The sun hangs overhead, sweat drips from my brow. It trickles down my cheek, plastering dust to my face. Dust has coated my beard. Each drip of sweat streaming down the brow in my eye, results in a stinging sensation. I find myself blinking excessively, each and every time; I brush my forearm across my face. My eyes are bloodshot and the weariness of the days came be shown in my face.

Dust and soot adhere to my clothing, per the cool breeze. Wind rustles through the earthy plains, stirring up the red earth under foot. Upon further look, the clay clings to the white trim of my shoes, staining them with an auburn hue. The blue canvass has faded, beneath the topical coating of dirt. With each step, I wear more of the African dirt on feet. I doubt I will clean them.

For until this moment, I have questioned my present location. It was not my first choice. It was not a preference. I had dreamed of visits to slums. There was a desire to tread upon the weathered steps of Rocinha. To be immersed in the colloquial beauty of Portuguese. My dream was all I could hold onto. Rather, reality dictated a more distant, and often times, dismal culture. A place full of English influence and pre-Western culture. An environment known for difficult character development and harsh realities. Its name will forever be known as Kenya. 

Here, I found myself in the midst of a ramshackle village, composed of plastic tarps, held together with twine and tree branches. Shelter constructed of ingenuity and good intentions, offering protection from the unforgiving elements.

Starvation.

Congestion. 

Pollution.

Stagnation.

In that moment, reality became the utmost of importance. No dreams of grandeur or romanticism could describe the gravity of such reality. This was real. 

It was time for me to grow up.