The Bread Was Still Warm When He Died 

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PLEDGE: 
“If I eat today, someone else must too.” This is the essence of Musa’s Story.

It was the beginning of a new week, a busy Monday morning for most people. For me, it was a chilled, brittle Nairobi morning, the kind where the air bites your lungs before you even speak. I remember the color of the sky—the kind of gray that makes you think the sun had simply abandoned us. 

I was walking to a small feeding initiative organized by Ubuntu Village Inc. in Githurai, Nairobi, where we serve a warm morning meal to the street children who gather at the wooden Sibanda in the Manguo area. That day, I carried a basket of bread donated from a local bakery. It was still warm. 

That’s when I saw him. 

Curled under one of the kibanda like a wounded animal, arms wrapped tight around his belly, face hidden under a torn hoodie. He looked small. Too small. I almost thought it was a pile of clothes or bedding used by one of the street families. I’ve seen so many children like him; maybe that’s the saddest part. It’s incredible how easy it becomes to walk past suffering. 

But something made me stop. 

I bent down, pulled a slice of bread from the basket. “Unataka?” I asked. 

He didn’t answer. His lips were blue. 

So I unwrapped the bread and placed it gently in his hands. That’s when I saw his face. His eyes. They were open, but they weren’t seeing me. 

He was already gone. 

“His name was Musa,” one of the young men told us. He had been suffering from Malaria and recently developed a nasty cold due to the cold and wet nights. The young man said that they took him to the nearby hospital, and he was given appropriate drugs for treatment. As the crowd of street children gathered, I heard some whispering that he had gone hungry for days. We found the name Julius scribbled on a piece of paper inside his hoodie, tucked next to a coin and a bus ticket to Bungoma. He must have come from far. 

He was nine. 

Nine years old, dead on the street, holding a piece of bread that was still warm. Can you feel that? The cruelty of timing. The slice had warmth. His body didn’t. 

I stood there shaking, crying openly in the street. People walked by. Some looked away. A bodaboda rider stopped and whispered, “Another one?” 

Another one. 

Like it’s normal. Like it’s routine. Like it’s traffic or rain. 

That week, we buried Musa in a city cemetery. No family claimed him, and no media headline mourned him. There was just a small group of volunteers and a wooden cross with his name painted in white. 

I spoke at the burial, my voice cracking. I told the story of how I gave him bread too late, and then I made a promise. 

I said: “This will not be another forgotten child. Not again. Not on my watch.” 

But here’s the truth: I can’t keep that promise without you. 

What Do You Call This? 

What do you call a city where children die with warm bread in their hands and empty stomachs? 

What do you call a society where we spend more on elections than feeding programs? 

What do you call it when we mourn celebrities but step over street kids like trash? 

I call it an emergency. A moral emergency. A crisis of compassion. 

And yet, it doesn’t make the news. 

So we must become the news. 

The Ones Still Alive 

37 individuals come to our feeding schedules  

. Some wear shoes that are held together by strings. Some are barefoot. One girl, Lorna, ties plastic bags around her feet when it rains. 

They wait for that same bread that Musa never got to eat. And when we run out, they don’t complain. They just sit quietly, as if ashamed of being hungry. 

But guess what, it’s not their shame to carry. It’s ours. 

This blog isn’t meant to guilt you. It’s meant to awaken you. 

Because when you’re nine years old, and you die with bread in your hands, something is broken, not just in the system, but in the soul of a nation. 

Where the Money Goes 

Every cent donated goes directly to food and basic essentials, including blankets, clothes, shoes, and sanitary towels. We operate like we’re always broke simply because we usually are. Our overhead is zero. Our teams are volunteers. We don’t have offices, grants (other than from Google for online technical tools), or government funding. 

Just stories. Just children. Just need. 

Feeding one child one full meal costs 80 shillings (0.7$). 

Let me say that again: 80 shillings (0.7$). That’s less than the price of a soda. 

You can feed one child daily for 2,400 shillings (21$) a month. 

What Happens When You Give? 

We’ve seen it with our own eyes. A child who eats consistently begins to play again. To speak again. To look you in the eyes without fear. 

In one of our feeding programs in Nakuru, there was a boy named Mbithi. He used to steal from the market. Now, he helps serve the food every morning. He even writes poems. He said, “When you fed me, I remembered I was human.” 

He’s eleven. 

What do you think a full belly feels like to someone who hasn’t had one in weeks? 

It feels like safety. Like dignity. Like being seen. 

This Isn’t a Campaign. It’s a Lifeline. 

With the proper medication, Musa didn’t die due to the disease or war. He died because no one was there in time. He died because no one cared enough to prevent a child curled up under that kibanda, on that Monday, with no food and no warmth. 

This happens every day. And every day, someone like Musa fades into the cement of our cities. 

We can’t save them all. But we can save one more. 

A Different Kind of Call to Action 

This isn’t about a donation button. 

This is about deciding that your story will be different. That when you read this, you didn’t just scroll on. That you didn’t look away. 

So I’m asking for a pledge: 

If you eat today, someone else should too. 

If you have warmth tonight, send some of that warmth forward. 

If you ever felt forgotten and someone found you, be that someone now. 

Will You Help Us Remember Musa? 

We created a “Warm Bread” fund in Musa’s name. Every shilling goes toward morning meals for kids just like him. It’s not a big program, but it is a sacred one. 

We feed those who show up. We give what we can. 

But imagine if 100 people reading this gave just 1000  shillings (8$) today. That’s 1,250 meals. 

That’s 1,250 moments of dignity. 

That’s 1,250 chances to stop another funeral. 

In His Memory. In Their Honor. 

The bread was still warm when he died. 

Let that sentence haunt you, not to depress, but to move. Let it echo. Let it call. 

Because somewhere, right now, another child is lying on the cold ground, dreaming of something warm. 

And you can be the reason they get up tomorrow. 

Or, if you can’t give today, share this post. Copy it. Read it aloud. Forward it to five people and write: “This one matters.” 

Don’t let Musa vanish twice. 

You Still There? 

Good. That means you’re different. That means you care. 

So here’s the last thing: 

Write Musa’s name down. 

Say it aloud. 

Then act like you knew him. 

Because now, you do. 

And once you know, you can’t un-know him. 

Now let’s feed the next child before it’s too late. 

-Salim M.