Reaching a turning point

Yesterday I had one of my first experiences in Ghana to make me feel as if my time here has been necessary not only for myself, but for the kids as well. Most of the time, volunteers notice that the orphanage can run itself without us.  If we faded into the oblivion of our volunteer house they would notice of course, but everyone would still wake up, shower, eat and go to school.  While their self-sufficiency is wonderful, it often leads to the volunteers feeling superfluous.  For me, this changed when I took a boy named Kwame Acquah to the local clinic to have a busted lip treated. Kwame is a thirteen-year-old boy with an undiagnosed, but obvious, learning/communication disability.  He has trouble in school and struggles to form complete sentences in both English and Fante. Kwame is often disrespectful to volunteers he’s uncomfortable with and avoids being touched as much as possible.   Before going to the clinic Kwame had started opening up to me, as I recently became to veteran volunteer. He started addressing me by name when he needed things, then sat on my lap once and even started asking for my help lacing his shoes.  All of these small actions on his part seemed to be adding to the connection with this child I’d been working towards for months!

This theory was put to the test, unfortunately, when he fell and split his lip and we needed to go to the local clinic to have it treated.  He and I got into the taxi easily enough as he was traumatized and crying, and we were dropped off outside the clinic without incident.  This was when the trouble started. Kwame realized he would need to get a shot at the clinic, and was terrified they would give him stitches as well.  It was at this point he changed his mind and wanted to go back home, but I told him that wasn’t an option and his distress increased.  He chose to squat down by the side of the road and refuse to move.  I was at a loss. If this had been a younger kid I would have simply lifted him up and carried him to the clinic but with a thirteen-year-old boy weighing over eighty pounds who hated to be touched, this wasn’t an option. I tried to reason with him, but that didn’t go well and ten minutes later he was still squatting in the dirt outside the clinic. Next I heard him mumble something that sounded like, “I want my brother.”  Seeing as he has a younger brother staying at the orphanage too, I decided to clarify because he may be more comfortable going to the doctor if he had a family member with him. So I asked, “You want your brother? You want Kweku?” “No”, he replied, “I want my Mother!” My heart sank.  Kwame’s mother was deceased. I was at a loss. My empathy ran deeper for him at that moment than it had for anyone else.  Here was a child, scared, injured, with a strange white girl who doesn’t even speak his native language who he’s known for less than four months trying in vain to fill the void his mother left when she passed away. What does someone do in that situation?  I took a deep breath and did my best: “Kwame,” I said, “I don’t know where your mother is.  But right now I am here, and I see you in pain, and all I can do for now is help your lip to stop hurting. Please come inside the clinic with me.”  I have no idea how much of this he understood, but it was a turning point for me in taking care of the kids.  Eventually he came into the clinic, received 2 shots and a couple of prescriptions but escaped without stitches.

I believe I took much more from the fiasco than he did, and my compassion in my work here has increased tenfold.