Timid children hide behind their mothers' skirts as the line for the clinic grows. Malaria and ringworm seem to be the most common. We see hundreds of patients who are grateful we care enough just to listen to their symptoms, let alone provide medicine.
As I write another prescription and affix the sticker to a donated pill bottle, one pair of eyes stands out. This little face looks vaguely familiar. It is the same face that smiles back at me from my refrigerator door. Accompanied by her grandparents, my sponsor child Velma is waiting for medicine, too.
On the day set aside specifically for sponsored families, the villagers, dressed in their finest clothing, congregate near Adiedo Primary School. A girl in a carrot-colored floral dress holds the hand of her little sister, Velma. And the mommas sing a song of thanks as they wait patiently for the mosquito nets to be distributed.
Velma's grandmother Mary smiles the biggest, brightest smile as I hand her a mosquito net. I then have the opportunity to join the entire family on a short walk back to their home. Holding Velma's tiny hand, I ask the translator, Aloice, questions about the family. Velma is one of four siblings. As far as I can gather, both parents died shortly after Velma was born, and the children were entrusted into their paternal grandparents' care.
We veer off the main road onto a muddy path that takes us to the grandparents' home. The exterior walls are made of clay and dung, and the roof is sheet metal. Inside, there are two rooms for the family of six and their gueno, or hen. Six wooden chairs are lined up against the walls, three on each side, with a table in the middle. Dirty stuffed animals and pipe cleaners hang from the ceiling as decorations.
Outside, we exchange gifts. I give Velma and her siblings safari-themed finger puppets, stickers, and bracelets, and the grandparents study the photos in the small album I leave with them. In return, I receive raw peanuts and a pot.
The grandparents show Aloice and me back to the road, and Velma's little bare feet slap in the mud behind us as she tries to keep up. We say our goodbyes, and I give sweet Velma a hug.
As we return to the school, Aloice tells me that Velma was instructed to stay at the house, but she traipsed in the mud after us because she was sad I was leaving. Velma didn't make a peep our entire time together, but that gesture spoke volumes. I have to admit, saying goodbye was a little sad, but I am delighted to have met my sponsor child. Plus, in Kenya, we don't say goodbye. We say, "See you here or see you there," as we point to the sky.
be beautiful
About Me
- Nicole
- Life is not meant to be safe. It's only in our mistakes, our errors, and our faults that we grow and truly live.
This post gives me goose bumps and actually made me choke up. What an amazing experience that I'm sure neither of you will forget!