The sun rises. A twelve-year-old boy sits up from the floor of his small one-room house and begins to get ready for school. Trying not to wake up his baby brother, he slips on his uniform and shoes. Grabbing his book-bag, he checks the status of the thin thread that is strung on the noticeable hole near the bottom to make sure his books do not slide out. His stomach growls, but today, like most days, there is no slice of bread for breakfast. He will have to wait until lunch at school. He pulls open the crooked door, pushing the thin white fabric to the side, and begins his trek to school.
To some, this might seem like any morning before school. But Bevon relishes in the experience. He loves his uniform and shoes. His book-bag is torn but he wears it proudly. He loves getting up before the others and having a place to go. He admits that he loves everything about school – except for math, a subject he particularly struggles with.
But a struggle with a subject in school does not faze him. He asks for help and eagerly shows up to be tutored. Even when I was unexpectedly unable to attend our scheduled sessions, he forgives and eagerly awaits the next one. He always managed to convince me to play with him on the playground afterward – apparently a humorous sight according to onlookers. For all the struggles Bevon has been through, it is amazing that he is still able to let loose and play like a normal twelve-year-old boy.
Bevon’s mother is physically handicapped and his father is dead. Not being able to provide for her children and watching them suffer, Bevon’s mother had severe bouts with depression and repeatedly attempted suicide. She didn’t have enough money to feed her children or pay their school fees. Bevon did the only thing he knew how to do to support his mother: spend the day wading through garbage to collect scrap pieces of medal. Instead of a book-bag, Bevon carried a trash-bag. Instead of books, he carried scrap pieces of medal. Instead of studying math, he was counting trash.
With the 20 shillings ($0.25) he earned, he would buy vegetables to bring home to his mother and siblings. The hardships continued for some time, but unlike so many other children, Bevon was given a chance to attend school through the CSCM Education Support program. The family started attending church at Springs of Life. Pastor Meeker baptized Bevon’s youngest brother, and Deaconess Lorna helped his mother start a fish selling business. Two months down the line she was able to pay her own rent and purchase her own food. When Bevon outgrew his uniform, his mother was able to purchase him a new one.
I remember asking Bevon if he wanted to attend boarding school. His face lit up and his priceless smile gave me the answer. He talked about how great it would be to have his own bed, a drastic improvement from his position on the floor. He talked of the blue uniform and his friends who were already there.
That was July 2009. More than a year later, I return. I can honestly say not a day has gone by where I did not think of Bevon and the other boys. Under most circumstances, constant memory of a person makes your time apart seem longer. But in this situation, that did not seem to be the case. As we made the hour long drive to the boarding school, I felt if I had only been with them all yesterday. Though I was gone for over a year, I felt like I had never left.
The guard opened the gate and we entered. It wasn’t an official visiting day, so we had to finagle the headmaster into letting us see the boys. One by one, they trickled out of the classrooms and began walked toward where we sat under the tree. Their reactions were priceless; typical of boys who think they are men. First, there is a burst of boyish excitement, then a shy smile that avoids eye contact to hide an overt display of emotion. When a few of us were standing there, I asked Brian, “So, did you miss me?” He answered with a quick, “Yes,” and gave me a hostile glare, as if he was offended by my asking.
Just then, Bevon came around the building directly behind the classrooms. Before he saw me, I noticed he appeared a little confused as to why he was being pulled out of class. When he saw the tall white guy under the tree with a group of his friends, he knew why. Bevon made no attempt to hide his excited. He let out a loud “Eye!” and began running. His body larger than he realizes, he almost plows me over as he gives me a hug. He is quiet for a moment, only to break the silence with another “Eye!”
For the next twenty minutes, we were too loud and too obnoxious. We reminisced about all of the hilarious times we had the year before. They filled me in on a bunch of new inside jokes. I met the new boys who I had never met before, of whom I had only seen pictures. They acted as if they had always known me because their brothers were so at home. We made fun of each other and took group pictures. They told me I had gotten too fat and I kept commenting on how much they have grown. We tried to remember all of the nicknames we used last year.
They tried to show me how good they were at rapping. Three of them claimed to be acrobats, and actually showed some skill. They introduced me to their teacher who they obviously felt very close. We paid their fee for the class trip to the museum. They tried to talk me into meeting them at the museum so I could see them again. I told them we would be too disruptive. They asked if I could stay with them for the next few weeks until school closed. They said, “Our teacher wouldn’t mind.” I told them they were being ridiculous.
I was informed it was time to go, and we said our goodbyes. They were obviously annoyed, letting me know, “You just got here.” I wanted to stay, but the dreadful thing about being an “adult” is the super rationality of our lives. I walked toward the gate to return to the main road. We had more schools to visit that day and had to keep an eye on the time. As we packed ourselves into a matatu and headed for the next school, I couldn’t help but think of where all of those boys came from. Many don’t have fathers of mothers, their only home is a Rescue Center, and up until recently thought they would never have the chance to attend school.
I thought of the trash in Kibera, where Bevon and Brian tried to find their meals. I thought of the orphanage in Maasai land, where Joseph was sleeping on the floor with no one taking care of him. I thought of the huts in Kwalangware, where Jared lived with his sisters, not knowing where they would get their next meal. I thought of the abuse Teddy and Tony have been through.
For a moment I am angry. Then relieved that they are there no longer. Then content because I have done something. Then anxious because I haven’t done enough. Then weak because I'm doing everything in my power. Then disgusted because I left. Then disappointed that I have failed them. Then hopeful because there is still time.
Just as my chest tightens and my eyes begin to water, the matatu comes to a stop as the door screeches open. We have arrived at the gate of another school.
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