A Boy Named Blessing

Somewhere across the plains of Africa, under the rising shadow of sunlight gathering a mighty mountain in her arms, there is a boy with spider legs and an outie belly-button running across the flat-nosed land. While he runs for many reasons, he always runs when he is on his way to school, trailing behind his housemates with longer legs and lighter packs. If you knew more about where Baraka has come from, you might wonder to me why, or how, he fits the merrily into his eagerly galloping feet. But then, maybe if you knew more, you might not wonder at all.

Baraka was my first friend at the Joyful Home. Shy myself and slightly worried that I had gotten myself into something I couldn’t handle, I was a little timid as I entered Nyumba ya Furaha that first Monday. What if the kids didn’t like me? What if I couldn’t really talk to them? What if…the what if’s continued as I walked in and saw one of the Korean staff standing at the bookshelf with a small boy. In broken English she told me that I would read with Baraka for the first hour that I was there, and that was all we could understand of each other. The rest of the kids were out back washing their clothes and shoes by hand as they did every day after school, so Baraka and I were left alone with a book of kid’s stories and our own shyness. That next day was the same—the kids out back washing their clothes and Baraka and me reading about a sly little fox trying to convince a stream of animals to climb into a vat of boiling water. While that little fox didn’t make any friends that day, Baraka and I did—you could say that that was when it happened, actually—that was when I made my first friend at Nyumba ya Furaha.

Baraka was my homie after that, and I loved him more and more for it. There is something amazing about a six-year-old’s character (although if you ask Baraka how old he is, he thinks he just turned eight) and how they have no shyness asking to be close to you. Before the end of that first week Baraka only left my side when called by one of the ‘aunties’ (Nyumba ya Furaha staff). Daily jaunts to my room to retrieve my Bible and an overly-exciting ‘torchie’, as my kids called my flashlight, were accompanied by my vivacious friend who never once tired of being put up on my shoulders or holding my hand along the way. Sometimes I’d race him, and always never win; other times we’d have jumping contests or story-telling time or just look up at Kilimanjaro and talk about the amazing things of the mountain.

I’m afraid I didn’t teach him very good manners—had you heard the richness of this boy’s laughter you too would do anything to make him laugh, all the time. I’ll remember the sound of his squeals forever, the way they came after I taught him all about tickling and pointing to the sky, one of my older brother’s many tricks to make us easy targets for tickling. I also taught him how to fence with sugar-cane stalks and introduced him to pizza, my lifelong love among all foods known to man. Some days, Baraka would come out of nowhere—just appear from amid a grove of trees—and ask me what the name of the song I was singing out loud as I made my way to Nyumba ya Furaha. And then he would take my hand in his and finish the song with me.

Singing and dancing and sugar-cane sword fighting were only the intermittent indulgences of our regular schedule. “You eatie here?” were three words I got used to answering every day as Baraka ensured I’d stay for dinner and would plant himself next to me at the dinner table, always making sure that there were two chairs next to each other. If anyone has ever wondered when typical male-territoriality begins, it’s as early as age six because Baraka religiously fended off any kids who tried to sit between us. The “You eatie here” phase gave way to “You sleep here?” phase where Baraka would ask me every night if I’d sleep at the Joyful Home. The one day that I finally planned to stay there he upped the question a little bit and told me it wasn’t just that he wanted me to be there, he wanted to sleep with me at night like a giant teddy bear next to a small baby. I don’t know if he uses that line on all the girls but man, did it work on me…I melted. From then on I didn’t want to leave him either, but Baraka belongs in Africa.

Nyumba ya Furaha is the only home Baraka will remember. Somewhere between the age of six and eight and having been at Kilimanjaro since for nearly five years now, Baraka has really only had one family and one home, the kids at the Joyful Home. I’ll never forget the happiness on his face when we celebrated his birthday sometime in February. He proudly sat in the center of the table and collected his homemade cards and well wishes from his friends at Joyful Home. For his sixth/seventh/eighth(?) birthday he received 9 homemade cards, a package of small plastic frogs, a small pack of cookies and a Dove chocolate bar. And even though I was in one of the happiest places I’ve ever known, my heart broke as I saw what joy comes out of…nothing…when all my remembered days I’ve had so much somethings. I couldn’t help but think that if only Baraka were mine, I’d take him home with me and give him everything he could want. But one of the truths I began to learn at Joyful Home is that I can give him things, but I can’t give him his happiness. He already has that.

The last day I was there, Baraka interrogated me about this business of me leaving Africa. I don’t think he much liked it. “You go to America?” –“Yes.” “Why?” –“Because I have to.” “You have to go to your family?” –“Yes.” “Why?” –“Because they miss me very much.” “You will remember me?” –“Yes, I won’t forget you.” “You will think of me every day?” –“Yes, I will think of you all the time.” “And you will tell your family about me, about Baraka your friend?” –“Yes, I will tell them all about you.” So here it is, me telling you about my special friend. Baraka found a way into my heart that no boy (or man) has ever found. I guess I messed up when I told my dad that I wasn’t going to fall in love in Africa.