This Is My Health

They held their hands out to us as we walked past, cupped, as if awaiting a downpour of shillings. They always want money, even if they only ask for bread. "Wazungu... wazungu," the boys kept calling after us. We didn't even look, but just kept walking. We were on our way back to Sang'alo after staying the night in Eldoret just for a little escape. Our escape didn't seem like a very good one though, after seeing a man beaten bloody for stealing on the streets.

"Wazungu," they still called. I finally turned around to look one of the boys in the face, firmly saying no. He simply held a plastic bottle up to his mouth and nose and breathed deeply. Glue. They all had it.

We continued to the market to get a couple of things, and while we were there, Morgan started to cry, her heart broken for the boys. We bought some rolls to give them. It's a basic rule to never, ever, ever give street children money. Never. They will use it to buy glue or something else. I've also adopted the other rule of never giving them anything packaged, because they could also sell it and use the money for glue.

We started walking back towards the hotel and came across the boys again. We could tell even from far away that they were wasted... more high than i could have imagined. They saw us approaching and came with one hand held out, one hand clutching the bottle of glue. Their eyes were completely glazed over; they couldn't really even look us in the face. Morgan showed them the bread. "I will give you bread if you give me your glue," she said to them. They just looked at her with a blank stare. "If you give me your glue, I will give you bread. No glue, no bread." People started noticing the 3 Wazungus talking to the street children and stopped to watch. The boys held their hand out again, still clinging to the glue. "No glue, no bread." A lady finally stopped beside us with a slight smile on her face. We asked her to explain in Swahili that if they would give us their glue, we would give them their bread. She did, and the boys turned, tucking their glue into their shirts and pants, yet still looking at us for the bread. "This is my health," one boy said. I held my hand out. "Give me your glue and I will give you bread." I said it a few more times, and they finally turned their bodies away, but still looked at us. "Fine." We walked away.

I glanced behind me only to see them following us from a short distance. I told the other girls, but we still kept walking. Finally, I turned around abruptly, catching one of them close behind, and held out my hand again. "You give me your glue, I will give you bread." No response. Morgan finally got a little irritated and said, "You give me your glue, I will give you bread. No glue, no bread. But DO NOT follow us. We are trying to help. Do not follow." We walked away; they did not follow.

We'd almost made it back to the hotel when we saw one of the boys running up to us from behind. He held a bottle out to us. I took it from him and Morgan gave him some bread. "You did the right thing," Leah assured him. He took the bread and looked back at Morgan with an expectant, glazed-over expression, as if he were waiting for more bread. I looked at him and said, "This bread is for you, not for your friends. For you. If they want bread, they can find us and give us their glue." Again, we walked away.

We were approached by at least 3 or 4 more boys before we made it out of the city. None of them were willing to give up their glue. As we rode back to the village, I began to think about what the one boy said - "This is my health." Street boys are typically orphans with nowhere to go. They have no one to take care of them, no one to feed them. They can go days without eating at all. They could resort to stealing, but everyone knows you can be beated to death. They resort to glue instead. They buy a bottle, sharing it between themselves by pouring little bits into empty plastic liquor bottles. The fumes are so strong, like our rubber cement. The glue keeps them from feeling hungry or cold, not to mention it helps them escape reality for a little while. I began to realize that if I were in their position, a piece of bread wouldn't be enough for me to give up my glue either. What happens once the bread is gone and the hunger returns? What are they supposed to do after we are gone and can't buy them bread? I knew that the one boy would have more glue by nightfall. That's just a given. But the thing that troubles me is that this is their existence. Huffing glue is all they know. They are beyond addicted - they survive off of it. They cannot live without it, not on the streets anyway.

Where is the hope for these children? Who will look them in the eye and say you are worth more than fumes and worth more than begging? I will give you bread if you give me your glue.