Nekemia's Story

(written by Ali)
I cried today. The kind of tears you don’t think are possible. The kind of tears that are so heavy and so wet you feel as if they drain life out of you…and maybe they do. The reality of a child’s life in this place just hit too hard.

A boy asked if he could show me his dorm. Let’s back up a little. This boy, Nekemia is his name, has been following me around since we got here, begging for sweets, money, clothes, any attention we can give. He’s not the cute little kid you want to snuggle with all the time. He’s rough, angry, jealous, a trouble maker often pushing other kids around. I’ve been doing my best to not get annoyed by him, but offer as much attention as I can muster (with the 400 other kids trying to do the same thing). So…back to the story. He asks if he can show me his dorm. I say yes and follow him to his dorm where he invites me in and shows me where he sleeps. He sleeps in the middle of a bunk three beds high. He climbs up, pulls his trunk off his bed (the kids keep these locked with their possessions inside), sets it on the floor and opens it displaying the contents. By this time, a crowd of about 11 or 12 other boys had gathered around. I squatted down and looked inside his trunk which held a tattered orange jacket, a sheet, and a small jar of cream. He looks at me and says “I don’t have.” “I want clothes like others.” “Why won’t you sponsor me like Perez.”

There I was. Crammed in between rusted metal bunks, squatting on a dusty concrete floor with 12 sets of brown eyes waiting for me to give him an answer, waiting for me to offer a morsel of hope that might get all of them to the next meal. I didn’t cry here. I wanted to, but I didn’t. I was the only one who could offer strength. I looked around at the longing in those boys. I told them I was here for them. I told them that I couldn’t do it all, but that the reason I was sitting in that room was to hear their stories. To look inside their trunk, per se, and feel their pain. To share all these things with the people at home and know that someone will hear their voice.

Someone will hear their voice.

They backed up, Nekemia put his trunk away, and I walked out alone. That is when I cried. All the way across the school yard and into an empty office where I put my head on the desk and prayed that this would all be over. That these kids would not hurt anymore, that my heart wouldn’t break and that, God would prove to me that he is holding this all together somehow.