“There can be no keener revelation of a society’s soul than the way in which it treats its children.” Nelson Mandela
We often walk past them without making eye contact. Young boys in tattered clothes, unkempt, barefoot, hanging around city corners, some sniffing glue, others tapping on car windows asking for change. We hold our bags a little tighter. We cross the road to avoid them. We label them “street boys” and move on.
Before this visit, I admit I was among those who avoided street boys. I saw them as a nuisance, maybe even a threat. Witnessing bags being snatched or someone being hassled can do that to you. I understand the fear but what I did not really, truly understand, until now, was the full story.
Recently, I had the opportunity, a privilege really to visit Kwetu Home of Peace, a rehabilitation centre dedicated to rescuing, healing, and restoring the lives of boys who once called the streets their home. That visit shook me. It peeled back layers of judgement and revealed a side of these boys that most of us never get to see: their humanity, the vulnerability, their pain, their resilience, and above all, their hope.
Kwetu Home of Peace has quietly been doing life-changing work for over 30 years. Run by a group of Catholic nuns, the home provides a sanctuary for boys who have fled desperate situations like extreme hunger, physical abuse, neglect, or sheer abandonment. Many are as young as eight or nine when they first find themselves on the streets.
What strikes you first when you enter the gates of Kwetu is the sense of calm. It is a stark contrast to the chaos the boys have come from. You can hear laughter in the distance and the thump of a football being kicked around. There is something sacred about the place, like healing is happening in quiet, unassuming ways.
When we arrived, the boys greeted us with shy smiles and curious eyes. Without being asked, a few of them helped carry our boxes for us. You could see they wanted to make a good impression.
We watched as the boys played games they had invented themselves—creative ways to pass the time and connect with one another. Outdoor play is encouraged, not only for physical activity but also as a healthy outlet for energy. At the home, a daily timetable provides much-needed structure and routine, which is especially important for children whose lives have been disrupted. This sense of order helps create stability, fosters responsibility, and supports emotional well-being.
After we met the volunteers, we joined the boys in a circle of chairs, where they each took a moment to introduce themselves and tell us a little about their lives. Even when a noisy helicopter flew overhead, the boys instinctively paused, waiting for it to pass before continuing. They carried themselves with dignity, a quiet grace that spoke volumes.
One boy, Godfrey, stood out for me. He could not remember exactly how he ended up on the streets. His memory was patchy, as if his young mind had tried to block out the trauma. Some of the boys were a little withdrawn but their eyes were filled with a quiet yearning to be seen, to be heard and to know that they mattered.
At 10:00 o’clock, we stopped for their tea break and it was humbling to watch them bow their heads and offer thanks as a community.
As I sat down to have tea with them, I engaged some of the boys on my table. Trying to find out how they came to be on the streets. One said he came with his mum but ended up getting lost. Others told of running away from homes where food was scarce and beatings were routine. Some had come from faraway towns like Kiambu and Nakuru, ending up in Nairobi with no real plan, just a desperate need to escape. All had a story and were eager to share a little bit of themselves.
Many of them, once on the streets, quickly fell into survival mode that involved substance abuse, mostly sniffing glue or aviation fuel to numb the hunger and fear. Some joined small gangs for protection, and soon petty crimes like pickpocketing or stealing side mirrors off vehicles became part of daily life.
What shocked me most was learning that the hardest part is not just getting the boys off the streets, it is keeping them away. The structure of a home, the rules, the discipline, even the simple things like sleeping in a bed or having to make it in the morning is alien to them. Many have been free to do as they please for so long that the idea of routine feels like a prison. The warm, clean bed and hot meal we think would be enough to change a life are not always tempting to a child who has known only chaos.
One of the nuns who has been with Kwetu since its early days, shared how some boys run away even after spending time at the home. “They disappear into the night,” she said, “not because they hate it here, but because trauma makes it hard to trust.” Some ask for the gate to be opened so they can leave. At Kwetu, no one is kept against their will.
It was truly heartbreaking to hear a child say they would rather live rough on the streets than be taken into a safe, supportive home. This painful reality forces us to confront a deeper truth: for some children, the trauma they have experienced has made them equate safety with fear, or care with control. What kind of wounds, unseen and unspoken, must they carry to prefer hunger, danger, and uncertainty over shelter and structure?
For those who stay, and slowly learn to trust again, something remarkable begins to happen. We saw boys who learnt how to make a bed each morning, probably for the first time. Others were hand washing their personal clothing. They were assigned duties in the kitchen and each had turns to help with the cleaning and washing up. These lessons were not just about chores. They were about teaching responsibility, instilling pride and restoring dignity to a child.
In one room, daily lessons were being held to teach basic writing, reading and mathematics.
We brought along LEGO sets kindly donated by an Amara supporter and watched their faces light up as we handed them out. The boys dove right in, eagerly sorting through the colorful pieces and beginning to build cars, planes, action heroes and their own imaginative creations. We sat with them on the floor, helping here and there, but mostly just enjoying their energy and creativity. Their excitement was palpable—every finished structure was met with wide smiles, laughter, and the kind of joy that reminds you how powerful simple moments can be.
What impressed me most was that Kwetu Home of Peace is not just a shelter – it is a bridge. The ultimate goal is to reintegrate the boys into society, either by reuniting them with their families or willing relatives when it is safe to do so.
That process is slow and delicate. Social workers at Kwetu spend time tracing families, counseling parents, and sometimes confronting painful truths in the home environments the boys came from. However, the success stories are many. Some former street boys are now university or college students, holding down good jobs, some are social workers themselves, returning to help boys at the home.
This year, Amara Charitable Trust awarded full scholarships to four Kwetu graduates, who now pursuing vocational training. One young man, sadly, dropped out after two months to take up casual labour earning Kenya Shillings 200 a day. That he chose that path, trading education for immediate survival. is heartbreaking, but it reflects just how deeply the streets can shape a child’s instincts to survive.
Behind every boy on the street is a child who has suffered. A child who wants love and safety but does not know how to ask for it. A child who has learned to survive by whatever means necessary, often at a cost of their wellbeing and safety.
During our visit, I did not see thieves or addicts. I saw children. Vulnerable, fragile, eager to belong. I saw boys who were polite, welcoming, respectful. Boys who were grateful and learnt how give thanks and sing during church service. Boys who laughed, played, and asked questions with wide eyes and honest curiosity.
Kwetu Home of Peace runs on donations, goodwill, and the unwavering dedication of the nuns and volunteers. Their needs are many — food, clothing, school supplies, medical care, and funding for school fees.
However, more than anything, they need society to change how we see these children. To replace fear with compassion.
Our visit to Kwetu Home of Peace changed me. It gave a face to a problem I had kept at arm’s length. I had read the statistics, heard the stories, even passed by children on the streets but nothing prepared me for the quiet, resilient strength I encountered in the eyes of the boys at Kwetu. It reminded me that we are all on a journey, and for some, that journey takes them down a road that leads to hardship, abandonment, and the harsh reality of surviving on the streets.
it does not have to end there. Kwetu is proof that, with compassion, structure, and support, that same road can be redirected towards healing, stability, and renewed purpose. The boys here are not just being given food and shelter, they are being given back their childhoods and their dignity.
If there is one thing I hope to carry forward, it is this: never let the label “street boy” make you forget that, first and foremost, they are children. And every child deserves a chance to be safe, loved, and seen.
If you can visit, do. If you can donate, please consider doing so. If all you can offer is a moment of empathy the next time you see a street boy, let that be your starting point. I would like to end this blog with a quote from a nun who personified kindness, especially those living on the fringes of society.
“Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.” – Mother Teresa
