to side, alternating legs, skipping backwards, and crossing their arms while barely breaking a sweat. While it was a little embarrassing to be out-jumped by nine year olds, the practice was a ton of fun and I was happy to see firsthand what the sports program does for the community.

This after-school practice was just another example of how the people of Kibera will jump (literally) at any opportunity that is given to them. By providing children with a physical outlet, the sports program has kept many young people from joining gangs or engaging in other counter-productive activities. It has also instilled a sense of hope and ambition in the children, showing them that if they work hard, opportunities will open up for them. Some of the CFK soccer players have gone on to play at the national level, and the jump rope team has competed in and won several competitions in far-flung places like Florida and Brazil. This goes against the conventional idea of slums as sad, depressing places with a pitiable population. To quote a wonderful article in the Economist: “Slums are far from hopeless places…but rather reservoirs of tomorrow’s winners.” And the kids I met at Kibera Primary, along with David with his chickens, are definitely tomorrow’s winners.

The clock in the office reached 4 PM, marking the end of the CFK workday. Normally, I would pack up my things and begin walking back towards the stone buildings of Ayany. This Thursday, however, I changed into athletic clothes and waited outside the gate for my companion to arrive. Soon enough, David showed up at the office, wearing shiny dress shoes and a suit that was about three sizes too big. He is one of the coaches with CFK’s sports association, the organization’s longest-running initiative, and he was taking me to see firsthand how the program is run.

Kibera is a breeding ground for tribal conflict, with many different groups living in close proximity to one another. The most infamous intertribal conflict is that between the Kikuyu and Luo tribes, which reached a breaking point following the 2008 Kenyan elections. For weeks, Kibera was swept up in post-election riots and violence, killing many and ousting even more people from their homes.

In an effort to combat the tribalism that plagues Kibera, the CFK sports program runs an annual soccer tournament in which every team must consist of members from different tribes. Furthermore, instead of paying a registration fee, each team must participate in a community clean-up with the Taka ni Pato program in order to be eligible. This further helps build community pride and a sense of intercultural understanding, with members of different tribes working towards a common goal. A few years ago, another addition was made to the Sports Program. A CFK intern from the States was a champion jump-roper, and wanted to implement a skipping program within Kibera. As a slum activity, it made sense: it didn’t require much equipment or much space, and was fairly easy to learn. So CFK started the CFK Sprinters program, which was an instant success.

We were a little early for practice, so David took me on a quick detour around Gatwakera. He greeted friends and relatives along the way, exchanging firm handshakes and warm smiles. Soon we reached a little fruit stand where a middle-aged woman with a kanga draped over her shoulders was selling mangos and bananas. David introduced the woman as his mother. She welcomed me to Kibera, and invited me to come visit their home, motioning towards a little gate to her right. David led me through the gate and into a small courtyard, then beneath a small doorway. “Welcome to my home,” he said with a smile.

The home had a higher ceiling than I was accustomed to seeing in Kibera, but was otherwise a pretty standard slum dwelling: about ten by ten feet, made out of mud and corrugated iron, with large pieces of lace and other fabrics draped around to cover up the walls beneath. I met his little sister, who had just arrived home from school. I also met some other inhabitants of the home: David’s chickens, which lived in a coop right outside of the front door. He explained to me that he raises rabbits and chickens as a small business, selling them to local people in the community. “The pigeons I just keep for fun,” he said.

Soon it was time to head over the Kibera Primary School for practice. We swam upstream through the school’s mass exodus of students, all dressed in forest-green uniforms and heading home for the day. The sounds of soccer balls being kicked around and coaches yelling in Swahili floated over towards us. As we rounded the corner, a dusty school field emerged, with dozens of young men running drills and maneuvering soccer balls around orange pylons. On the other side of the field, a group of younger kids were grabbing jump ropes, getting ready to start their own training session. Feeling more comfortable with my ability to jump rope than to kick a ball with accuracy, I headed over to join the skippers.

It quickly became clear that either the children of Kibera are incredibly fit or I am just ridiculously unfit – or maybe it was a combination of both. As the practice began, I found I could barely jump for thirty seconds without my heartbeat ringing in my ears. Meanwhile, most of the kids performed the various tricks with ease, jumping from side to side, alternating legs, skipping backwards, and crossing their arms while barely breaking a sweat. While it was a little embarrassing to be out-jumped by nine year olds, the practice was a ton of fun and I was happy to see firsthand what the sports program does for the community.

This after-school practice was just another example of how the people of Kibera will jump (literally) at any opportunity that is given to them. By providing children with a physical outlet, the sports program has kept many young people from joining gangs or engaging in other counter-productive activities. It has also instilled a sense of hope and ambition in the children, showing them that if they work hard, opportunities will open up for them. Some of the CFK soccer players have gone on to play at the national level, and the jump rope team has competed in and won several competitions in far-flung places like Florida and Brazil. This goes against the conventional idea of slums as sad, depressing places with a pitiable population. To quote a wonderful article in the Economist: “Slums are far from hopeless places…but rather reservoirs of tomorrow’s winners.” And the kids I met at Kibera Primary, along with David with his chickens, are definitely tomorrow’s winners.

“You white people, do you have these problems in your country?”

A 23-year old woman was lying down on the examination table, legs splayed with a pillow propped under her bottom to help with visualization. Adah, one of the Tabitha Clinic nurses and my teacher for the day, was sitting on a chair between the woman’s legs, a Black Diamond headlamp mounted on her head as she examined the patient’s cervix.

This woman was asking about cervical cancer, for which she was presently being treated. Cervical cancer is a large problem in developing countries that unfortunately doesn’t get much attention, due to the public’s general aversion to talking about lady bits. It is the third most common female cancer in the world, with over 90% of cases reported in developing nations. Kenya has an alarmingly high incidence rate of 22% in females age 15-40, but many cases go undiagnosed, or aren’t discovered until the cancer has metastasized.

“Oh yeah, we’re at risk for cervical cancer, too,” I said, explaining the Canadian government’s HPV vaccination program and the controversy surrounding it. “All bodies are the same on the inside, they can all get sick with the same things.”

Adah nodded in agreement, the light on her headlamp momentarily bouncing around the room. “It’s only the colour that’s different.”

The cervical cancer screening process is astonishingly simple and low-tech, taking only a few minutes for the women to receive their results. First, a cotton swab covered in acetic acid (yes, just your typical grocery store variety vinegar) is wiped on the cervix, which makes abnormalities turn white. Then, iodine delineates the borders of the lesion, making it stand out in yellow against the otherwise brown solution. The clinician can then say with certainty whether pre-cancerous lesions are present, giving the results in less than 10 minutes.

If there are no signs of lesions, the woman is instructed to come back in three to five years for another screening – unless, as I found out later, you are HIV-positive. Women infected with the HIV virus are immunocompromised, and as a result have a reduced capacity to fight off an HPV infection. Cancer can develop rapidly in these women, necessitating more frequent screening.

If the hallmarks of cervical cancer are found, the woman undergoes cryotherapy. In this procedure, an extremely cold, highly pressurized gas is applied to the lesion, effectively freezing all the abnormal cells to death and leaving a mark on the otherwise pink cervix that looks like a large cigarette burn. Within six months, this mark is completely gone, and the cervix is as good as new.

Of the ten women who came in for screening that morning, more than half of them showed precancerous lesions. Others had some other sort of infection, including a particularly brutal yeast infection that covered the entire cervix in a white goop. Despite this being a relatively small sample size, I was astonished at the prevalence of cervical cancer in the Kibera community. It just wasn’t an issue that I had thought much about before coming to Kenya. HIV and malaria, yes. Cancer, not so much.

This goes to show that when thinking about health issues in the developing world, cancer and similar chronic illnesses are often neglected. Infectious diseases, most recently ebola, often take centre stage in the media, dominating the western world’s view of health in developing nations. However, there are many chronic illnesses lying beneath the surface, some of which can be equally deadly. Cervical cancer is one of the most treatable cancers in existence, but due to a lack of services and education, many women often do not receive the help that they need, and even when they do it is often too late. It is important to recognize that cancer and similar illnesses are not unique to the developed world – after all, bodies are all the same on the inside.

“You white people, do you have these problems in your country?”

A 23-year old woman was lying down on the examination table, legs splayed with a pillow propped under her bottom to help with visualization. Adah, one of the Tabitha Clinic nurses and my teacher for the day, was sitting on a chair between the woman’s legs, a Black Diamond headlamp mounted on her head as she examined the patient’s cervix.

This woman was asking about cervical cancer, for which she was presently being treated. Cervical cancer is a large problem in developing countries that unfortunately doesn’t get much attention, due to the public’s general aversion to talking about lady bits. It is the third most common female cancer in the world, with over 90% of cases reported in developing nations. Kenya has an alarmingly high incidence rate of 22% in females age 15-40, but many cases go undiagnosed, or aren’t discovered until the cancer has metastasized.

“Oh yeah, we’re at risk for cervical cancer, too,” I said, explaining the Canadian government’s HPV vaccination program and the controversy surrounding it. “All bodies are the same on the inside, they can all get sick with the same things.”

Adah nodded in agreement, the light on her headlamp momentarily bouncing around the room. “It’s only the colour that’s different.”

The cervical cancer screening process is astonishingly simple and low-tech, taking only a few minutes for the women to receive their results. First, a cotton swab covered in acetic acid (yes, just your typical grocery store variety vinegar) is wiped on the cervix, which makes abnormalities turn white. Then, iodine delineates the borders of the lesion, making it stand out in yellow against the otherwise brown solution. The clinician can then say with certainty whether pre-cancerous lesions are present, giving the results in less than 10 minutes.

If there are no signs of lesions, the woman is instructed to come back in three to five years for another screening – unless, as I found out later, you are HIV-positive. Women infected with the HIV virus are immunocompromised, and as a result have a reduced capacity to fight off an HPV infection. Cancer can develop rapidly in these women, necessitating more frequent screening.

If the hallmarks of cervical cancer are found, the woman undergoes cryotherapy. In this procedure, an extremely cold, highly pressurized gas is applied to the lesion, effectively freezing all the abnormal cells to death and leaving a mark on the otherwise pink cervix that looks like a large cigarette burn. Within six months, this mark is completely gone, and the cervix is as good as new.

Of the ten women who came in for screening that morning, more than half of them showed precancerous lesions. Others had some other sort of infection, including a particularly brutal yeast infection that covered the entire cervix in a white goop. Despite this being a relatively small sample size, I was astonished at the prevalence of cervical cancer in the Kibera community. It just wasn’t an issue that I had thought much about before coming to Kenya. HIV and malaria, yes. Cancer, not so much.

This goes to show that when thinking about health issues in the developing world, cancer and similar chronic illnesses are often neglected. Infectious diseases, most recently ebola, often take centre stage in the media, dominating the western world’s view of health in developing nations. However, there are many chronic illnesses lying beneath the surface, some of which can be equally deadly. Cervical cancer is one of the most treatable cancers in existence, but due to a lack of services and education, many women often do not receive the help that they need, and even when they do it is often too late. It is important to recognize that cancer and similar illnesses are not unique to the developed world – after all, bodies are all the same on the inside.

The midday sun was sweltering as Cathrine and I neared the end of our hour-long journey – we had walked from the Carolina for Kibera office to Lindi, one of the more distant villages of Kibera.  Lindi looked like most of the other villages I had visited, save for the impressive paved road that was being upgraded by the Kenyan government. Up ahead, a slim, short woman appeared, her wavy black hair pulled back into a ponytail and a white smock covering her front. This was Joyce, a twenty-something hairdresser, a Lindi resident, and the reason for our visit today.

Joyce is the cervical cancer champion of Lindi. Over a year ago, she went for screening at the Tabitha Clinic and discovered that she had precancerous lesions on her cervix. Luckily, they were caught early, and she received treatment that greatly reduced her risk of cancer. However, she became concerned about how many other women might have these lesions without even knowing it, and began passionately advocating cervical cancer screening to her salon’s clients. Each week, she leads a group of women across Kibera to the clinic, spearheading the reduction in cancer prevalence in her village.

We had come to Joyce’s salon to try and convince her to become a Community Health Worker (CHW) with CFK. The organization is currently working on an expansion, which will allow the current programs to reach several other villages in Kibera, including Lindi. For this expansion to proceed, passionate and respected community members must be recruited to be a part of the process. Joyce, with her concern for the health of fellow women in her community, would make the perfect choice. For a little over an hour, Cathrine discusses the role with Joyce, making sure to answer all of her questions and allay any of her concerns. They also discuss a myriad of other topics, including various new hairstyles and Joyce’s children. Joyce even ends up doing Cathrine’s nails for an upcoming wedding.

This slow-and-steady approach to business was one of the things that I found most frustrating when I first arrived in Kenya. I am so used to having every moment of the day scheduled, and to trying to maximize the efficiency of every meeting. This, however, is just not how things work in East Africa. Time is less of an issue here, and often takes a backseat to interpersonal connections. Extra care is spent ensuring that a rapport is built, that the other person understands what is being asked of them, and that all of their concerns are addressed. Building a relationship is the most important part of any business transaction, and if you end up being a little late to your next commitment in the process, so be it.

Right before we left the salon, Joyce had agreed to become a Community Health Worker. She walked us out of her tiny workplace into the bright sun, and gave us both a warm handshake before we headed out. As we began the long stroll, I contemplated whether the same outcome would have been achieved had the conversation taken place over the phone. Somehow, I doubted it. It had taken some effort, but I was starting to understand the Kenyans’ way of doing things.

The midday sun was sweltering as Cathrine and I neared the end of our hour-long journey – we had walked from the Carolina for Kibera office to Lindi, one of the more distant villages of Kibera.  Lindi looked like most of the other villages I had visited, save for the impressive paved road that was being upgraded by the Kenyan government. Up ahead, a slim, short woman appeared, her wavy black hair pulled back into a ponytail and a white smock covering her front. This was Joyce, a twenty-something hairdresser, a Lindi resident, and the reason for our visit today.

Joyce is the cervical cancer champion of Lindi. Over a year ago, she went for screening at the Tabitha Clinic and discovered that she had precancerous lesions on her cervix. Luckily, they were caught early, and she received treatment that greatly reduced her risk of cancer. However, she became concerned about how many other women might have these lesions without even knowing it, and began passionately advocating cervical cancer screening to her salon’s clients. Each week, she leads a group of women across Kibera to the clinic, spearheading the reduction in cancer prevalence in her village.

We had come to Joyce’s salon to try and convince her to become a Community Health Worker (CHW) with CFK. The organization is currently working on an expansion, which will allow the current programs to reach several other villages in Kibera, including Lindi. For this expansion to proceed, passionate and respected community members must be recruited to be a part of the process. Joyce, with her concern for the health of fellow women in her community, would make the perfect choice. For a little over an hour, Cathrine discusses the role with Joyce, making sure to answer all of her questions and allay any of her concerns. They also discuss a myriad of other topics, including various new hairstyles and Joyce’s children. Joyce even ends up doing Cathrine’s nails for an upcoming wedding.

This slow-and-steady approach to business was one of the things that I found most frustrating when I first arrived in Kenya. I am so used to having every moment of the day scheduled, and to trying to maximize the efficiency of every meeting. This, however, is just not how things work in East Africa. Time is less of an issue here, and often takes a backseat to interpersonal connections. Extra care is spent ensuring that a rapport is built, that the other person understands what is being asked of them, and that all of their concerns are addressed. Building a relationship is the most important part of any business transaction, and if you end up being a little late to your next commitment in the process, so be it.

Right before we left the salon, Joyce had agreed to become a Community Health Worker. She walked us out of her tiny workplace into the bright sun, and gave us both a warm handshake before we headed out. As we began the long stroll, I contemplated whether the same outcome would have been achieved had the conversation taken place over the phone. Somehow, I doubted it. It had taken some effort, but I was starting to understand the Kenyans’ way of doing things.