Osman

I was handed a letter the other day. It's from a teenage boy who lives down the street from my house. Every morning I walk past the stall where he sells cigarettes, soap, candy, etc. He sets up his stand, placing each item in the display as children pass on their way to school.

Dear Madam,

How are you? Hope everything is fine. I'm really happy and I appreciate the way you are talking to me. You make me remember some white people in my village. They were missionaries, they opened schools and churches in my village. They used to love me so much but due to the rebel war they returned back to their country. So that's why when I see you I remember them, because they promised to help but the war spoiled everything. I'm praying that Almighty God will make you succeed in anything that you are doing so that you will not forget me.

From,
Osman

The day he gave me the letter I went home and cried. I cried for all of the hopes and plans ruined by the war. I cried for the families forced to leave their homes, businesses, memories. I cried for Osman, a boy who lost everything and has now put his hope in me. Me who has nothing. Me who doesn't know how to handle the situation. I am not worthy of this.