Clothed, But With No Home
This frayed little tee-shirt was worn by a child in the Adjame market which was an appropriate expression for how much these people are suffering. The market, which during the day accommodates 1 million people, is literally littered with vendors. People are hungry and desperate for work.
The Cote d’Ivoire produces very little of their own needs. Most things are imported. Things like fruit, vegetables, chicken and bread are the staples of their diet. Because of this there are no factories for people to work, no distribution centers. These people simply walk the streets in between 2-way traffic trying to sell small boxes of Kleenex and coloring books. Some are so desperate they take dirty water and a ragged sponge offering to clean people’s windows. Most of the time they are declined.
But the market has even a greater poverty. Everywhere there are little children wandering around by themselves. Children as young as 2 years old are seen sleeping under table or walking down the side of the road with no supervision. The roads are not paved, and the few that are have so many vendors with their stands, that they cannot accommodate even one lane of traffic.
The first time I witnessed this was in the evening of my first night at the Market. I had heard that it was too dangerous to go there, prostitutes were rampant and the likelihood of being robbed was high. And yet, I knew there were too many children that were orphans or abandoned to ignore the opportunity to go and see them.
As we walked down the lane, my mouth opened up in disbelief. Kids who were filthy were running naked down the street. Children who were fortunate to have clothes did not fare much better. It seemed ironic to me that all around these beautiful children people were selling clothes, and yet the clothes these children were wearing were not even worthy enough to clean the floors of my house. They are literally wearing rags.
As we passed a narrow alley way I was amazed how fast cars were passing me. Father Herve Anoukpo cautioned me, “Kellie, be careful of the cars.” Just as he said that a little girl walked by my left side. She was about 3 years old and wearing a tattered yellow dressed. In a second, it was over. She got hit by a car as she passed me. I screamed and was held back by the crowd to attend to her. I kept screaming, “I am a nurse. Let me see her!”
Finally, I was released and ran to her side. Where was her mother? Minutes seemed like hours as an angry mob surrounded the car who had struck her. He pleaded for mercy saying he was going to see a sick friend in the hospital. I pitied him, too. But my focus was on the little girl. Crying, and lying on the ground I scooped her up in my arms and saw that her legs were bleeding from abrasions. She was completely filthy, not only because of being struck by the car, but because she was a street child. Wearing no underwear, she had dirt all over her. Her body trembled as I held her close to me. It surprised me that she allowed me to console her.
Not know what exactly to do; I began to pray the “Hail Mary” in French, asking the Blessed Mother for guidance. Within a few minutes her mother came. She was not who I was expecting. Her face looked withered and tired and her clothes were only marginally better than that of her daughters. Most of her teeth were missing. She could not have been more than 36 years old.
In a state of shock, she listened as people shouted at her telling her that her little girl had been hit by a car. By now the crowd had reached over 80 people, each pressing themselves around the car of the driver and myself and the mother.
The mother looked at me with words I cannot describe. It was as if she was sharing her soul with me as I continued to hold her child. How can I write what yearning looks like in a mother who has just learned her child is injured? How do I describe sorrow when I learned that she lost her only son a month ago because of an illness that she did not have the money to treat?
As these questions raced through my mind, she began to express herself. In a voice that was so meek, it was barely audible above the shouting, she said, “I have no money to take my child to the hospital and cannot leave the fruit stand because all of my food will be stolen and it is all I have.”
This woman wasn’t speaking out of avarice, but desperation. Seeing her child in pain she suffered with that child. Losing what little livelihood they had made her even more anxious. I prayed to God and said slowly in French. I am a Catholic-American missionary and I will help you take care of your child. You must take your child to the hospital and we will help you get there. Within a few minutes we had a car willing to take her to the hospital. I gave her money for the doctor and placed the child in her arms. The mother began to cry. “I want you to trust in God” I said as I helped her into the car. He will not abandon you. You, too, are his child. No words were spoken, but I felt a sense of peace when she left.
I realized that God had used that little girl as a signal grace that this is the place we are to set up our ministry. The children and the poor will be our focus. There are so many children in need in the market it is like scooping up water. As I walk down the street, children follow me and want to hold my hand.
The Missionaries of Our Lady of Divine Mercy will not forsake the least of these children. They are too valuable and to precious to wait for an orphanage to be built. Mercy must begin now. Mercy will begin with me.
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