When I met Patricia

Her eyes wide, she searched through the red shoulder bag full of goodies to find notebooks, pencils, crayons, a sharpener and small toys that made her smile. My favourite was the wind-up musicbox mechanism that played Beethoven's F¸r Elise. As the beautiful, haunting melody tinkled into the hot, dry air of Kenya, her expression of wonder tore at my heart. This was Patricia-Nyokabi Mungai, the child I had sponsored since she was tiny.

Then her mother, Njeri, showed me the shack where she sleeps on the ground with her two children. It was about three metres square. "Life is very hard," she told me, with a wistful expression in her large, sad eyes. Patricia looked up, not understanding what we were saying, but picking up her mum's tone.

I was overwhelmed to be there. Heathrow had been at its pre-Easter worst and I wondered what on earth I was doing - travelling all the way to Kenya to meet a little girl I had never even written to. At that thought the guilt kicked in. In 1995 I started to sponsor a three-year-old girl through the charity PLAN International, but knowing that my standing order (£12 per month) went to help the whole community she lived in, I didn't bother about sending letters or presents.

Child sponsorship seemed a good way to help Third World development, that's all. I never felt like a true foster parent - each year I looked at the new picture of Patricia, noted how she'd grown, read the report - and put it all away. Now I was going to meet her for the first time, and I felt nervous. But how would an 11-year-old girl be feeling, knowing this stranger was coming from England just to see her?

As we bumped along in a four-wheel drive, over the dusty wasteland of flat, litter-strewn soil and scrub towards the hamlet of Kiangombe, this felt more and more like an intrusion. We'd been briefed about the family and their community at the local PLAN office in nearby Thika, about an hour north of Nairobi.

The sky was grey; my head was full of statistics about this povertystricken country - I looked about for the romantic, beautiful Flame Trees of Thika written about in Elspeth Huxley's famous book, and saw none.

Of course, Patricia wore her best dress. She appeared last of all, coming shyly round the corner of one of the shacks, after I'd met her 30-year-old mother, Njeri, and the grandparents who share the compound - four or five rough wooden shacks inside a fence, with a pen in the corner for the sow.

All the neighbours were peeping over walls and fences at the show. Patricia's little brother, Francis-Ndungu, could hardly contain his excitement. But Patricia looked almost shocked, just managing to whisper "Hello" when her mother prompted her in Kikuyu. Suddenly I wanted to hug her, because of the little pearls on her old-fashioned dress, because of her sweet smile ... But I felt shy, too.

This was more than a meeting of sponsor and foster child; this was a meeting of two different worlds, and I did not know where to begin building the bridge. Pictures of my family seemed a good start, and they gazed at them gravely.

Njeri invited us to sit down. Four wooden settles were arranged in a square, covered in bright cloths in our honour. Above them was an awning made from blue mealie sacks, which I later discovered had been borrowed from the local church.

I sat next to Patricia and her brother, as Njeri brought water to wash our hands - then plates of white bread and butter, tea with milk and sugar, and baskets of oranges and bananas. In accordance with African hospitality there was enough for the whole village. "Welcome to our breakfast," said Njeri formally. She'd made such an effort - buying large Ugandan bananas rather than small Kenyan ones, and offering luxuries (the bread, the milk) they would never normally enjoy.

All I wanted was for Patricia to feel at ease. My trying to pronounce Kikuyu words (ngui = dog, kanyau = cat) was hilarious, and the simple "magic" slates I gave her and Francis (the ones where you draw a picture then slide the plastic to make it disappear) gave as much amazed delight as a computer game to a Western child.

Soon everyone was laughing. Patricia kept meeting the eyes of an 11-year-old girl who had appeared and was sitting by the grandparents, watching everything we were doing. I discovered this was her cousin and best friend, Victoria-Wangui, who lives with her little brother in the compound. The local PLAN community worker, Paul Ngumo, who was there to translate, told me later that those two are Aids orphans, and that Patricia herself lost her father to malaria last year. About 34 per cent of the population in the Thika area is HIV-positive.

I saw at first hand the astonishing work done by one relatively small charity, and worked out that my sponsorship of Patricia - about the price of this newspaper per day - has put about £1,200 to date into her community; not that much but it's done a lot of good. In Kenya alone PLAN operates more than 5,000 projects to improve the lives of children.

Excitement was ahead. We all piled our vehicle and rumbled five kilometres to the supermarket in Thika - a first for Patricia. She looked dazed at a shop tiny by our standards, unsure of what to do; her mother looked intent as she shopped, and kept murmuring to me "Thank you, thank you". About £15 bought a large box of supplies (such as mealie, cooking oil, sugar, washing power) for more than a month, I'd guess.

Then we drove the three kilometres to Patricia's school, where she walks each morning. She sat up in the front with me, her eyes shining, and this time I did give her a quick hug.

But Kianjau School was shocking: corrugated-iron buildings, with earth floors, where 335 pupils are taught by six staff, with almost no facilities. I took gifts of pencils, ballpoint pens and a pile of Kitty children's books, which I had written, and the headmaster was overwhelmed with gratitude.

It so happens that (for reasons too complicated to go into here) this school isn't one supported by PLAN, which is partly why Patricia will switch to Kimuchi Primary in the autumn. The contrast was stark, even though this second school is poor by Western standards. But it was an uplifting place. The children put on a brilliant performance of music and dance for us, and I had to fight back annoying tears.

Their T-shirts (bought by PLAN) announced in Swahili: "The Future of the World lies in the Hands of Children." When it was all over, outside on the grass, all the girls started spontaneously dancing again. I think I will hear their strong, joyful voices forever.

I think, too, I will see Patricia's face forever, waving goodbye, after
I had given her a final kiss. We went back to the compound and chatted some more, and I told Njeri how glad I was that Patricia will make the planned switch to Kimuchu School.

When she heard I live on a farm she quipped, "Why didn't you bring us a chicken?" and everybody laughed. Patricia whispered, "When you come back to Kenya?" and I said I didn't know.

But I want to go back. I feel now that she is my foster child, and I know that in this vast dark world, full of seemingly insurmountable problems, you can do something to bridge the gulf between peoples.

I travelled a long way to meet Patricia-Nyokabi Mungai, but I believe that the journey to make the world a fairer place happens one step - one child - at a time.

Payment for this article has been donated to PLAN International. For more information call 020 7482 9777 or visit www.plan-uk.org