Chips and Soda: Felipe Dizon

In late December, we were finally shutting down the research project. We were dealing with multiple things: ending contracts for many project staff, selling off various project equipment, closing accounting books, and finalizing research databases.

Amidst the chaos of the last week of the project, I decided to visit a nearby village. I was always fascinated about village and saving loans associations (or VSLAs). I wanted to sit with one of the existing groups to get a better understanding of these wildly successful and prolific groups. So, I got on my motorbike and drove to one of our partner villages one last time.

And this last drive to the village was heartbreaking. Kisumu, western Kenya, has been home to me for over a year now. Oh please, be rude and cold to me. Leave in me the standard dose of pessimism; let me have had enough of this place. Make it easy for me to leave.

No. Rather, we talked. We laughed. And laughed. The groups of women we met on this day were—as everyone had always been— extremely kind, entertaining and painfully humbling. And then to make the whole situation more nostalgic, sitting next to me was Malin Olero, one of my most favorite people. 

I met Malin over a year ago. She early on signed up to be one of our partners for this savings project. When I arrived in September 2013, one of the first things I did was to have tea with Malin at the Kisumu hotel. Things were very formal on our first meting. This tall woman walks in the Kisumu hotel coffee shop; her driver walks in with her but sits in another table. She is a politician. Formal greetings. Big words uttered left and right. Census. Sampling. Blah blah. She then invited me to come visit the office of the community-based organization that she had been running, KidiLuanda.

I visited the KidiLuanda office a few days after that first meeting. We had chips and soda—a big bottle of soda, half a liter, of course. And for some reason, we were joking around and laughing the whole time.

Since then, Malin has become a great friend and a mother to me in Kenya. During conversations that happened mainly over several lunches of very large fried tilapias, I built great respect for her. I learned about the work of her organization and her work as a politician. There was also the story of hardship—something like selling small foodstuff as a girl to pay for her own school fees.

Rarely do I meet people who strongly care about the plight of others, and who are equally efficient in making change happen. For her there was no beating around the bush. She makes things happen. And above all, Malin is a genuinely humble person.

Fast forward to more than a year later, to the last week of the project. We had already been joking around a lot about me finally leaving Kenya. I would joke around telling her that she shouldn’t cry when I go (and no, I don’t think she did cry).

And in that last drive to the village, she stuck around when I visited the VSLAs. I was soon rushing back to town because several people were waiting for me in the office, and she scolds me—“No, you have to first come to the KidiLuanda office.” That afternoon, we had chips and soda. And we laughed.

Okay, then. Kenya, make it difficult for me to go. Make it painful. After all, I have taken so much from you. You have allowed me my research. You have taught me economics. You have fed me your fried tilapia, your roasted goat meat, and maize meal. You have shared with me your stories, your anger and your optimism.