I Don’t Know What Poverty Is

Or how, or why. But know I know where it is. I saw how it looks, and how it smells.

And it stinks. Poverty stinks. People in poverty are smelly.

I hear that all of Africa stinks.

That we all stink. That is probable. Jinxed.

Poverty stinks of sweat, nervous, tired, stale sweat.

It smells of cheap soap, kerosene, smoke, dirt, needs unmet

cheap drinks, sex. Unprotected sex. Regret.

I know what poverty is not. It is not being broke,

a temporary lack of money to treat your honey.

to buy a smoke

Poverty is dark crowded dungeons, to sleep in, cook in,

to live in,

to love in.

Poverty is open sewers, no bathroom, no kitchen, nothing to eat.

hungry, afraid to eat because of the non toilet, un-toilet seat

can only be used at night. No light.

Poverty is hunger, anger, hard work, overwork,

underpaid. It is cheap fun, lethal brews.

be used, abused then abuse

Poverty does not make thieves. It is made by thieves. For thieves.

Poverty is hope. Religion. Witchcraft. Sorcery. Black magic.

Surely there must be a better place. Hope, faith.

Stand, kneel and tithe.

Be good. Obey and wait.

Poverty has no goal.

Yet poverty is a goal. Millenium Development Goals.

Poverty is big. B.I.G

Yet it is an abbreviation. An MDG.

Poverty wants change. Clothes to exchange

Yet only gets spare coins, only change.

And now Climate change

Poverty is disease, suffering and death,

Diarrhoea, malnutrition, cholera

TB, now you’re out of breath

Poverty is you and me. Bribing and being bribed. Voting and not voting.

Reading and writing.

Yet doing nothing.

Poverty is giving an old t-shirt and taking part in a charity ran.

A marathon.

A catharsis.

Poverty is not being poor. The poor eat poor food.

Poverty is not eating.

Poverty is black. That’s what.

Poverty doesn’t make cents. It is senseless.

________________________

I drove into poverty on Sunday evening. Dusk. Perhaps the most depressing time of any week. Sunday dusk. My privileged sons sat unbelted in the back seat, excited at the adventure. Clutching at their toys. My guide stank in the front seat next to me, guiding, at home here. My prized 4WD cutting into the deep of poverty-ville, coming to pick a prized pedigree pet placed, misplaced.

‘Boss, we like the dog, but we just can’t afford her’ my stinking guide explains painfully in good English. Only a few years ago, we were together in Uni, equals competing for grades and babes. Now, we’re both old, one aged by a life too good. Another aged by poverty-ville.

She finished her tour of duty and went back to New York. The Big Apple. Appropriately called ‘tour’ of duty. Couldn’t take the dog with her. In her kindness, gave it to my guide. In her wisdom, she sends 100 dollars every month for the dog’s upkeep. 3 dollars a day.

Misplaced intentions. Good intentions gone bad. Bad intentions

My stinking guide pays a monthly rent of 5 dollars and his monthly expenses on food is 30 dollars he tells me. ‘I don’t want to steal her money’ ‘Her’ in this case, is the dog. I look at Zo, he is still holding his x-mas gift, a remote control car that cost 50 dollars.

We’re there. Last time I was in these parts, I was the hostage of four middle aged armed Kenyans, trying to steal this very car. Scared and helpless with armed criminals. This time, I am armed, illegal firearm with a non-criminal. This, and fancy drink in cup holder giving me false confidence. Confident and helpful. To help a dog misplaced, a man in trouble and a woman, a woman on email, on another tour of duty.

Power windows up. I sip and wait. Painless transfer, posh white puppy jumps into black car. Sniffs me, remembers, wags tail, telling me Hi.

‘Tell our friend I said hi’ stinking guide tells me, as he waves good bye. ‘You can’t get lost’ He adds, ‘Any road will get you out of here’. The last word spat more than spoken, ‘Hiya!’

‘Any road will get you out of Hiya!’

I wonder how true that is.