Entering the Kisenyi slums is like entering another world. Deeply rutted roads make driving almost impossible and people stream along the sides of the car, going about their day. Finally, we reached a place where the car could go no further and we exited to continue on foot. Immediately upon exiting the car, I see a street kid, his ragged, dirty clothes marking him as an outsider. His name is Joseph and he is 13 years old. His eyes are blank and bloodshot, and when he speaks, little of what he says makes sense. He is stoned from huffing jet fuel, a common drug used to dull the pain and fear of living on the street.

Within minutes of our arrival, we are surrounded by street children on all ages. Many just want to introduce themselves, others try hard to convince me that they were a good candidate for help. I take some pictures and talk to a few of the children, but before too long we are completely surrounded and the situation becomes too dangerous to stay. I push through the crowds of boys, some almost men and certainly capable of hurting us. As I climb into the car to leave, a boy of about 10 puts his head in the door of the car and won’t move, demanding money for food. I manage to get the door closed, but he reopens it before I can lock it. Another brief struggle and the door is closed again. But he’s not giving up. He runs to the front of the car and places his hands on the hood, preventing the driver from moving. The driver tries to go around but the boys moves into the way again. I’m a bit apprehensive but the driver just laughs and says that “he is a tough one”. Finally, we manage to get around the boy who hits the side of the car in his frustration as we pass. His determination and aggressiveness strikes me because he is so young, but when I look at his face as we pass, his desperation is almost palpable.