Little street urchin I chased away continues to haunt me

IFIRST saw him when he was a curlyhaired little street urchin begging for change at the traffic lights, barely tall enough to reach my car window. Instead of throwing him a dime, I ordered him to go home. I promised to give him a spanking if I saw him loitering again.

My anger and frustration was based on the fact that he was barely five years old and yet he was alone and begging. Surely no parent would allow a kid so young to be out on the streets alone? He must be one of those naughty kids who don’t like staying at home.

That was in 2001, a decade before female beggars with babies flooded intersections. We were almost 10 years into the euphoria of post-apartheid freedom and we were glowing from the illusion of a rainbow nation and an economic boom. A kid on his own in suburbia and not in Joubert Park or Hillbrow? Haikhona!

The little street urchin was a few years older than my two toddlers, another factor that made it inconceivable he was there alone.

I kept my promise and never gave him a dime and whenever I saw him, I told him to go home.

This forced him to move further away when I approached. The cat-and-mouse game went on for months, if not years. Then he disappeared. It must have been pressure from parents like me that forced him to stop his nonsense and go back to his family. How wrong I was.

He resurfaced some time last year. Although taller, he was too short for someone his age. He could be about 19 or 20.

I doubt he has been inside a classroom. He has his trademark curly hair and is dirtier and seems intoxicated. He is also not alone. There is an older guy with him, far taller than he is. Sometimes I see them waking up under the trees and draped in filthy blankets that have holes in them.

Then in June, I was walking down Columbine Street in Mondeor and the little street urchin and his lanky mate walked past me. I walked behind them for some distance. There was no conversation between the two. It was as if they were sleepwalking. They would walk further apart then bump against each other only to separate again. They repeated this all the way down the road.

As I tagged behind them my mind went back to the day I first saw him. His protestations that he didn’t have a home fell on deaf ears.

But today I hear the truth. In fact, I see it. All along the child had no one to take care of him. He was alone, hungry and scared on the streets while I drove past merrily with my two kids. All I did was judge him.

A coin or a piece of bread could have gone a long way. Maybe water on a hot summer’s day would have been welcomed. Instead, I poured scorn over his needs.

My eyes welled with tears but I kept walking behind them. He walks on his toes and is delicate, as if he is as light as a feather and could be blown away any minute by strong winds.

Surely people who have no baggage travel light? But I feel heavy. I’m wondering what his life would have been like had I taken the time to listen and perhaps offered him a home or food? Could I have saved him from a life of drugs, neglect and poverty?

Every day he and his mate go up and down Columbine in search of food, booze and, I guess, drugs because I often see them either high or drunk. They take whatever they are given.

They are never aggressive and simply shout “Awes” and share “knuckles” with some schoolkids and move on.

Once it rained and their blankets were sopping wet and they were running somewhere. I wondered where. I almost called out and brought them home. I didn’t have the guts to do that because since he is older I don’t trust him and his mate.

Clearly they have made peace with their lot. But the fact that the little street urchin’s plight brings tears to my eyes is confirmation I haven’t made peace with the decision I took 14 years ago to reject him instead of stretching out a hand. I will never know how the boy might have turned out.

Twice or thrice a week, I give him a dime that he accepts with gratitude. I don’t think he remembers me. What he doesn’t know and will probably never know is that I am that person who didn’t stop long enough to listen.

It is true that we regret most of the things we didn’t do, than those we did. Zingisa Mkhuma is the news editor for The Star’s sister paper, The Sunday Independent