One life

He sat on the side of the road at the roundabout, listless and still. His shirt hung off his impossibly thin shoulders and his legs stuck out straight in front of him. He had dirt dusting his shorts and face, but the first thing I noticed were his feet. Almost everyone in my neighborhood wears shoes, even the children, but his feet were worn and bare.

I stood across the roundabout waiting for my ride. I felt a pull to go to him, to ask if everything was okay and how I could help. But those seemed ridiculous questions- how could he be okay?

I walked over to where he sat, but he didn’t look up. He didn’t move at all. I felt others watch, wondering what the white girl would do. I wanted to invite him to my house, give him a shower and a change of clothes, take him to the clinic down the street and give him meals and medicine until he was better. I wanted to show him love and give him hope.

He looked to be about my age, but it was hard to tell because years of sickness and hunger had distorted his body. His bony arms, marked by avenues of protruding veins, sat lifeless at his side. I did not know what to do and I was scared. What will other people think? Will he understand me when I speak? What if he is dangerous? What if his problems are too complex for me to help?

“Here is some money,” I said under my breath as I held out a bill. He snatched it from my hand and put it in his shorts, never looking up. I continued walking and waited for the car about a block down the road. A few minutes later he stood up and walked away. Everyone he passed turned and stared. He was out of place even here, exceptionally thin in a country filled with malnutrition. I saw a mother reprimanding her son, and they stopped what they were doing to watch him walk by, slowly, jauntily.

I felt a sudden and violent pain in my stomach. I had allowed my fears to prevent me from helping this man, this human. He deserved dignity, and all I could do was hand him enough money for a meal. Am I not here to serve? Am I not here to love? Am I not here, in this world, to care for the orphans and the widows and the “least of these”? It is easy when the widow is a kind grandma who needs someone to talk to, or the orphan is a girl with braids who wants to play. What if the “least of these” is a sick, desperate man with difficult problems sitting on the side of the road?

In public health, we design programs to improve the health of populations. The malaria program I am here to work on has the potential to save, literally, thousands of lives in Sierra Leone. But, how can I ignore the one life right in front of me?