The Albino

This morning, we drove into Zomba  to get a few  groceries at Shoprite and to give Imran directions for making our kitchen curtains.  At the only traffic light in town was  a young boy, maybe 12 years old, with fair, sunburned skin, a heap of tight blond curls, and squinting eyes.  I focused on him initially because he  is  an albino. Although albinos are rare, I have seen a few in the months we have been living here. 

For the fourth week in a row, Shoprite didn't have any cheese, but they did have cookies and chocolate! We picked up a few packs of cookies and a chocolate bar and drove around the block to Imran's shop. We left Imran with directions for the curtains and promised to be by later in the afternoon to pick them up. 

We pulled up to the traffic light  and saw the young albino, this time standing on the small concrete lane divider in the middle of the road, glancing first one direction, and then another. His anxious face was tightly drawn and his eyes narrowed. Why was he there? Was he waiting for someone? 

We had a busy day planned with several items on our to-do list. George took me home to get some work done then drove back into town to pick up Daniel who would direct  him to a mechanic who could service our truck. As it turned out, the mechanic lives a distance out of Zomba on an almost unnavigable dirt road.  (By the way  he doesn't own a vehicle.) A few needed supplies had to be purchased  back  in Zomba, so George and Daniel drove him into town to purchase these in the market. Eventually, the truck had new diesel and air filters and an oil change. George was pleased.

Back at the house, George and I sat down to do some writing while Daniel painted our  water stained ceilings. Two hours later, it was time to drop Daniel off in town. George picked up the curtains from Imran and was leaving Zomba when he saw the young albino still in the middle of the road.  When George returned home and  told me about seeing the boy again in town, we realized that what we had seen was troubling both of us. We sat at the dining table and prayed for him, that God would protect him and show the boy His love. As soon as we prayed, we both knew what we had to do. We are usually home well before dark, but tonight we would go looking for the boy and, if we could find him, give him some food. Beyond praying for him, that was all we knew to do. 

When we arrived in town the nearby mosque was sounding the call to prayer. The dark streets were nearly vacant, but there were some homeless people huddled in doorways. Then we saw the young boy  sitting on the median in the same intersection, his face occasionally lit by a passing car.  

We  drove a little farther then made a u-turn to pull up near him. George asked if he was ok. He said he was ok. We asked his name, but neither of us caught it. (It was a Chichewa name with about five syllables and he was speaking very softly.) George asked if he was hungry and handed him the bag of food, but as soon as it left George's hand, the boy was opening it. We told him God loves him and  that we would pray for him.  Just as we were pulling away, the boy said, "Tomorrow."

Is this child a runaway, throwaway, or abandoned? Do we have a role to play?May God give us wisdom.