Papa held my baby, then kissed his forehead

The crowd, though it would be more appropriate to call them a congregation, were getting impatient. They had been waiting for hours; some of them had been up since 3 am. It was gone six now, still dark, but at least they were inside out of the cold and they were warming up for the main event by singing hymns and shaking their cold limbs into a dance.

They had watched lorry loads of security men accompanied by sniffer dogs disappear inside the church of St Joseph the Worker in Kangemi, one of Nairobi’s poorest slum areas.