Parachute at Ndohivyon Special Needs School

Abled. I’m thinking about that word and the way it is used in Kenya. We so often hear it with the “dis” in front of it. Rarely do we hear that we have been “abled” to do something. Sometimes we hear enabled, but not abled.

But I love the word. We captured the idea of the word when we chose the tagline of Kenya Keys to be Unlocking Potential. In our logo, the key that sprouts a tree symbolizes how a mind can be unlocked and flourish into something large and beautiful; an expansion that never would have occurred without the key; the “abling”.

We get to watch this happen every time a sponsor gets matched with a student from our rural service area. The match, (excuse the pun) the catalyst. Through a sponsorship, an interested someone, or group of someones, reaches out to touch the life of a student in Kenya. But they don’t “touch” that student’s life, they change it entirely. They unlock a brain, a bright brain, behind which sits tremendous determination and desire. The magic unfolds. The opportunity. The fire. Wonder and curiosity spring forth, meeting knowledge, which is just waiting to be captured.

There is nothing that I love more than to watch this unfolding, this “abling”. Kenya Keys sponsors a student for 4-8 years. You get to witness a chunk of the child’s life, to watch them grow and change - especially considering that often we follow them well beyond 8 years, as they stay connected to Kenya Keys as mentors and members of the Alumni Association.

But what I’m talking about today is how a supposedly “disabled” person shared with me the joy, and challenge, of “abling” another.

Here’s how the story goes: back in 2006, we weren’t yet Kenya Keys. But we were able to help a young man who had been left stranded, educationally, by someone who had promised him a sponsorship. They paid for one year. They paid the second year as well, but the organization managing the sponsorship kept the money and told the young man, Kalimbo Mkala, that it had never arrived. He’d been frustrated for many months trying to get to the bottom of it and get back to school. He was a college student, fulfilling his dream of becoming a CPA. Not an accounts clerk, as most dreamed of; he wanted to go to the top. Become a CPA. At that point, after months of seeking help, he would have been happy for being an accountant. ANYTHING to be able to get back to school!

Once he heard of Kenya Keys and the integrity of director Joseph Mwengea, he was knocking down the door at every chance. “Money for my sponsorship has disappeared. Can you please help!?”

One of our early sponsors, Robyn Kimball, had been to Kenya and heard his plea. She said she had met Kalimbo and had been so moved by his determination she would be willing to sponsor him all the way through to become a CPA!

I haven’t yet mentioned that besides his determination, there is something else unusual about Kalimbo. He is a little person. I don’t mean that to sound diminutive. Until I met him, I didn’t know that there was such a classification of people. They call themselves little people. There are National Associations of Little People. They have conferences in many countries. Kalimbo tells me that in Kenya they have changed the name to the Association of Short Stature People.

Kalimbo himself is 4’7”. He told me his association came up with a term to distinguish them from dwarfs and midgets. Like dwarfs and midgets, they are often the subject of derision and mocking. The only thing unusual about little people is that they are short. Really short. And in Kalimbo’s case, his voice is of a distinctive high pitch. In that little person, is a huge heart.

He had come to meet us to share a triumph, and yes, to ask for help (which was not a surprise).

He comes from the town of Samburu, where a special needs school was started by a rare and amazing man, Raphael Galuka. Kenya Keys has been closely associated with this school since its inception. On this 2022 visit, we’d been surprised to see that there were 94 students attending, rather than around 70, which has been the case for many years. A strong outreach program had brought in more students. Kalimbo was touched by this outreach, which involved becoming informed, through word of mouth, about special needs children who were suffering in the darkness of mud huts, where parents had often deemed them useless and even shameful.

Kalimbo had done some outreach on his own and discovered a beautiful little girl, Patience Mupa Ruwa, 10 years old, who had hardly ever left her dark home. She had been ignored and left to move around the hut as best she could, without functioning legs. “Her situation was terrible,” said Kalimbo. “Just terrible.” On interacting with her, he discovered that despite her circumstances, her mind was sharp. This discovery defined his mission: he’d get her out of the hut and into school, where she would be a resident. Her parents grateful agreed.

Kalimbo knew this would take the money he didn’t have. Patience would need a special wheelchair, clothes, and money to pay fees to get her started. He also came to find that she would need some special accommodations made for the latrine at the school, so it would be usable with her unique needs. Refusing to be overwhelmed, he got on the internet and reached out to other little people. He loved finding them and exciting them about uniting to help this young girl.

What do you know? They were able to raise 14,000 Kenya shillings ($140) to have a custom wheelchair made for her. They also raised the money for the latrine and fees. He told me this so proudly. “I wanted my friends to see that those of us who are disabled, have abled her.”

I loved that. I loved seeing the light in his eyes, as he talked about her and how she had thrived at school. We’d recently been to the school to see her, so we knew it was true. Behind her small mask, her eyes shone. My teammates, Heather and Maureen, mentioned how happy she seemed. And though she couldn’t speak any English, they said she very much followed their attempts to communicate, and her delight was obvious when they pulled out the huge, rainbow-colored parachute to entertain the kids.

“But Mama Rinda,” said Kalimbo, his face clouded. “I now have a problem. I wonder if you can help.” What was the problem? Word had gotten out that he and the little people were rescuing children like Patience. His inbox was full of shocking photos of similar cases and desperate pleas. He hadn’t expected the satisfaction of helping Patience could turn into an onslaught that left him feeling overwhelmed, inept, and helpless.

We talked. I told him that Kenya Keys couldn’t help; that we had to keep our mission very focused. I steered him back to talking about Patience and we discussed a lesson that has come to me through many years and much soul searching; we must set boundaries if we are going to do anything well. And we must be grateful for and focus on what we CAN do, not ache and feel angry about what we CAN’T do. If we don’t learn that lesson, this journey of loving and caring will surely eat us alive.

“Look at what you and your friends have abled, Kalimbo,” I said. “Just like Kenya Keys abled you. You light a candle and watch that candle light other candles. Refuse to let the darkness in. Just hold the light near and dear.”

He smiled. We hugged. Often all we can do is listen.

He left to catch the motorcycle taxi that would take him home.

Love to you, dear Kalimbo. There is nothing little about you.

Abled

From Frayed Sleeves to Sequins

I Am Busy Being Astonished