Tears can’t type.

 

My fingers will have to do this morning.

 

We hired a friend of someone we knew to re-thatch the roof of our kibanda this past week. He worked here two days. It is our policy to pay anyone who works for us well above the normal rate. Plus other things that they need – like mosquito nets, medicine, clothes, beds, housing, etc. It’s tough here and you can’t help everyone because there are too many. But everyone we know, we try to help. It’s just that I didn’t know this guy very well yet. He’d only been here two days. And I paid him our normal rate which is the equivalent of about a week’s worth of work per day. And that helped him. But he went and spent the money on school uniforms for some of his 9 children. And he didn’t have any left to leave behind for his wife. And yesterday, his 4 year old son got sick. And that happens here. People get sick.

 

But why do they always have to die?

 

I sent malaria medicine yesterday to someone who was sick. But I sent it to the wrong person. It was the person I knew and it helped. I just didn’t know this boy was sick, too. No one told me.

 

He only got sick yesterday. Just yesterday. And malaria usually only gets worse in the evening. So how was the mom supposed to know to put him on malaria medicine in the afternoon? She just watched him. She didn’t know if it was malaria or just a head-ache or the flu. I can’t blame her. But why do I blame myself? It’s not fair.

 

So last night when the dad got home, they went to the duka and bought two different malaria medicines. And they gave it to him but it was too late. Because the malaria that we have in our region is the P. Falciparum malaria and that is cerebral malaria and if it kills you it usually kills you in the first day or two.

 

The boy suffered through the night because in Africa – nighttime means you can’t go out. Nothing is open. And it’s not safe on the roads. So he suffered all night long, nearly losing consciousness. Then in the morning, they borrowed Wanjala’s bike and they were quickly taking him the 30 minute bike ride to the hospital. And even the hospitals are over-run with monkeys and storks that stand 5 foot high because of the waste that they can find there – they come. What hope would this child have at a hospital. He spent a month at the hospital earlier this year with sickness which leads me to believe that maybe his immune system was down. So many children die from HIV – not being able to fight off the sicknesses. But the other 8 children are well. So why should I think this child had HIV? He probably just died of malaria that wasn’t treated soon enough. But I paid the dad. A lot.

 

But he spent it on school uniforms. How can I blame him? Education is the highest priority in a land destitute with no hope unless you can break out of the cycle of illiteracy.

 

So he died on the bike this morning. The very bike he died on is sitting in my yard right now because it was Wanjala’s bike and Wanjala is here putting some bricks down for us today. We bought this bike for Wanjala some time back because his work is transporting people on a bike taxi and his old bike was pathetic.

 

There were times when I would be on the back of it and he would have to stop and I would walk the rest of the way because it kept breaking down. And so we got him a new bike. But it didn’t help this child. Because he still died.

 

He still died.

 

And he was only four.

 

He was only four. He can’t die. If I had only bought them some mosquito nets. But I didn’t know. He only came two days ago. And sometimes when you buy nets, they don’t use them. But I still feel like it's my fault.

 

I don’t even know his name. I just didn’t know he was sick. Nobody told me. How can I help if I don’t know? Why didn’t I give them some nets two days ago anyhow? But it wouldn’t have helped. Malaria takes 5 – 7 days to germinate. It was already in his system. If only they had enough money to already have school uniforms then the dad wouldn’t have spent the money I paid him on uniforms. But I can’t blame the mom either for not borrowing money from a neighbor and putting him on malaria medicine yesterday morning instead of yesterday night. You can’t put every child on malaria medicine as soon as they show signs of sickness. It could be the flu. You have to wait a few hours like she did. But this time it came too quickly. The medicine was started too late.

 

I don’t want that bike in my yard. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to see any more coffins. Small coffins. Big coffins. Medium coffins. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. These people didn’t do anything to deserve this. He was just a child. He was just a baby. My tears are useless to him now but they still come. They won’t stop. Round circles of salty sorrow stain my dress.

 

Oh God, my heart breaks every day here. Most missionaries it seems are tough as nails. They can bend wire and chew nails with their teeth. They scare me. My pastor told me before we came that I shouldn’t go to the mission field because I’m not tough enough to be a missionary. But You told us to come here. I asked you to confirm it in a dozen ways at a dozen different times, and You did. I don’t want to not be here because You told us to be here and anyhow I love the Kenyans so very much but being here kills me, God. It’s true. There is so much need here. But it could never all be done.

 

So what then?

 

What are we supposed to do then?

 

What am I supposed to think then?

 

What am I supposed to feel then?

 

Why God? Can’t you help your people more? I want to tear down the thatched roof because it reminds me of the boy. People don’t die where I come from. At least not 4 year-old boys. And at least not without some warning . . .of battling some rare illness for a prolonged period of time.

Can’t you do something God? Can’t you stop the dying – the pain – the poverty – the hunger – the sexual mis-use. Please? Do something, God. I can’t. I can only do what I do. But it’s not enough. It’s not even close to enough. What about the 3 year old girl who came here two weeks ago because she was beaten and ripped so much by her step-father that her legs and lower body were a bloody pulp. She got antibiotics and her outer wounds will heal.

 

But what about her?

 

No one will take her from that situation. There are so many here without parents, that this one must remain. At any rate, even if there was a place for her – her parents wouldn’t give her up. It’s against their culture. The most that they could do would be to abandon her somewhere where she could not be found nor find them. And is that any better? No. Will she even survive? And if she does, what kind of life does she face? Do something more. Help your people. Please. I beg you.

 

I will give the family money for the funeral expenses, nets and uniforms for the rest of the kids but I would have rather given them money for medicine and nets and school uniforms for this boy – while he was alive. Even so, it would have been too late. I just didn’t know, God. I didn’t know. You didn’t tell me.

 

You didn’t tell me.

 

You didn’t tell me.

 

You didn’t tell me he was sick yesterday. And I just sat here. And ate mashed potatoes. And drank chamomile tea. And watched the birds fly last night.

 

While this boy was dying.