She now lives in Umoja.
She was pregnant last year.
She went into labour and asked for help at a city council hospital.
They turned her way.
She is tall, has a beautiful face and long dark hair. As she tells me her story through her interpreter, I look at her.
Who was she before she started running?
What was her favorite food?
Did she like earrings?
What did she imagine she would grow up to be?
I look at her hands.
What have they held?
Have they wiped tears from her eyes?
I thought about what it is like (could be like) to run. To be a woman on the run with no money. I thought about how quickly as a woman, my body becomes a commodity. How it becomes a political battle ground for some men. How I would lose it to the countless faces who demanded it.
She speaks a local dialect of DRC.
When the city council hospital turned her away last year, she tried to make it home.
She gave birth on the side of the road.
To a child who will not gain Kenyan citizenship.