I celebrated Tabaski for the first time in Mombasa, Kenya in January 1999. On the first day of my new internship at a safe house for street children, we all went to a street festival in the heart of old town Mombasa.
It was my first time to meet the kids. I was nervous because I had only heard bad things about street children, such as, "they are violent," "they throw faeces," and "they are unpredictable because of all the drugs they take."
During the first part of the evening, I stuck close to my new co-workers sides. We walked past the games and rides and watched the kids running through the park, eating candy and donuts, and talking together. I still remember the feeling of a little hand grabbing mine and holding on tightly. Surprised, I looked down and saw one of youngest boys smiling up at me. I found my first friend. A few minutes later, I had another little hand entwined in mine. By the end of the night, I had a little pack of legs twisting around mine, so that it made it difficult for me to walk. I remember feeling a sense of relief that I had managed to make friends so quickly. These little cuties seemed to accept me based exclusively on my willingness to hold their hands.
While we were waiting for the bus to arrive to pick us up I was sitting alone, observing the older kids (who still had not approached me yet). I was sitting a little bit apart from the group and two strangers walking by decided to try to talk to me. They asked me questions in kiswahili and I tried to politely explain that I didn't know the language and wasn't interested in talking to them. One of the men came close to me to present me with his business card. Before I could respond I heard a lion's roar behind me, "Haa taki!" (she doesn't want it). The men turned and ran. Shocked by this chorus of anger, I turned around and saw all of the older street children lined up in a fighting position.
In one night, I earned the friendship of all of the street children. Without a single word, they were already my protectors and bodyguards. I was amazed. These kids were charming, funny, sweet, smart, and energetic.
I spent the next seven months with the kids. I worked seven days a week, ten hours a day. I learned a tremendous about their lives and struggles. Their successes and weaknesses. I fell in love with them and became broken hearted when I realized that I could never "save" them. They could only save themselves.
Over the past twelve years, I have thought about these children often. I know that my experiences working with them changed my life forever. They introduced me to Islam and taught me important lessons about trust, patience, and solidarity.
In 2007 I had the chance to visit the shelter again. I was reunited with four of my co-workers who filled me in with all the news of the boys I had known. They told me about the boys who remained in the streets and the boys who had married and become responsible community members.
The same day I visited the center, I decided to take a walk around the old fort. In one of the narrow, winding streets I was approached by a small boy who asked me for money, food, or sandals. I carefully explained that I knew he could get help and all of these things if he would agree to go to the center. He persisted and I kindly told him that I used to work with children and became good friends with many of the boys, including KaBuda and others.
He replied by informing me that KaBuda was sitting nearby. I asked him to take me there immediately. Passersby watched closely as the small, dirty boy led me by the hand down the street. He stopped in front of a tree where two boys were sitting and pointed.
One of the boys was standing against a tree. I walked close to him and stood less than a foot away from his face. I stared into his eyes. He didn't blink. I studied his skin and tried to read his expression. He wasn't smiling or ready to fight me. I was in his space. The air was tense. Finally, I spoke, "Is it true you are KaBuda?" He nodded. I asked him, "Do you know my name?" He nodded. Slowly, confidently, he said, "You are Delia."
I burst into tears. Shaking, I grabbed his shoulders. I hugged him. I held him in my arms and saw tears in his eyes. He mumbled, "You came back."
After our initial greetings, we sat down on a tree trunk and exchanged stories. KaBuda told me about our friends who were now in prison or passed away (sadly including our mutual friend KaJuma, RIP). We were sad but happy to see each other again after so many years. KaBuda's mother passed away and he was living with a girlfriend in a slum. I remember one day when I asked KaBuda where grew up. He answered, "Barclays." I replied, "I don't know that town. In which region of the country is it?" He looked down at the ground and explained, "the bank in town." KaBuda was born into a life in the streets. The other kids called him, "chokora damu," meaning that street life was in his blood. They eventually all started calling me that too.
KaBuda's voice was deep from his long career of cigarette smoking. His eyes were dark yellow from a lifetime of sniffing glue. Malnutrition stunted his growth so he was much smaller than most people. He was missing half a finger. He had lost everyone he loved. He had seen things that no one should have to. He was entirely alone in the world. He was a "survivor" (the street kids' name for themselves) who had overcome enormous obstacles and he was alive to prove it. Yet despite these hardships, KaBuda hugged me and laughed and smiled as we reminisced about the old days and the first time I saw him.
I have a clear picture in my mind of a miniature KaBuda, skipping down the street, and carrying a gigantic lollypop. His round cheeks and big smile revealed a set of perfectly white teeth. He was the cutest kid I had ever seen in my life. Tourists loved him and he made a ton of money. No longer cute, I surmised that he had become a sort of gang leader for the younger street children. KaBuda was eleven when I first met him and when I saw him again, he was nineteen going on fifty.
Life has given me so many gifts. The chance to see KaBuda again has been one of them. If I ever get to see him again I will try to do more to help him. I have a big debt to pay. KaBuda and his friends were my teachers. They were my friends. They were my introduction to development work. They taught me how to dance to ndombolo! I will never be the same.
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