The Blue Sweater: Bridging the Gap Between Rich and Poor in an Interconnected World

by Jacqueline Novogratz

  One morning I walked past the corpse of a man who'd been "necklaced" the night before. Thugs had thrown a tire filled with gasoline around his neck and set it on fire. A group of men stood around the charred body, which smelled indescribably profane. When the body was removed, its image still remained scorched into the ground itself.

  A few nights after the necklacing incident, I began writing our report for the Department of Local Government and UNICEF. A few nights later, I took a night off to go to the local cinema to see Cry Freedom, about the life of South African freedom fighter Stephen Biko, who understood that freedom is not just about political liberty, but also about economic independence and the power of choice. The women in the slums were operating under dependency, not freedom. If the donor community couldn't help these women liberate themselves, they needed to get out of their way.

  ONE AFTERNOON, I REMAINED too late in Mathare Valley, one of Nairobi's most desperate slums, talking to a women's group until the darkening sky reminded me to leave. I crawled into my Volkswagen and sat for a minute, watching the slum dwellers run back and forth, setting up tables of dates and sweets and pitchers of water. It was the season of Ramadan. The neighborhood was coming to life again after the long, hot day as the Muslims got ready to break the fast and spend time with family. I was transfixed by the women's black veils flying, the children running, and a big purple cloud floating in the sky above. Day turns to night in an instant in Nairobi, especially when the rains come in one fell swoop.

  With no warning, sheets of water began to fall, sending the women scurrying to their homes. As my car sank into the sludge, the wheels kept spinning but gained no traction. Tiny houses made of cardboard, mud, and coffee cans, with roofs of corrugated tin and plastic, seemed on the verge of floating away. Two girls wearing hihois-brightly colored cotton wraps serving as skirts-laughed as they carried huge woven baskets on their heads. The rain poured and poured, soaking the earth, turning dirt roads into rivers, and making it impossible to drive. Knowing it would be a dark, lonely return up the hill into town once the road was dry, I wanted to cry.

  Suddenly there was a tapping on my window. I ignored it.

  Tap tap tap again.

  Standing outside was a slight, crooked woman with raisin eyes and a walnut face. She seemed to pay no mind to the storm swirling around her and motioned to me to come near, apparently offering the shelter of her little hut. I lowered my window, and though this was one of the most dangerous slums in the country, a place where I clearly didn't belong, there was something about her expression that made me trust her immediately.

  `Jambo," I sighed. "Hello. How are you?"

  "Nzuri sana," she answered in a scratchy voice. "Habari gani?" Very well, how are you?"

  "I'm fine," I lied, irritated that we were exchanging pleasantries in the downpour.

  She looked at me quizzically, then let a moment of silence hang as if she were contemplating my worth. Then that gravelly voice snapped, "Kuja." Come.

  Without another thought, I took her small, leathery hand and followed.

  Awkwardly, we skipped across a muddy path toward a metal door. Opening it slowly, the old woman motioned me inside to a dark, chaotic room measuring perhaps 8 feet by 9, where 10 or so women were dancing to the beat of a single goatskin-covered drum played by a wizened old man seated in a corner. His skinny legs were crossed, his eyes half-closed. He appeared to be in a trance, lost in a world ruled by the primordial beat of the drum. I could feel the beat in my stomach and heart, so much so that I couldn't help swaying, moving slowly to the rhythm, feeling like I'd fallen into an alternative version of Alice's Wonderland.

  Around me, the women glowed with unbridled, exuberant life. White teeth flashed joyful smiles. Muscular brown legs shook and glistened with sweat. Brightly colored cloths in turquoise, fuchsia, orange, and lime shimmied around thick waists. Bare feet pounded the dirt floor, dancing wildly.

  The women danced in pairs, each one facing another, bent at the waist and touching only at the cheeks. They shook their shoulders and hips in a frenzied motion, ululating all the time. I joined the dancing, attaching myself first to one woman's cheek and then another, shaking, laughing, losing myself in the darkness, the noise, the heat. My face, wet with sweat and pressed against my counterpart's cheek, was the only part of myself held in relative stillness. The rest of my body felt electrified, hyperstimulated by the constant beat of the percussion, the staccato pounding of the rain on the tin roof, the eruption of passion permeating the air.

  A lithe young woman flew out of the hut into the rain without a word and returned wearing a necklace of tin bottle caps that rattled like a snake when she shook. Shshshsh tshsh tshsh tsh tsh tsh shshshsh tshsh tshsh- shs. The necklace swished as the drum pounded. Sweating, breathing, undulating, shaking, shimmering, dancing in the darkness and heat. For a moment, all the frustration and rage inside me disappeared.

  "Woo hooo," I yelped, and the women laughed and laughed.

  This was the secret: Dance with the women, scream with joy, let sexuality be defined on your own terms without even touching one another. Be gorgeous, free, ecstatic. It was one of the most extraordinary moments of my life.

  The fury inside the hut continued for perhaps another half hour, maybe more. But just as quickly as the room had exploded into motion, it fell completely quiet. The sky had turned dark blue. Steam from the mud floor swirled gently. I realized I'd not yet said a word. I felt a profound shyness overtake me and awkwardly introduced myself in Swahili, shaking each woman's hand, thanking them for the dance.

  Walking out of the hut into the night felt like leaving a New York City bar in the middle of the afternoon. The evening was soft but accusing; the narrow paths and roadways, empty. I climbed back into my little car and sat for a moment. My body and my big white skirt were drenched as thoroughly as if I'd been walking in the rain. I yelped one final time in homage to these women who had found respite, a moment of relief. With that, my car jumped to life, and I flew up the hills and into town.

  The next morning, I approached my friend Monika, an expert in all things Kenyan, to relate the previous night's adventure. I needed a reality check. Hesitating and stammering, I finally told her about the experience.

  Laughing, she explained that I must have come across a group of women from the Kamba tribe, for they are known for their great love of percussion and dancing. "Kamba women learn from a young age to dance and not to fear being sensual," she said. "And you can see it when they move. Oh, how lucky you were!" she laughed.

  For the next several weeks, I spent most days and nights completing my report, to be submitted to both the government and UNICEF. I focused on the good intentions as well as the few successes and tried to state unambigously that the programs cost much more than they benefited people, but without alienating government officials to the point where they would disregard the report altogether. As Mary Koinange and I drove to the Department of Local Government to make our final presentation, I felt a great sense of anxiety. We arrived at the drab public sector building and went inside.

  The deputy minister was waiting for us in his large office. He was beady-eyed and overweight and wore a black tie with white polka dots. Brown wingtips graced his feet, and on his pinkie, he wore a big gold ring. There were no papers on his desk and no phone, either, just a placard reading "Deputy Minister." We had sent him our report a week in advance, and I was surprised and pleased to find that he'd actually read it, even if he made it clear he hadn't liked the contents.

  "The report is too pessimistic," he grumbled in a baritone voice. "Obviously, you didn't speak to the right people. I have seen miracles occur with those same women's groups." He ushered us out, passing us on to another official in a big, baggy suit, who drummed his fingers on his paper-cluttered desk in a dingy office. After a nearly identical conversation, we were shown to yet another tired official in another shabby office.

  This one was lean and nervous and sat squeamishly in a wooden chair that seemed
too large for him. "Yes, yes," he said finally, "lots of improvement needed, lots of work to do. But who will do it? Now you have told us what we are doing wrong; what will you do to make it right?"

  I said I didn't think it was just up to us to make things right: The government had to decide that it wanted to see things done differently, as well.

  I suggested that the aid money go directly to an NGO with the government's consent and that the NGO be held to strict accounting principles and regular reviews with a robust set of checks and balances.

  "Yes, yes," he agreed, "checks and balances are very good. But government is the one who is accountable."

  "To whom?" I asked. In fact, who was accountable anywhere in the system? If the donors had really examined those women's projects after a year, they would have seen how few successes there had been and might have already made the needed course corrections. They certainly could not have justified pouring millions more into the projects. It was too easy to be blindsided by the singing and smiles and the women's happy testimonials of the women.

  If the women had been given the chance to borrow for a project they believed would generate income, they would have focused more seriously on the work. A market mechanism would have provided a better feedback loop for both women and donors. Instead, the system festered under low expectations and mediocre results.

  The next week, I returned to Kigali, more sure of and humbled by the strength of individual women, more interested in market mechanisms, and certain that I'd become more savvy. But I was unprepared for my next adventure-being fleeced by a guy named Innocent.

  CHAPTER 7

  TRAVELING WITHOUT A

  ROAD MAP

  You see, I want a lot / Perhaps I want everything: / the darkness that comes with every infinite fall and the shivering blaze of every step up.

  -RAINER MARIA RILKE

  ack in Kigali, I rented a two-bedroom house in Kiyovu, the city's most fashionable neighborhood, right behind one of its few skyscrapers, the National Bank of Rwanda, a tall, cream-colored edifice at the edge of a leafy residential block. Simply and starkly furnished, the house had concrete floors, a basic kitchen, a small living room, and two bathrooms. A pretty backyard garden filled with orange lilies, pink and purple cosmos, and yellow angels' trumpets made it feel like a castle to me.

  After nearly 2 years of working in Rwanda, I'd finally found a rhythm, valuable friendships, and a sense of belonging. After a morning run, I would eat a quick breakfast of sliced mango and sweet little bananas, then either walk down the dirt road to UNICEF for meetings or wait for Boniface to pick me up and take me to Duterimbere or the bakery. I almost always worked late and would often have dinner with friends, usually at someone's home, or spend the night reading or writing letters.

  Sometimes I'd go to a local restaurant, where you had to be prepared for a meal of tilapia, a white fish from Lake Kivu, regardless of what was on the menu. It always played out the same way: When we'd ask a waiter what was available, inevitably he'd say, "So many things. Tell me what you want."

  And we would say, "Are you sure?"

  And the waiter would nod.

  Against all rationality, we'd ask for something like roast chicken or a club sandwich, and the waiter would tell us he was sorry, they were all out. Finally we'd give up and order grilled tilapia with rice. And the waiter would break into a wide grin for making us so happy.

  In truth, tilapia is delicious, but too much of anything can be, well, too much.

  After a while, other things in Rwanda also began to feel like too much. One day in the market, Boniface pointed to a middle-aged woman wearing a yellow dress and told me she was a spy. I nearly burst out laughing, but acknowledged to myself that we all talked in hushed voices about politics, even in our own homes. I just hadn't connected that habit to the fact that Rwanda had a sophisticated network of spies keeping tabs on people. Order and control trumped freedom every time.

  "So, is she really a spy? You can swear by it?" I asked.

  "I swear by it," Boniface answered. "I'm sorry it makes you sad, but it is just how life is here."

  I looked at Boniface and thought about trust. Trust-it is such a simple word and so critical to the functioning of any good society. Where was trust in Rwanda? This was a country where there was almost no corruption, and I'd never once been asked for a bribe, but did they really trust one another? I knew the women in the market sold nearly everything on credit, so there was obviously trust within neighborhood circles; but it could easily have been shame or fear that led people to feel secure that eventually they'd be repaid. The lack of trust-and of personal freedomwas beginning to wear on me.

  I didn't expect it to hit me at home, though. The house I'd rented came with a guard whose name was Innocent. A slight man, maybe 5 foot 8, he had a very boyish look-hair trimmed almost to his scalp, buttondown shirts usually hanging over a pair of cotton pants and sandals. He must have been in his late twenties or early thirties, for he already had two school-age children. He was a likable enough person and told me he would also do gardening on weekends. The setup seemed ideal.

  His job was simple: Each night, Innocent would sit by the locked gate in front of the house and ensure that no one but friends entered. Sometimes, coming home late, I would find him fast asleep, sitting on a wooden stool, his head resting against the gate itself, but for the most part, he took his job seriously and showed up on time, giving me a feeling of security.

  Though he'd only worked for me for several months, I gave him a bit of extra money-about $100-to help cover school fees for his children. His monthly wage was only about $60, and I knew how long it would take to save $100. Sometimes I'd invite him to share lunch or dinner with me if I was home.

  One Saturday afternoon, I left innocent working in the garden while I went to play tennis with my friend Charles, who had helped paint the blue bakery. A graduate of Oxford and a diplomat's son, Charles wore tortoiseshell glasses, moved easily between French and English, and had the air of an intellectual. He also played mean games of tennis and squash and was constantly trying to convince me to join him, as there were few willing participants his age. I, on the other hand, was an atrocious player and had no interest in participating, especially not at the local country club.

  The Cercle Sportif boasted not only well-kept tennis courts, but also a beautiful swimming pool and the country's only 17 horses. "I'll teach you," Charles insisted, "and the trainers at the club are fantastic."

  "You know this will be a disaster," I laughed, but I finally agreed to join him for a lesson at least.

  The day was perfect-a bright blue sky with white puffy clouds and neither the bite of heat nor the press of humidity in the air. We jumped into Charles's tan Renault and drove down the hill to the club.

  The trainer was a handsome young Rwandan man who had learned to play tennis by working as a ball boy and then befriending one of the frequent players, who coached him to the point where few could beat him. As Charles ridiculed my feeble attempts at serving, I watched the trainer, impressed by the way he carried himself, his obvious discipline in learning the sport, his talk of starting his own business one day, his overall drive and ambition. I wondered what he would ultimately do with his life. Meanwhile, Charles watched, teasing me for being distracted.

  "Okay, c'mon, one game together, then we'll go," Charles begged. After a so-called game, we decided to celebrate by going to the Mille Collines hotel for a "Four Seasons" pizza and beer, a typical Sunday afternoon activity for expatriates and Rwandan elites.

  The Four Seasons pizza claimed to use four kinds of cheeses. "Charles," I said, "don't you find this rather dubious since there is only one kind of cheese in the marketplace?" It was a white cheese, not creamy, more like a Gouda, only sweeter. I always wondered why we couldn't find even more varieties-after all, Rwanda is famous for its cows.

  "On the other hand," I told Charles, "too much choice is another problem altogether." He just shook his head, smiling.

 
"Wait till you go home and feel overwhelmed at the grocery store," I teased him. "You may miss our limited choices here."

  As we sat in white plastic chairs under yellow umbrellas, watching children splash in the big blue pool after having just played tennis at the private club where we were coached by personal trainers, I reflected on the fact that I couldn't have afforded this lifestyle in my own country. It is said that three kinds of people come to Africa: missionaries, mercenaries, and misfits. Regardless of labels, there was something about being part of a tiny, privileged elite that ultimately wasn't good for anyone.

  After finishing our beers, Charles reminded me that we'd been out for more than 3 hours and risked being late to an evening reception to which we'd both been invited. I gladly accepted his offer to drive me home and wait while I changed. At the house, I left Charles sitting on the standardissue Rwandan couch reading a book while I went to my bedroom.

  It took only a minute to discover that most of my clothes and jewelrypretty much everything I had with me in Kigali at the time-were missing. I called out to Charles and showed him the nearly empty closet-no dresses, no skirts, no running shoes, and no watch.

  "How did this happen?" I asked, my voice trembling.

  "Maybe Innocent decided to wash everything?" Charles suggested. But the bakery had just earned $100 from a bake sale, and I had hidden the money in a box and put it at the back of the closet. That was gone, too. This was an inside job.

  "Let's ask Innocent," I said sadly, appreciating that Charles never gave me a look that said, "I told you so," though I knew he was thinking I'd brought some of this on myself by treating the guard in such a familiar way.