The Paper House by Lois Peterson

Chapter One
    Safiyah stood ankle-deep in garbage near the top of the dump. Below her lay the Kibera slum, a patchwork of rusty tin roofs. A thick blanket of cloud and dirty smoke hid the concrete buildings and busy roads of nearby Nairobi.
    Not far from where Safiyah stood, a pack of small boys tussled like mangy dogs over a heap of old clothes. Suddenly, one broke away and leaped at her. “What have you got there?” he yelled.
    She held the old magazines high in the air where he couldn’t reach them. “You can’t have them.”
    The other boys were watching.
    â€œLet me see.” With each jump, the boy’s hands came a little closer. “Hey, you lot!” he yelled. “See what she’s got.”
    â€œIt’s just paper.” Safiyah could hear her voice shaking. She had seen gangs of boys corner lone girls before. Sometimes they beat them up or stole things from them. But the boy’s friends had already found something more interesting in the garbage.
    When she hid the handful of magazines behind her back, the boy leaped at her again. “Let me see the pictures.”
    Safiyah sold most of the stuff she found at the dump. It was the only way to make money for a pound of maize or some tea. Sometimes a breadfruit for Cucu, her grandmother, who loved them so much.
    People would buy almost anything she dug up: old clothes, cracked dishes, tins and old tires. Once Safiyah found an old clock that still worked, and they had eaten well for a week.
    Today she was looking for paper to fill the cracks in the wood and metal walls of their house. Maybe Cucu would get well if Safiyah could keep out the smoke and the cold night air. Then Cucu could take care of the house and make the meals so that Safiyah could go to school like her best friend, Pendo.
    But for that you needed more money than Safiyah could make selling stuff from the dump.
    â€œI want to see,” screeched the little boy as he grabbed at her again.
    Safiyah slipped and slithered away from his grasping hands. She waded through plastic cartons and torn packaging. Bottles and jagged cans tumbled down all around her. Clumps of plastic bags squelched under her feet. Ripped newspaper and stinky diapers clung to her legs.
    Another landslide of smelly garbage fell around the little boy as he scrambled down behind her. “Let me see.” He yanked her arm.
    Safiyah twisted away. But the boy squeezed his thin arms around her waist. He was hurting her, but she wasn’t going to cry.
    â€œIt’s just old magazines.” She held the papers out of reach.
    â€œI want to look at the cars,” whined the boy. “There are always pictures of cars.”
    â€œI need them.” As Safiyah pulled away, she almost fell back onto the garbage. Dense swarms of flies rose into the air. The sickly stench was worse now.
    She was getting used to filthy puddles of water everywhere and the smell of burning garbage and rotten food. But the stink was always worse at the garbage dump.
    The boy lunged at her again. He pulled one of her pigtails.
    She slapped him.
    He yanked her so hard that they both fell back into the shifting garbage. Something sharp poked Safiyah’s back. A wad of slimy stuff clung to her leg.
    The smell got worse as Safiyah and the little boy tussled.
    Suddenly, the boy’s weight lifted off her. “What’s this then?” Deep scars ran down the cheeks of a tall teenager who held the smaller boy by one arm.
    His tightly curled hair was dyed red. Blade! The gang leader was everywhere you looked in Kibera.
    Cucu was always warning Safiyah to stay clear of the gangs that roamed the slum. They stole cell phones and radios and cut people with knives. Mr. Zuma’s bicycle shop had once been held up by a gang with guns and sticks. Safiyah had sometimes seen Blade lounging against walls, flicking his knife open and closed, open and closed, or swaggering through the streets with his tough friends,