ART CHECK: The art of handshakes

Everywhere, the city pulsed with movement. Buses honked impatiently as uniformed figures, their rucksacks bulging with books and dreams, marched through the streets. Some wore their uniforms loosely, shirts untucked, sleeves rolled. Others had swapped regulation attire for contraband — caps tilted to the side, happy jackets flapping open, their rebellion stitched into every unbuttoned collar.

And amidst them all, unkempt street kids moved like shadows. It was their season of harvest. They chased after their agemates homing from schools. They peddled sweets and nuts, their entrepreneurial voices small against the din of the city centre.

Near the towering statue of Tom Mboya, a tiny girl — her dress frayed at the hem, her feet bare and hardened by the concrete jungle — stepped forward. She blocked some students, weaving between them like a determined fly refusing to be swatted away. They laughed as they dodged her, sidestepping, teasing. Then one of them pushed her away.

The girl’s sweets bowl tilted, then fell. The sweets scattered, some landing in puddles, some rolling towards the filthy gutters. For a moment, the street-girl stood frozen, her breath catching between her ribs. The laughter of the students faded as they walked on, their amusement fleeting, their cruelty unmarked. But one student lingered.

She was different. An albino with double ponytails tied high, her lips stained red from a half-eaten lollipop. She bent, retrieving the sweets that had remained untouched by the murky rainwater. Carefully, she placed them back in the fallen bowl.

I had watched it all from a few paces away. Something in my chest tightened, and I stepped forward. Near my worn-out akalas, I picked up two fallen sweets and dusted them lightly. Then, reaching into my pocket, I retrieved a 20 bob coin and held it between my fingers. I extended it towards them.

Both girls, one in school shoes, the other with bare feet, reached out their hands simultaneously. Their palms, though different in texture, stretched with equal yearning. One, out of generosity; the other, out of need. I hesitated.

Instead of giving the coin, I withdrew it slightly and spoke, my voice measured.

“Shake hands first.”

They looked at me, then at each other. There was a pause, a hesitation that seemed to stretch longer than the space between them. Then, slowly, the schoolgirl reached out first. The street child followed. Their fingers met in a clasp — brief, hesitant, but true.

I handed the coin to the schoolgirl. Without a second thought, she placed it in the street child’s palm. And in return, the little girl offered her two sweets.

I left with empty hands.

But a full heart.

***

Later that evening, as the call to prayer echoed from the minarets of Jamia Mosque, I found myself walking through the streets once more. It was a holy season. Lent for some, Ramadan for others. A season of reflection, sacrifice and the art of giving.

I thought about the act I had witnessed that morning. The small exchange of kindness, the delicate balance between those who have and those who don’t. What is kindness if not a bridge? The schoolgirl had given because she could. The street child had given because she understood the language of lack. And in that simple exchange, something had been mended.

Religions speak of charity in different tongues. Islam has zakat, an obligation to share wealth with the less fortunate. Christianity speaks of almsgiving, embodiment of faith in action. In both, the essence remains the same. One does not give because they have excess, but because giving is an act of worship, an affirmation that we belong to each other.

As I passed a small duka, I watched an old woman slip a coin into the trembling hands of a beggar. She did not stop, did not ask for gratitude. She simply walked on, her act unseen by most, yet seen by the One who matters.

I wondered, then, about the Kenya we are building. A Kenya where students laughed as they pushed a child into the rain, but also a Kenya where one among them bent down to help. A Kenya where the rich fortified their homes, but also a Kenya where a mother somewhere still left an extra plate at the table, just in case a visitor arrived unannounced.

What lessons did we leave our children? What values did we reinforce?

Kindness is taught not in words but in acts. A father who gives his last coin to a hungry stranger teaches his son generosity without ever speaking a lesson. A mother who refuses to let a beggar walk away empty-handed plants seeds of empathy in her daughter’s soul.

We are the sum of what we pass down. If we teach our young to hoard, to mock the weak, to take and never to give, then we are lost. But if we teach them that the hand that opens to give will never be empty, then perhaps there is hope yet.

The night deepened and neon city lights flickered against the sky. In the River Road alleys, street children huddled together, their coins counted, their sweets now sold. Somewhere in a warm home, a schoolgirl with ponytails and a red lollipop lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, remembering the handshake that had lingered longer than the touch of metal on her palm.

Tomorrow, the sun would rise again. Another lesson. Another chance to build a motherland where the art of giving would be stronger than the habit of taking.

And I, a poet in a world that often forgets poetry, would keep writing about it, reminding us of the things we must never forget.