by Saul Dobney
The policeman tapped the counter. “Very well. I will take your details. But you must make sure this boy is properly looked after.”
7. St Peter’s
“Hello there. Is there anything I can help you with?” A tall man with a beaming smile strode down the path to the gate from one of the low buildings behind the wall.
Martha and Lyndsay stood by the side of the hire car, shielding their eyes from the sun, straining to see the man’s face.
“Hi. We were recommended to come and see you, this orphanage I mean. We’re on vacation and they said to see if you could help us. Are you the manager or the person in charge?” asked Martha.
“Yes ma’am.” The man spoke in melodious Southern US drawl. “John Benedict at your service. I’m the director here at St Peter’s. How may I be of assistance to you folks?”
“We here on vacation and, well, this will sound strange, but we found a boy, this boy, by the side of the road.” Martha turned motioning towards the car with her hand.
Through the window, the small dark outline of Yanif could be made out sitting on the back seat.
“Ma’am, if I’m honest with you in Kenya there are a thousands and thousands of street children. If we could take ‘em all, we would, but some things just ain’t possible…” He sighed seeing their disappointment. “Let’s have a look at him, maybe there is some place you can go.”
“But he’s a western boy, not Kenyan. He doesn’t understand English and the police said he didn’t know Swahili,” said Lyndsay.
“You’ve spoken to the police too, well…” John nodded in thought. “And you don’t think he’s from Kenya? How’d you come to find him?”
“We were travelling up from Mombasa and we stopped for a break and he appeared out of nowhere. He was just there. We have no idea where he came from. He just walked up to us and put his hand out like he wanted food.” Martha demonstrated.
John peered into the darkness of the car standing close to the window to avoid the glare of the reflection. Inside Yanif looked back at him. The boy’s head only reached three quarters of the way up the chair and his feet were no longer than the seat cushion. He was wearing a new clean yellow t-shirt and shorts and a pair of new sandals that the women had bought for him.
Martha continued, “We took him to the nearest police station, but they said they couldn’t help. We’re travelling back home in two days and we don’t know what to do.”
“What do you know about him?” John had become curious.
“Nothing at all. The police had no reports of missing children. We think his name is ‘Yanif’, but it could be ‘Yanis’ or ‘Yannick’ or ‘Yanit’, at least that’s the only word we’ve understood.”
John opened the car door and unbuckled Yanif and placing large thick hands under the boy’s armpits lifted him out of out car. “Hi little guy. What’s your name?”
Yanif looked at him, the same uncomprehending expression on his face.
John turned to the women. “I don’t know. Like you said he might be European. All the kids we have are Kenyan. We don’t see so many street kids. By the time they’ve lived on the streets for a few months, it’s real tough to get them to settle down again. But this little fella…” His voice trailed off and he peered around Yanif to see if there was a name or mark on the clothes that might indicate who he was or where he had come from.
“Those are new, but we checked too,” chipped in Lyndsay. “There was nothing on his clothes. We took him to the police station and they said they would investigate, but if we didn’t take him, he’d have to stay in the cells or be let out onto the street. So he stayed in our hotel last night.”
“Yannick.” John was studying the boy again.
“Yanif,” came the childish voice in reply.
“It sounds like he’s saying ‘Yanif’ or ‘Yaniv’. Not a name I know. It doesn’t sound like Kenya. Could be Russian maybe?”
“Our plane leaves on Friday,” said Martha. “We need somewhere safe to leave him until the police enquiries are complete. Wesley Cuvin back home in Pennsylvania recommended we seek you out.”
“Wesley Cuvin. There’s a name I know. Three of Wesley’s church came over last year to help renovate the classrooms. And I can say I do see your dilemma, but things are tight here. We’re pretty much full. I don’t know if they told you but there are more than two million orphan children in Kenya. Can you believe it? Two million. We’ve had to grow because there is such a need. Such a need.” John shook his head as he repeated the words. “Most kids come from homes with HIV or AIDS. Parents bring us their kids when they are no longer well enough to support them. The kids see their parents melt away before their eyes. Then they come here and three or six months later we have to tell them that their mother or father is dead. It is sad. So sad. Every one of our children has some tragedy behind them.”
“Please.” There was urgency in Martha’s voice. “Do you have any space, any space at all. I couldn’t leave without knowing he’s somewhere safe. If it’s money, we’ll pay to cover what he needs until his parents are found.”
Martha half stopped herself half-regretting her spontaneous outburst but John just smiled.
“Like I said things are tight here. Money is important. It is important. Without it we couldn’t work. But in taking one child we turn down another, equally important, equally valued. And there are processes. To operate we have to work with the government who will screen and refer children to us.”
“I understand what you say, but this child, Yanif, would be temporary; until the police find out where he has come from. It could be his parents are desperate, searching for him, not knowing where he is. We’ll help with whatever you need. We have to do something.”
John turned to inspect the small boy sitting in his arms. Yanif looked back with his soft olive green eyes inspecting John’s face. Then Yanif threw out his arms and hugged John around the neck, his head pressed against John’s shoulder.
“OK,” said John. “He got me. We’ll find a space. But I’m serious about that money. We do need you to help and support him. Speak to Wesley when you get back and he’ll tell you what to do. I’m going to trust you on this. First though, come in and meet some of our other waifs and strays.”
Carrying Yanif in one arm on his hip, he led the two women into St Peter’s.
As they entered a gaggle of dark skinned children in dark purple t-shirts ran over, intrigued by the visitors. Other children could be seen playing a form of soccer or drawing and digging in the dirt in the brown earthen spaces that separated the buildings.
“The orphanage is funded out of Lutheran Churches from the North East US. It’s been running for forty years, started by an Englishman, but Beth, my wife, and I have only been here ten. When we arrived St Peter's had space for forty children and there were just four buildings standing. With help and volunteers we’ve built another four and now we can cater for one hundred and twenty kids.”
They walked through towards the centre of the compound.
“We make as much as we can ourselves,” John continued. “The children are taught to cook, grow vegetables, crafts and to make bread and so on. We’re a little unusual in that we have a school on site. Most other places send their kids off to regular schools, but education is a strong part of our charter, so we have two local teachers and bring in another placements straight out of teacher training in the US for the year, and me and Beth teach some classes too.”
The small party approached one of the low buildings and John put Yanif on the ground. Two children came over and started peering at Yanif. Yanif grabbed Lyndsay’s right leg for shelter.
“These are the sleeping quarters. We have four separate dorms. This one, and the one next door are the newest.”
John led them up two steps to a wooden veranda surrounding a basic single-skinned building made out of grey breeze block with open windows and doors. Inside thirty beds were laid out in two rows of fifteen along the two long walls. Each bed had its own she
lf and cupboard and various pictures and paintings brightened up the unplastered walls marking out each child’s space. On the wall at the far end was a large portentous cross with a suffering figure of Jesus peering down mournfully over the room.
“The boys have separate dormitory from the girls over there.” He tipped his head towards another building similar in style and dimension across the courtyard.
“We normally take children from ages four to sixteen, so Yanif looks just at our limit. Other places take younger or babies, but we don’t have the nursing here to provide for the real young kids, and speaking to other centre managers I don’t know I could cope with the heartache. So many get taken by some disease or other.”
They came out of the dormitory and back into the courtyard.
“Over there is the Principal’s House where Beth and I live. That’s Beth coming over.”
A tall slender woman with pale skin and long dark hair in a long dress that was buttoned up the front was coming out of the small bungalow into the courtyard towards the visitors. John introduced Martha and Lyndsay and then Yanif and explained why they had come.
Beth’s response was immediate. “Of course we’ll take him. There’s no question.”
“Beth’s always been impulsive,” laughed John. “In fact if she wasn’t so impulsive we wouldn’t be here.”
The two of them looked at each other and shared a knowing smile.
Over the next two hours, Beth and John walked Martha and Lyndsay around the orphanage and explained how it worked and when the buildings had been built and who had helped on this project and that, then Martha and Lyndsay were invited to take tea with the older children and took turns playing card games and listening to the children read and sing.
At six o’clock Martha and Lyndsay climbed back into their hire car.
“Keep safe little man,” said Martha. She brushed a tear from her eye. “We’ll get you back to your folks.”
Yanif stood and held John’s hand. His face showed no tears or anxiety. It seemed that he accepted that this was where he was supposed to be.
“Come on little guy. You’re going to be staying with us tonight,” said John as the car left.
John felt Yanif squeeze his hand and he led Yanif over to the refectory for dinner.
At dinner, Yanif sat next to John and Beth and watched the other children. The refectory was full of noise and bustle, the calls and laughter of the children, and the clanging sound of plates and knives and forks. Some children came over to find out more about him, but Yanif sat without speaking.
“Feeling a little overawed are you little fella?” asked John.
Yanif still made no response.
“Eshe, Eshe,” Beth called to a thin girl, three or so years older than Yanif with clipped black hair and glittering eyes. “Come and look after our new guest. Eshe, this is Yanif.”
Eshe took Yanif by the hand and led him outside into the dirt-bare central square of St Peter’s.
In the square between the buildings, twin boys, Mosi and Kwasi, were kicking a football between themselves trying to keep the ball in the air for as long as possible. Yanif watched, his head bobbing up and down with the flight.
The ball bounced awkwardly and rolled towards where he and Eshe were standing.
“Want to play?” said Mosi, running over to collect it.
Yanif squeezed Eshe's hand.
“Go on. Kick it,” said Mosi.
Yanif turned away and pressed himself against Eshe. She smiled and put her arm around Yanif.
“Not today Mosi. Maybe another time,” said Eshe.
Mosi dragged the ball away and flicked up to Kwasi with his foot and the boys started their game again.
As Eshe and Yanif were watching, three more girls also aged six or seven came over. The oldest bent down to mother Yanif.
“Who’s my baby then?” she asked. She picked up Yanif and swung him in his arms.
The others laughed.
“What’s your name little boy?” asked the girl.
“It’s Yanif,” said Eshe. “He came earlier with Beth. Beth said that I am to look after him.”
“He’s so cute. Aww, he’s got dirt on his face.”
The girl wetted her finger wiping it on his cheek to brush the dirt off. Yanif stood impassively examining her carefully.
“I’m Mikela and you can be my baby. Wait here.”
Mikela ran across the square to a toy pram that was lying in the far corner of the yard. Reaching the pram she grabbed the handle and swung it around before sprinting it back towards the others. Halfway across her foot tangled in the wheel and she tripped and fell face first onto the ground.
She broke into a wail of tears, rocking with the pain, staring at the blood coming from a cut on her knee and rubbing a bruise on her cheek. Beside her, the pram lay upturned, its four wheels spinning in the air.
Eshe wrapped her arms around Yanif’s chest so his feet dangled around her knees and carried him over to where Mikela was nursing her leg. Eshe plopped Yanif down and went to inspect the injury.
“Are you hurt? Do you want me to get Beth?”
Mikela shook her head but continued to cry.
Yanif put his arms around Mikela's neck and placed a kiss upon her unmarked cheek.
She stopped crying and gawped at him in surprise. He brushed the dust off the shoulders of her t-shirt and rubbed her injured cheek with his hand like a mother might do for a toddler who has stumbled.
Mikela took his hand and held it in hers. “You’re sweet,” she said and gave Yanif a hug back.
“You need to get that clean,” said Eshe.
She helped Mikela hobble to her feet and over to the wash-rooms, a small streak of red blood dribbling down Mikela's shin from the cut.
Yanif beckoned to Mikela to get her to sit down on the building's steps, then he climbed the children’s stool by the sink so he could reach the tap and filled his cupped hands. Trying not to spill or lose the water, he walked back to where Mikela was sitting. He tipped up his hands and poured the clear water onto the wound where it washed into the blood in a marble of pink and red.
Mikela rubbed the water to clean her lower leg and Yanif went back inside returning with a plain white hand towel which he pressed against the cut until the excess blood was gone and a small red line remained.
“Hey precious, you’re a special baby aren’t you?” said Eshe. She gave Yanif a kiss on the forehead.
From the refectory a bell rang.
“That means bedtime,” said Eshe. She took Yanif’s hand and walked with him to the Principal’s House. “Come on, I'll show you where you sleep.”
8. Newspapers and letters
“Did you see your picture in the papers?” asked Jill waving a small pile of clippings as she entered her husband's study.
Dr Hill sat at his desk among mounds of paper spread over the floor, each topped with cables or power adaptors or old pocket computers to stop the paper flying in the gentle breeze that came in from the window.
“See them? How could I not have seen them?” said Dr Hill. “They are plastered all over the college noticeboards.”
“This one's my favourite,” said Jill. She began to read from the uppermost clipping:
“ 'Smug scientist gets sloshed. Militant atheist and all-too-smug scientist James Hill gets a face full of beer from a furious Ted Stokes for cussing out God. Long-term Cambridge resident Ted said ‘I’ve spent a lot of time being helped by the Church. These know-it-alls shouldn’t disrespect other people’s faith.’ ”
She laughed. “And in the second it sounds like someone completely different: 'Atheist ambushed. Ed Stoat dampens out Messiah Hunter atheist James Hill’s afternoon in an argument about God. War veteran Ed said ‘I won’t let these god-less atheists push me around. We have a right to believe what we like.’ ”
“Shows you why you shouldn’t believe everything you read,” replied Dr Hill. “But I didn’t like the bit about smug scientist. Just because I know
a lot about the world, people think I’m smug. If they’d bothered to check they’d know there are times when I’m right, and I'm perfectly entitled to say so.”
Jill nudged her husband’s shoulder. “Know-it-all and big-head,” she whispered.
Dr Hill harrumphed. “I even got a ‘I don’t want to gloat but…’ email from Spearman.”
“Oh that's Tim Spearman all over,” said Jill. “He wouldn't stop grouching to the National Atheist Association about your messiah lecture. He even wanted them to suspend your membership. And now he's gloating. He has a cheek.”
“And someone left this in my office.” Dr Hill handed his wife a white plastic bottle from his desk.
Jill read the label and began to chuckle. “Beer shampoo. How appropriate. Want to try some?”
She tipped the bottle above her husband's head.
Dr Hill dodged out of the way and caught his wife around the waist, squeezing her and taking the bottle off her. He kissed her gently on the forehead. “Work calls.”
Jill left the study. Almost immediately, she called from the hall, “I thought you’d dealt with the post today?”
“I did. There were a couple of bills and some junk mail about loans as usual. Why?”
“Oh. I just found a letter on the doormat.” She came back into the study carrying an envelope.
“Perhaps they delivered to someone else’s house by mistake.”
Jill looked at the address to see. “No. It’s addressed to you.”
She gave the letter a shake to see if she could ascertain the contents without opening it. The paper banged against the edges of the envelope inside.
“That’s odd,” she said examining at the front. “There’s no stamp. It must have been delivered by hand.
“A local charity perhaps?” said Dr Hill. “Why don’t you open it? That’s always the best way of finding out what’s inside an envelope.”
Jill peeled back the sealing flap and took out a small slip of paper from inside. The paper was folded in two and much smaller than the envelope. She opened the paper and read it out loud. “You mock God at your peril. Stop or die.” She blinked at her husband. “Is that a threat James?”