Together.

By Friday afternoon, Tom was ready for the weekend. Like most other eight year old boys in the world, Tom squirmed in his desk until the teacher's dismissal. Freedom! He knew there were chores to do but he took the long way home. Kicking a ball made out of plastic bags and rope, the dusty bare-feet of the boys in his class stampeded down the road.

The cows rushed out of the way as if they had seen this herd before; they knew the wrath of eight year old boys. As they passed the shop, Tom licked his lips, imagining the taste of the colorful lollypops displayed behind the thin iron bars. Tamu, he said to himself. When he arrived home, he considered asking his mother for five shillings to buy a lollipop, but decides against it, knowing the painful consequence if he upsets her.

On Fridays he is the first to arrive home. His two older sisters will not arrive home from school until later. Usually, he arrives home to school to find his mother who is always ready to assign a chore. His older sisters love to boss him around. When he is fighting with his sisters, it is then that he misses his dead brother the most. If only he were still here, he thought, I wouldn’t have these problems. He picks up the pace to make it home; there is a sense of power being home along and pretending that you do not have to answer to anyone.

He opens the door to his small hut. He is startled by his father who is slouched over on the couch. It does not take long for Tom to try to wake his father’s lifeless body. His effort is in vain; his father is dead. Mamma!, he shouts, knowing that she is too far to hear him. Mamma!, he shouts as his dusty legs dash toward the river.

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It didn’t take very long. The inability to survive is not something that hits a person slowly. The growl of the stomach and the empty pocket sing a brutal chorus of agony that demands action. To many widows and their children, the song concludes in migration. Instead of bearing the ills they had, they flew to others that they did not know; any other ills had to be better than the present.

When the breadwinner dies, there is no longer bread. Not even crumbs. They hope; they pray, that a move to the city will offer some kind of opportunity. With no reason to stay, and no where to go, they arrived in the city with everything they own. They walked to the slum and found a small one room mud-hut that was to become home.

Life had changed for Tom. He lost his father, and though he could of done nothing, still reprimands himself for not coming straight home. He felt responsible for his mother and sisters. I am the man of the house now, he said to himself. He wanted to provide for them, but knew he couldn’t. His mother and oldest sister sold their body to eat. Deeming it prostitution is an insult. Deeming it “Survival sex” connotes that it was consensual. Starvation Rape is probably a more proper name.

And so it began. When the slum is home, the widows suffer, the girls are commodities, and the boys become corrupt. Education is replaced by survival. As much as Tom dreaded school back at home, he now couldn’t wait to return. It was clear to him, however, that was never going to happen.

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Three years later, Tom knows the slum. He ignores how his mother generates income, and has enough friends to provide his own protection. He is numb to the things that used to shock him. Drunk men would come into his home demanding money. Tom and his mother had none. They would beat us with a belt because we didn’t give them money. “Who did they beat?” Everyone in the house. “Even your mother?” They would beat my mother until she gave them money.

Alcohol has an interesting role in the slum. Widows often brew to generate income. Drunk men often take advantage of widows. Boys are brought up in the way of beer. Girls are brought up in way of abuse. The culture of the slum continues by reproducing its sickening ways in its children.

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The inevitable happened. Especially in Sub-Saharan Africa, especially in the slums, selling you body has it’s risks. Tom’s mother contracted HIV. She wasn’t surprised. She knew it was a risk she was taking in order to feed her children. It didn’t take long. Her body deteriorated. They didn’t have enough money for food, let alone enough money for a hospital.

And here is how the poor die; in their homes as their children watch. Calling it injustice won’t make it go away. Free ARVs do only harm if not accompanied with food. The medicine was killing her faster than the disease, so she let it takes its course. As the skin fell off her face and bloodied her clothes, Tom was there to clean her. He did what he could to find food.

At eleven years old, he prepared the food and would help his mother sit up to eat. He would bathe her with soap and water when she was too weak to do it herself. After a slow painful death, Tom’s mother, and a part of Tom, died.

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No relatives wanted them. “Total Orphans.” That is what they were now called. No mother and no father to provide for them. The kids begged for money for the funeral. They were able to buy their mother a casket and bury her. Only one relative was willing to take care of them. An uncle said he wanted the boys, Tom, and his now two year old brother, to come and work for him in the rural areas. The girls would stay in the slum.

They refused. They were in this. Together.

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I walk into the living room. I see him crying, but hiding his tears. I sit down next to him and ask him what is wrong. Though we both know the answer, no one speaks it. I ask him if he wants to talk about it. He says no. I take him with me anyway.

Tom and his siblings have been safe for over a year. They eat well, have adults who love and take care of them, and the opportunity to attend a good schools. Most of the time, Tom is all smiles. It feels good to know he can be a kid again. But he has forever left a piece of his soul with his dead brother, father, and mother. Someone ran away with his innocence.

He followed me from the living room hanging his head and wiping his eyes. We found a quiet place and cried together.