“Run! Run as fast as you can!”
Didas’ family lived in North Kivu province in the Democratic Republic of Congo. He and his three siblings enjoyed a happy childhood with parents who worked hard to ensure a comfortable life for them. They owned huge tracts of fertile land growing all kinds of food crops as well as raising cattle. Meat was a staple diet for the Banyamulenge, which is the community he belongs to, so many families owned huge herds. In 1994, when he was six years old, his life changed forever.
When the genocide broke out in neighbouring Rwanda in 1994, the Banyamulenge, who are ethnic Tutsis, also became targets of armed militias. In North Kivu, we were viewed as outsiders who took opportunities away from the indigenous communities and therefore had to be eliminated. So in that same year, the Mai-Mai militia attacked our villages, killing many and forcing survivors to flee before taking over their lands.
We had no prior warning on the day we were attacked. My father, cousins, aunts, and grandparents were killed. I remember the screams, the fear written on my mother’s face. “Run! Run as fast as you can!” She shouted to us. I didn’t know where to run to. There was a huge crowd of people fleeing for their lives and I was swept away by it. I became separated from my mother and siblings, never to see them again.
All around me I could hear children crying. I tried to fight back my own tears, but it was no use. I was afraid of what would happen to me. Who would look out for me? Were the Mai-Mai going to come after us? The adults hardly spoke as we ran. It seemed they were consumed by worry. From Bunagana, we made our way to Kampala, then Jinja. We made camp wherever we could, staying a few days in an area doing manual jobs for the locals in exchange for food or money. By this time, I had connected with a few young people from my village, and we stuck with each other. We talked about seeking asylum in Kenya even though we didn’t know what the process entailed. Many of the Ugandans we encountered were sympathetic towards us having seen a constant stream of Congolese refugees passing through their towns over the years and offered us food and water. We were, however, easy targets for thugs who robbed us frequently or worse, raped the women.
A month after we had fled our home, our large group arrived at the Kenyan border in Busia. We immediately announced where we were from and our intention to seek asylum in Kenya. It was as if the Kenyans had been expecting us because we were registered immediately then informed that we would be transferred to Nairobi. By the third day, the anxiety was palpable. We were still holed up in Busia and there was no clear indication of when we would be transferred to Nairobi. I joined a group of boys who banded together and decided secretly to head for Nairobi on our own. It was a grueling journey that took three weeks. By the time we arrived, our legs were swollen. Because a group of seven young boys was likely to draw a lot of unwanted attention, we split up and went our separate ways. We were swallowed up by the city. I would never see those boys again.
I walked around aimlessly with no real plans or idea of what I’d do next. At some point, I found myself in Gikomba, one of the largest open-air markets in the city. There was a group of young boys huddled up together who looked like they were the same age as me so I sidled up to join them. When they noticed me, they asked who I was and what I wanted. I didn’t answer, I didn’t understand Kiswahili and regardless, I couldn’t tell them. The next minute they were on top of me, I covered by head to protect myself from the kicks and punches. They left me lying on the ground, moaning from the pain. I stood and limped off to the sidewalk.
The beatings went on for a few more days as I tried to join them again and again. Something in me told me that my ticket to survival was with these boys. Finally, they accepted me. When I learned that they robbed people, especially women who couldn’t fight back, or begged for food that was being discarded from restaurants, it was hard to accept that this was going to be my life too; a far cry from where I had come from. At night we slept by the Nairobi River under plastic sheeting. It was cold and there was always the risk of being rounded up by the police or being attacked by older boys.
I lived on the streets for about eleven years, surviving on begging, stealing, or selling waste plastic bottles to recyclers. I would see children my age going back and forth from school, which saddened me, because I felt trapped in my situation. I thought about my siblings from time and time, wondering if they were doing better or worse than me.
One day, a stranger came up to me and offered me a different life. I don’t know what he saw in me, there were many boys and young men like me in a similar situation and he could have approached any of them. He told me he had a farm in Nyeri where I could work as his caretaker. The idea of working on a farm brought back memories of my years on my family farm. I didn’t hesitate, even though I didn’t know where Nyeri was or whether this man’s intentions were good. When I got to Nyeri, it was like he said. There were animals to feed, water, and generally look after. He didn’t pay me but provided room, board, and everything else that I needed. It was more than I had had in a long time. I would never again return to the streets if I could help it. I lived on the farm for two years then moved in with another family doing the same kind of work of tending to the farm or animals.
After three years, I was able to secure a paying job earning $30 a month. I moved back to Nairobi in 2010 with the idea of starting a business. Before I could go into business, I needed to sort out my legal status. I went to the Refugee Affairs Secretariat office in Shauri Moyo, was interviewed then issued with a temporary document to allow for transfer to Kakuma refugee camp in Turkana. I had no intention of going to Kakuma. I had heard enough stories about the place to know that life was difficult there. Despite the hardship I had been through living in the streets, I was going to take my chances in Nairobi. For better or for worse, it had become my home. After my temporary documents expired, I knew I would get in trouble with the police if I was arrested, so I went the police station and reported that I had lost my documents. I now show the police report when I’m asked for identification.
With $60 from my savings, I started a powdered detergent distribution business. It was a modest enterprise bringing in $35 in profits per month, but I was happy. A year into the business, I had saved up $400. I didn’t have official identification documents a bank of M-PESA account were not options. Instead, I kept the money in the house, that way, it would be safe from robbers or the police.
One day, when I came home from the market, my roommate was not there. The radio and mattress we shared were also missing. My gut told me that something was wrong. I quickly went to check the place where I hid my money, and it was all gone too. I knew then that he had taken it because he was the only person who knew where my hiding place was. I was devastated. During the year that we had lived together, he gave no indication that he was untrustworthy. He was like a beloved brother to me. His disappearance brought on a new challenge as well. Without his contribution, I now was now solely responsible for the rent, and there was a great danger that I would end up on the streets again. I had to act fast. I went to the wholesale shop where I bought the detergent and asked for a credit facility to allow me to procure the soap and pay later. I got stock worth $15 and made a down payment of $10 with the balance to be paid once I had sold my stock. In the meantime, I slept on the floor in my apartment, and it was a month before I was able to buy a mattress for $25. As soon as I was able to, I stopped selling detergents and switched to hawking shoes in Nairobi’s streets. The returns were better with monthly profits of about $50. After six months of this, I switched to selling mobile phone accessories which brought me $70 a month.
Soon, a lot more people were selling mobile phone accessories and my profit margins began to shrink. I continued working and saving money even as I started looking for something else. I talked to a few people within the refugee community, asking if anyone knew about any opportunities and in a few weeks, I received a call about a job opening in a bakery. The job was in Mombasa and the business was ran by a Congolese man who had arrived in Kenya as a refugee years before I did. I was assured that no prior experience was necessary, and I would learn everything on the job, so I moved to Mombasa. My days would start very early in the morning and go into the late afternoon, but I enjoyed my work. I earned $70 a month, gaining a lot of experience along the way. After a year of working and saving money, I felt ready to try my hand at running my own bakery. I was confident that I had the right skills and motivation to succeed but unfortunately that was not enough. I didn’t have the right packaging for my products and the customers didn’t come. I ran out of money and closed the business. Though I was disappointed in the outcome, I took it in stride. I had no regrets about getting into the business. I knew there would be challenges, but the experience gained was invaluable. A few months into my unemployment, a friend of mine who knew that I was looking for a job connected me with another bakery that was looking for someone to train their workers. With my past experience, I was a perfect fit so I took on the job, earning $4 per day to train employees on all aspects of baking. This was in June of 2016. Six months later, in January 2017, I moved to another bakery earning $5 per day.
I was in Nairobi for a friend’s wedding in June 2017 when I met a lovely lady who was also a refugee from Congo. I got to talking to her and learned that we came from the same area in North Kivu. After the wedding, we kept in touch and our friendship developed into a relationship. In 2020, we decided to move in together. We didn’t have enough money for a wedding ceremony and with no family members, we had a small ceremony with a handful of friends. I wish I could have asked my wife’s father for his blessing as is tradition; I wish my father and uncles could have escorted me to her house as went to pay dowry; I wish my mother and aunties would have been there to ululate as we exchanged our vows.
We live in Mombasa and like me, my wife’s legal documents have also expired. We are waiting for the government to lift the movement restrictions put in place to contain the COVID-19 pandemic so we can travel to Nairobi to renew our documents. Once that happens, we plan to apply for resettlement in Australia.
My life is a lot better now. With my work, I’m able to pay rent, buy food and take care of my wife. My experiences, though deeply traumatizing, helped me develop a fearless spirit at an early age. I still think about my family; It’s hard not to. If my mother and siblings are alive, I pray that they are thriving. I hope they are not in a refugee camp. Thankfully, with my wife by my side, I’m no longer alone.