And what better time to write on an experience after you've had some time to think on it.
And what a better place to start than in Zambia -- where I left off with my blog entries -- and with one of the most influential experiences of the whole trip for me. An experience that I can say with certainty has changed me forever: The Boy In Lusaka.
Standing in the middle of a bustling shopping mall in the Zambian capital city of Lusaka, a boy walked up to me as I stood over a trash can hurriedly shoveling the last bits of a grilled cheese sandwich into my mouth. My group was gathering to leave the mall to commence our volunteer work in the village, and I'd been warned about punctuality. Who am I kidding, I value punctuality. And I didn't want to be late on our way to helping people.
But I didn't see him at first. He politely stood a few feet away from me as I finished my sandwich... he was careful not to push, careful not to bother. I caught his eyes with mine just as I crumpled the crust of the sandwich into a ball with my napkin and in one smooth motion dropped the ball into the bin. Wide eyed, he put his fingertips, shaped as though they were gently gripping the end of a piece of bread, softly to his lips. He didn’t say a word. He just looked at me -- too politely -- with his fingers to his lips. In tattered clothes. He was hungry.
I realized too late it was a grilled cheese sandwich that I didn’t even really want.
His was a look... A sign... A set of eyes... A gesture... A feeling I would come to know all too well over my two months in Africa.
Pointing to the trash, I motioned with regret to the boy that I just finished the last of my sandwich. God, I wish I had noticed him earlier. Watching me. Too patiently. Too politely. Waiting until I was almost finished to ask for even a morsel. Too politely. He wanted a bite of a sandwich. I finished it, unknowingly, right in front of him. He wanted my crust. And, unknowingly, I threw the crust -- what could possibly have been the only food the boy would eat all day -- into the trash.
Then, in a further act of shame, and with a closed heart -- for some reason not knowing what else to do -- I just shook my head that I was sorry and showed him my empty hands. He lowered his eyes and disappeared into the crowd. I watched him, frozen -- for some reason still not knowing what else to do. Then I turned away from him to return to my group.
Instantly I was sorry. Seconds later, ashamed. Within minutes I was drowning in regret. So I turned around. I felt what I can only describe as a slow creeping panic as I walked as quickly as I could in the direction to which he had receded, to find him. I felt like I had to find him, as if he were my child, disappearing into a crowd. Still, I was afraid to run, afraid to look like a crazy woman running after a homeless, nameless boy through a bustling shopping mall in Lusaka. He was gone. Deeper in regret, my eyes swelled with tears and I fought the lump forming in my throat. I gave up the search after only a few moments, and I made my way back again to my group. We were ready to “volunteer.” Ready to “help.” I didn't want to be late. Already, though, I had missed my first opportunity.
Little did I know then just how many opportunities I would have.
"If you can't feed a hundred people, then just feed one." ~Mother Theresa
Some of my favorite little Zambian faces:
