There is something universally human about a smile--a friendly reminder between people of different races, cultures, ethnicities that we share something in common, some fundamental humanness.
It is difficult to coax a smile out of C. Her eyes are distant, hollow as she stares off in different directions. Her cheeks are worn, sunken. She wanders listlessly as if in search of something, her body slightly hunched with her feet almost floating over the dirt road.
Yet, with the passage of time that scowl starts to fade, her eyes soften and her lips roll back. Then, there is a beautiful moment when joy overtakes her face--and she smiles, laughs, and utters a cordial 'jambo' (hello).
C has a mental disability. Her age is unknown, but I would guess she's around 35. When I asked her immediate response was to say '10'. I wouldn't dare to attempt to diagnose the nature of her condition, but what is certain is that C's impairment has certainly visited upon her a life considerable hardship and negligence.
Mental health services are poor, almost non-existent in rural Kenya. In such a religious country, many believe mental disability is a curse, the work of witchcraft.
I am told that there is just one mental health institution in the whole country, a hospital in Nairobi. For C, it may as well be in a different country.
And there are the horror stories- of families reputed to chain up their mentally disabled children in sheds, embarrassed and stigmatised by their handicap, and hiding them away from the rest of the community. Here, the disabled are given food and shelter, but are otherwise abandoned.
There are also stories of rampant sexual abuse, by fathers, uncles, brothers who rape their mentally disabled daughter, niece, sister; and of strangers who take advantage of these, the most vulnerable women.
C herself is a mother. I am told that her 20-year-old son lives two hours away in Nairobi, where he works at a supermarket.
C hersef lived with her own mother in neighboring Kimangu for many years. Her neighbours say that every so often, she would wander down to Rongai town, and have to be rescued by her mother.
A couple years back, her mother went blind, and housebound. When this happened C wandered off again, but this time there was no one to bring her home.
Neighbours knew nothing of C's father, and only that she had one sister who lives in Nakuru, but has not been seen in many years.
C lives on the streets now. Sleeping outside, she is sustained by food, money, and other charity that is provided by people who take sympathy, and support her in different ways.
Joyce Wamuhu Njoroge, a life-long Rongai resident, occasionally buys her a bar of soap, which C uses to wash her clothes and bathe with in the Molo River.
At present she is ragged, her baby-blue Abercrombie sweatshirt and long black skirt are tattered and stained with food and mud. A soiled rag hangs over her shoulders, and her big toes pop out of a pair of worn brown moccasins.
Asked if she has another, cleaner pair of clothes she can change into, she points to some indeterminate spot in the distance and tells me, 'at home.'