CRAWLING MAN

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.