all the souls that would come to them for help.
Nevertheless, whether it was seeing the beaming smile or the missing leg, the elderly brother who opened the door did not drive Henri away as he had done to so many so often, but, after astutely assessing his needs, offered him a mattress in the workers’ quarters that came with a plate of porridge to be repaid by helping in the kitchen.
Henri managed to stay for few weeks at the mission to figuratively “get his feet under himself”. However, the brothers made it clear from the onset that this was not a limitless gesture, for which they would pay an endless price. This was a very special and unique display of compassion for a young man who was willing to work hard in spite of his infirmity.
So it was that Henri had by chance arranged for himself a bit of a breathing space to try and see how a man with one leg could survive in the city; having been unable to survive mentally in the village. He had had to promise the brothers that he would work in the kitchen three times a day to pay for his humble board and room, but he still had quite some time to hobble around the city to see what his options were. He went back to the lorry and taxi parks, to the big market and the smaller trading centers, to the major shopping area, and several hotels, restaurants, and even construction sites.
His locomotion by crutches had greatly developed his torso and Henri had tremendous strength in his arms that he thought could perhaps be used in some way or other: washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning, almost anything that did not require one to move around very much. He also could read and had some basic arithmetic; skills which, he had hoped, might be a consideration to get a job as a clerk or some other type of simple desk work. However, as his stay with the brothers came to an end, he was no closer than when he started to finding a way to stay alive in the city.
In his searches about town, he would frequently pass in front of the main grocery stores and pharmacies frequented by the town’s elite; the expatriates, high-level functionaries, and businessmen. Stuck outside the entrances and exits from these establishments were coveys of the handicapped with all shape and form of deformity and incapacity. They were amassed nearly like flies on offal; an amorphous mass of humanity that had, in fact, a hidden structure. There was a leadership structure and a pecking order to determine who actually sat, squatted, or lay in the prime spots where the targets had to literally stumble over the oppressed, and hence they were more likely to throw some coins at them, just to get out of the way. It was even rumored that the chiefs of these tribes of the forgotten were so rich some were brought to their begging stations by chauffeured Mercedes limousines.
Every time Henri passed these spots, he saw himself as one of those thrusting a begging bowl or leprosy-ridden hand in the faces of the wealthy, awaiting their crumbs, while under the thumb of the beggars’ chief, who would extort a toll on every penny scratched from the scarred pavement upon which they perched. There was no way he could become one of them, but there appeared to be few options.
His mind and his situation were in such a great state of flux and uncertainty that he swallowed what little pride he had left and begged the brothers to let him stay a few more months. Perhaps it was pity or perhaps it was really needing an extra pair of hands in the kitchen, but Henri got his reprieve and was given, with the beneficence of those with the luxury of having more than they needed, the exceptional gift of six more months at the mission. Henri was late to learn that this benevolence was much more practical management than empathy for his predicament. It was now approaching Christmas, a most busy time for the mission. Moreover, several of the older brothers would be returning to Europe in summer when the vacation season started; the mission needed short-term help and the devil you knew was the lowest risk.
Through the Holidays Henri had great hopes that the festive time of man loving man would translate into his chance for some means to become self-sufficient and start a new life on his own, if not on his own two feet. But, alas the new year arrived with no change. Easter came and went as Henri came and went around town, leaving no stone unturned, looking everywhere but finding an opportunity nowhere.
On his way back to the mission from the suburbs where he had been job hunting, he noticed his bus surrounded by vendors as it waited at the traffic light. Like this light, another light went off in his head. He saw people in wheelchairs and on crutches selling chewing gum, bon-bons, matches, and soap along with the horde of young children and women. This group had been so much a part of the scenery that he had not seen it; the trees for the forest syndrome. These people seemingly were able to make a living by selling the commonest of items to an imprisoned audience of customers; passengers and drivers of motor vehicles having no change to avoid the deluge of vendors, and many finding this a convenient time to purchase the small snacks and items they would have ordinarily bought at roadside kiosks.
Back in the mission kitchen, he asked the other workers what they knew about the sellers in the go-slow; those who benefited most from the traffic lights and jams around the city. He learned the group moved up and down the main thoroughfares; hitting in-coming avenues in the morning when traffic was heading into the city, and the main arteries going out when the business day closed. This group, too, had its chiefs and structures, but there was not the stigma of being a beggar at the pharmacy.
Overlords bought the small items sold on the streets in bulk and then resold them to those who attacked the cars and buses. These entrepreneurs not only made a profit on the re-sales to the street vendors, but also required a small percentage off the top. Nevertheless, and surprisingly to Henri, the vendors were able to do quite all right. This was why there were so many children and women. They could make more money selling toilet rolls or batteries under the unforgiving sun and in the dangerous traffic than they could make if they had stayed in the village. They could actually make a living doing this.
Henri now had a plan. He spent his time among the street vendors until he had made friends with several. Slowly he was able to get the needed details and contacts, to have a supplier, and a space to share with the others with whom he shared the street. The summer came and Henri finally left the mission with no real sorrow. He now had a place to go, a job to do, somewhere to sleep, and even the possibility of saving a few coins to take back to the village next Christmas.
As he deftly dodged cars when the lights changed or the jams became unplugged, the cicadas sang again and he remembered his Mother’s words. He would not get sick. He would get well.
The Path of Life
She was called Jose, short for Josepha. She was eleven and in primary school. She went to school in Bankim, about twenty-five kilometers from her home village of Bankop. She would have liked to stay at home and go to school there, but her family was just too big; she had six sisters and seven brothers. There was no way her Mother and Father could feed a crew that large. Fortunately, the extended family system offered options and she was living with her Mother’s childless younger sister—Aunt Ndija.
In many ways this move to her Aunt’s house was a blessing in disguise. Although she missed her family and her home terribly, school in the mid-size city of Bankim was much better than that in the village. No self-respecting teacher wanted to live in the village with no electricity, running water, or health center. The village teachers tended to be either semi-retired educators who had returned to the village from the city or else they were the real failures who couldn’t find a job anywhere else. If you weren’t lucky, you could end up with a village grade school teacher who was a drunk or child molester, or both.
Ndija and her husband Amidou were truly wonderful people. They lived on a small hill about three kilometers north-west of the market, on the town’s outskirts. They were far enough out of town where they could have a small farm around the house. They had a stand of plantains as well as mixed crop fields; depending on the season, maize, cassava, yams, groundnuts, or beans. They also had a small hen house with ten hens and a rooster; these birds providing enough eggs for their own needs plus a few extra for sale in the market.
The
