There
he was again, sliding his way along the dusty road pushing his crossed legs
before him. ‘Flip-flop” sandals protected his hands from the abrasive red soil.
I had seen him once before. I slowed then but did not stop. I promised myself I
would the next time I saw him.
I
pulled over to the right side of the road in front of a sand-blasted block
wall. Faded, hand-painted letters testified that an auto mechanic once worked
within. A middle-aged Burkinabe sitting in a bent metal chair propped against
the wall, chewed on a sprig of wood and watched us with drowsy interest.
As I
got out of the truck, I glimpsed two older (about my age) Muslim men in white
robes sipping tea in a small café across the road. They noted me with squinting
curiosity. They turned away in unison as a blast of dust blew in on the
seasonal Harmattan wind.
I
walked back as the crawling man rounded the rear of my pick-up. He stopped a
meter or so away so as to not to need to crane his neck. I squatted onto a knee
and offered my hand. I asked his name. He spoke with a crackling voice as dry
as the dust in which he sat, “Kareem” he replied. “Je m’appelle Don,” I
offered.
I
told Kareem that I had seen him on the road once before. I thought that he
might be able to use one of the hand-powered wheelchairs commonly seen in
Burkina. Kareem told me that he was almost completely blind and can only see
where he is going while on the ground. That pretty much ruled out crutches as
well.
He
took hold of my hand and pulled himself to his feet. His stick-like legs
wobbled and he held my hand to steady himself. He peered into my face. He
smiled, shook my hand with both of his, and sat back down in the swirling red
dust.
I
gave Kareem a few sachets of roasted peanuts that I carry in the truck and use
as calling cards for the beggars, street vendors, shopkeepers, and children who
I encounter each day. Kareem thanked me again. I bid him a “bonne journée,” as
he put his flip-flops on his hands and returned to his shuffling journey down
the ruddy road.
I
watched the crawling man fade into the dust. I became aware that the dozen or
so observers of our conversation were now looking at me standing alone in the
road. I got back in my truck and drove away. Kareem waved a flip-flopped hand
as I slowed to drive by.
I
realized that Kareem was happy. He was accustomed to his circumstances. There
was no purpose in me planting an unfelt need in Kareem. This could be one of
those times when helping would hurt.
I
will look for Kareem whenever I drive down that road. When I see him, I will
stop and greet him. I will give him some peanuts and water and ask how he is
doing. And if the day comes when I no longer see Kareem shuffling through the
swirling dust I will remember him.
And I
will smile.
