the constant gardener.

David Kamau
Kilome Rd.
Nairobi, Kenya

Dear David,

I suppose you are eighteen now—the same age my eyes were when I looked up from behind my lens to see you for the first time, leaning up against that wall, shoulders hunched against the chill. The chill of Nairobi’s "dark, cold streets." As I write tonight, you and the others are just beginning to stir under the first rays of morning’s light. Nairobi’s street children, and Africa’s as well, awake to another day of mere existence. Standing up. Shivering. Crossing the street to spend yesterday’s shillings, earned begging at your corner, on a bag of chips or a slice of bread to share, the only food you’ll eat today.

And I, sleepless again, sit here under a lone light in a quiet room, dry tears falling to my already soaked keyboard, tearless sobs of guilt and frustration racking my chest. You must know, David, that I think about you often, for as I once told you, I, too, have a brother named David who is your age and has your same dream, to become a doctor to help people. I listen to him, even now, breathing as he sleeps, and I turn to see your picture on his wall, as a reminder of his dreams.

I remember that day. Your quick smile. The broken English you spoke. The way your hand felt in mine as we walked out of your “territory” downtown to a coffee shop. We walked inside to Bethany and Jill’s welcoming smiles to sit down to breakfast at the Mug, against the wall. I’m smiling, David, remembering how I ordered you pancakes and orange juice when you balked at the sight of a menu. And my heart breaks again, as I remember your story, as of yet untold, of why you left your home and took to the streets. When we found you, you’d only been there two months, and the horrors you had already seen showed in your eyes, bloodshot and yellow from malnourishment and exhaustion. Your story. Your dreams. The hug. And three photos.

I remember our walk back. Back to narrower streets, muddy alleys, and trash filled sewer. The bridge you ducked under, to relieve yourself. The underside of the bridge, littered with waste, the toilet of the street children. I remember the market, where I bought you a jacket, fretting about the money it took, because in my mind, I had so little. It would have taken you weeks to save the shillings for that jacket, weeks of sleeping in the cold. And I remember the downtown Nakumatt, where we bought milk, bread, and chips for you and your friends, to get you through the day. My thought was that you might save that day’s worth of begging money. And it might keep your friends off the glue for one more day. It might keep you off the glue for one more day. And then I remember the steps where we sat. Where I prayed for you. Where I stood, turned my back, and walked away, tears blurring the vision of my steps. I looked back, and you were gone.

I wonder where you are, if, in fact, you still “are.” I do know the probability that you didn’t survive the past year. The probability that you are no longer alive. And it literally eats me from the inside sometimes, that I didn’t go back to find you. Dad told me, that if I could find you, he’d support you and bring you back, and you could go to school, and be a doctor.

Yet I never went back.

I looked for your face every time we were in Nairobi. I looked for your face on our TV, in the movie tonight, as I sat warm and comfortable on the floor. I look for your face when I dream about Africa.

I never went back. I didn’t find you. I left you on those streets for lack of a better idea. You were smart. You weren’t on the glue. You spoke English. You had dreams. And I left you.

I’m sorry, David.

Dammit, I am so sorry. I pray for you often…that you are safe. That you went home. That you’re back in school. That you made it against all odds. That TB or AIDS didn’t take you, or the many turf wars.

I guess I just need you to know that I remember you. That I’m sorry. That you have inspired me and challenged me. That you changed me. You changed me, David. And though I didn’t bring you with me out of those streets, in many ways I did, and just as I blew a whistle for you tonight, I will blow the whistle for others like you continually, until there is no air left in my lungs. Until there is no life left in my body.

Until you are free.

Because my liberation is bound to yours.

I believe we will meet again. Until then…

for freedom,

will