A Leg into Cosmopolitan Reality
To a program like the service project, I would typically show a degree of interest and willfulness. However, as the prospects of my service project came to limelight, so did this inexplicable, looming dread. I just did not want to do it. I did not want to leave my house and I did not want to be with people I did not know. This feeling did not change, although, I would like to think it was overshadowed by something bigger.
The first morning I arrived at De Marillac Centre (Hope for Street Children), I was directed into the conference room. There, I was given the register for students on ‘Internship’—referring to our service project. This room would serve as the venue for our daily morning briefings with generally all the staff. I wrote down the date, 1st August 2022. When more of us arrived we were given an orientation. We were taken round the compound. We were also informed of the organizations goals and visions.
De Marillac Centre is a project undertaken by the daughters of charity of St Vincent de Paul.
They provide children out on the streets, wiping windows and begging for change, with shelter, the opportunity of steady education and the miracle of uniting with their families. During the time I spent there, I could not help but scrutinize the organizational structure. They did not fail the test. The institution is set up in such a way that responsibilities are duly delegated and this permits smooth running of the day to day activities.
At the briefings in the morning, each person was to narrate to the group what he did the previous day and what he hoped to do that day. You would hear things like “Yesterday, I went to one of the children’s school to retrieve documents”, “Yesterday, I did some work on our social media handles”, “Today, I will be available for the activities of the day”. This gave me an idea of what each person in that room contributed to the organization. It erased dead weight. I too participated in these daily checks.
We started off with personal interactions with some of the children. It was awkward. We were tempted to shrink into our little JMC gist group. To avoid this temptation, we organized a general session of Know-Your-Neighbor. This was more interactive and, I even dare say, fun. For the remainder of that orientation day, we planned along with a staff on the things that we were going to teach.
We taught dance classes. It was Kaosi and Esther’s making. Every day at 2.30pm, we would gather the children, play music and teach dance steps. By default, our taste in music was a combination of Tiktok and African steps. We learnt the children’s preference, which did not align with ours. These differences sadly lead to the silent dissolution of dance classes. Though, the few times they were held, were resolved to dance competitions among the children and other games.
A typical day looked like this: I arrived before 8am, morning briefing, we taught three 1-hour classes with intervals of 15minutes, we had our lunch break, dance class, and then close of work.
I liked our schedule. We formed teacher-student bonds with the children and used that learning environment to enquire on their lives and experiences. The reverend sisters who were present also encouraged us to dedicate some lessons to what they called moral instruction where they re-oriented the children’s value system. My classes never really switched to moral instruction, I left that bit to the staff. At the start of things, classes were long and annoying. Annoying, because my students were in primary five, but they did not know how to read, spell, multiply three-digit-numbers, or sit in a place. I was frustrated because I felt like it was my responsibility to teach them all these things in just three weeks. The impossibility of it was overwhelming. I did not know where to start. One time, I brought a book of poem for them to read in class. They could not read so I asked them to repeat words after me. However, they would not be able to recognize the same word in some other text if I did not read it first. I had to drop the book and go all the way back to vowel sounds in two and three letter words for students who were in primary five! It was unbelievable. I wanted to give them as much as I could, to teach them as much as I could in the three short weeks. And so my dread for service project was obscured by this willingness to give, not sympathy or pity, but a thinking that was more like “These kids don’t know what they should, I can help them, so I will”. The stuff I taught was basic, but it needed repetition and repetition was exhausting. However, each day we accomplished something new whether it was knowing how to spell ‘duck fowl’ or learning to count in Roman Numerals. And it was rewarding both ways.
On Thursday, 11th of August 2022, we went on street work. Street work is an activity where the staff of the Centre go into known hideouts and shelters where groups of street children co-exist to sensitize them about the disadvantages of their current living conditions, convince them to stay in the Centre and encourage them to either further their education or learn a trade. On this fateful day, we all hopped in a car with three of the Centre’s staff. Car rides with your school mates are always fun. However, when we pulled up on our first stop, my fun was snapped in two. We were at some place where my mum and I usually passed on our way to the Centre every morning. It looked like a mini ghetto with trash and partially decomposed rubbish everywhere. We followed two of the Centre’s staff as they kept walking ahead, we had no choice but to follow. The ground was a generational layer of random people’s trash. I wore rugged shoes that day for exactly this reason. I still could not even move a foot without my head perpendicular to the ground, scrutinizing where I was about to stick my foot in. I continued walking, head to the ground, and before I knew what was happening, I found myself in the thick of the garbage, still advancing. I and my friends were now hiking through the mountains of dump that we thought we would only ever observe from the window of our SUVs. We came to halt at a makeshift shade created directly on top of the dump and we got to know this place as the comfortable home of the street boys that were now surrounding us.
I was completely freaked out. The staff exchanged some words in pidgin with them and explained that they were friends. I was relieved when we finally took our leave, however, only to go to yet another lion’s den. This time, it was an abandoned stadium where children were playing football. The staff woke up some boys who slept on the dilapidated chairs saying, ‘Day don break o, make you go hustle’. We spent little time before moving on to our final destination which gave me as much of a fright as the first. This place was more secluded than the other two, and they had a dog. Immediately I saw it, I told one of the staff that I had fear of dogs, but he just promised that it would not hurt me. They also had chickens running around. The people we met here were downright scary. There were cigarettes and all kinds of red flags. If I could drive, I would have hijacked the car and run away. Once again, the staff came down to their level, spoke with them, and then we left for the Centre, my safe place.
When we returned, one of the staff who accompanied us on the trip asked each of us these series of questions: How do you feel having seen the natural habitat of street children? If you were in a position to help, what would you do? What would you advice those in positions to help today? I personally had not ruminated on our trip to the extent of being able to candidly respond to those questions. I spent half of the trip overthinking and being frightened. However, now, my only response would have been that in a position to help, I hope that I will be non-hesitant in taking action, whether it may be funding institutions like De Marillac Centre or more personal endeavors. And then I would leave the answer to the other two questions locked in the dwelling chamber of my thoughts and conscience, inexpressible.
The next day, Friday, we began making plans for our closing ceremony that would be held on Tuesday. The staff informed us that we would not come to work on Monday to observe The Assumption of Mary into Heaven, as it was a hold day of obligation. We wanted the ceremony to be a sort of evaluation of all the things we taught and brought. We wanted the children to reflect what they had been given. The event played out just as we hoped. There were poem recitals, speeches and dance performances, all done by the children. We also awarded outstanding students in each of the classes. They were called out, clapped for, given a handshake and decorated with sweets. Afterwards, the real party began. We distributed all the food we brought to both staff and children. We played some games and danced to music. It was a befitting closure.
Looking back on everything we did, I am satisfied on how my service project unfolded. It was an awakening of all our consciences. Although, like what happened with one of the staff after our street work, the most common most accessible reaction to these things is sympathy, I have now witnessed how much more powerful and effectual that action is to just sitting and talking about gratitude. I know how I felt when I taught something to David or Prince and they would smile when they understood, I would smile too. Being in a position to help was the igniting part of this experience. I am aware that before we act, we must be convicted, and after we act, we must recollect, but what I have cherished most during these three weeks is the unique opportunity to truly serve as opposed to our usual resolve of prayer.