Joseph

"His name is Joseph, and it's his first day at the Orphanage," she says to me with a heavy heart. A five year old boy sits at the edge of the field, alone and crying. Immediately I realize this means either his parents have just died yesterday, or they are too poor to keep him any longer...the former being more likely. No one said this was easy.

St. Mary's has an orphanage to house street boys. Some of them run away, some return, and three in ten will make it through secondary school. I walk over to Joseph and although he cannot understand English, I hold out my hand. He looks at me with hesitation but takes it, and walks with me back across the field to where the other boys are playing. All of a sudden teaching basic food groups and promoting medical or legal professions is the least of my worries...just getting Joesph to make it until tomorrow clothed and fed is the priority.

Joseph will not leg go of my hands and stands in front of me with his back against my legs. He watches the others in torn wool sweaters, socks and pants in 90 degree heat as today, his entire life has changed. The street boys are all at different educational levels and there is one woman who teaches the groups. The first group is made up of boys that have come straight from home, have never seen a classroom or heard English. The second group cannot read Swahili or English, and the third group can read only three or four letter words. If you ask them, none of these boys know their birthday or even their age, since they lost their parents so young.

"Daniel, please spell 'triangle' for me," I say to a disinterested nine year old. Sometimes Daniel speaks, other times he doesn't even hear what I'm saying. Daniel is HIV positive and doesn't know it, he just takes daily medication without reason. We are advised not to tell them. I sit under the shade of a tree in the yard, boys circled around me, and I use flash cards to teach them beginning English words. Sometimes they sit with me through their break because the cards are clean and new, and they want to hold the stack themselves.

In English class today the 6th graders learned an intro to 'storytelling,' and were encouraged to stand up and make up a story of their own. I wasn't prepared to hear the outcome, as child after child stood up to tell of parents begging for clothes on the street, children not having food for days, men stealing shillings out of wallets and pushing women down on the street. The kids make these stories up, but the disheartening reality is that they are not far from the truth.

Joseph tried to run away twice today, to return to a home that no longer exists. I watched the other boys herding him back as he escaped out of the makeshift classroom. He wouldn't go with the others to eat lunch either. Obstinent and sobbing, he resisted their beckoning and physical force. I walk over as I unpeal the banana that's in my bag and hand it to him, he's been eyeing it my entire walk over. He hesitates only slightly, then devours it within seconds, with his eyes down, saying not a word. He's stopped crying and sitting next to me, safe, if only for the present.

No one said this was easy.