The Best Thing We Can Offer Him

Its hard to describe how I feel about Father. To most people, he's just another adorable, poor, dirty African kid. He's a good donation-get-er. He's affable, brilliant, funny, loving, creative, adorable, and (best of all) speaks great English. Father is just what people want to see when they think about helping “Africa”. And he's exactly the kid they would want to meet if they got to go to Africa. They would be able to hold a conversation with him, he would hold their hand, and do everything else cute you'd want a kid from a developing nation to do.

I've lived with Father. I have held him on my lap in the crowded, swaying, smelly daladalas. I have bought him shoes a week after I bought him shoes because who knows where they went. I've given him Band-Aids for the outrageous number of falls he's taken. I've helped him with his math homework, told him stories, and taken him with me as a guide on shopping trips. Through all of this, he was cheerful, wide-eyed, alert, affectionate, polite, and grateful.

But I've also taken Father to the doctor. Many times. I held him on my lap, covered his eyes, and kissed his cheek as he fought back tears while being tested for malaria for the third time in two weeks. I did this knowing that after I paid for the malaria medication, and returned him to his mother, that she would find some way to “lose” his medication, and he would still be sick a week later. I've cleaned up his vomit, rubbed his back while he dry heaved again, because there was nothing in his stomach to begin with. I have taken both Father and his mother to eat because when I have given her money for food in the past, Father still somehow ends up not eating for three days. He had fevers, malaria, and numerous unknown stomach troubles.

When his mother got sick, I bought her medication, and cleaned up her house, which was knee-high in dirty dishes. Innumerable amounts of insects crawled through the filth; the floor was littered with crumbs and rubbish. Father and his mother slept beneath a mosquito net in need of no little amount of patching. When “thieves” broke into the house and stole only Father's medication and some money, I replaced the medication and bought food, leery of trusting the boy's mother with more money.

It has all been worth it. I felt a connection with Father like none other I have ever felt with another human being. I think that may be what it feels like to love your own child. Father is not my child, but I love him and agonize over him like I have known him his entire life. I can't mother him from here, but I can collect resources to ensure that he is well taken care of. I agonize over him every day, but at this point, this is the best thing I can offer him. I ask any and all supporters of the Tanzanian Education Project to lend their aid to Father in this pressing time of need. We are trying to collect funds to send him to a high-quality boarding school, get him the best medical attention available, and continue to provide for his care in a safe household.

-Eileen