Sam

Last Sunday, we took a rainy afternoon walk on a beach about 30 minutes outside of Freetown. I wrote yesterday that we had the place to ourselves. Well, that was almost true. We actually made a new friend there. His name is Sam. Here he is with Oli:

Sam is 10 years old, he told us as he walked with us down the beach, and he’s in class four at school. He had seen us strolling by in the rain and decided to come out to join us, despite the dreary weather. He seemed like an earnest little kid, and he spoke better English than many of the boys and girls I’ve met in Freetown.

Standing next to him, I was immediately aware that one side of his body wasn't quite right. His left foot dragged awkwardly behind him, and his shrunken left forearm stayed firmly curled up against his chest. He moved awkwardly and slowly, clearly struggling to walk across the thick wet sand.   

“What’s your favorite subject in school?” I asked, slowing my pace to match his.

“Math,” he declared. “I want to be a math teacher when I’m grown.”

He suddenly tripped and fell forward, landing hard on his side. He seemed fine, if a bit embarrassed. He stood up and I helped brush him off while Oli rinsed his sandals, which had filled with sand.

“Does your family live nearby?” I asked as we resumed our stroll. The rain had begun to pick up again.

“Yes,” he answered, pointing down the beach. “I live just over there with my aunty and my brothers and sisters. Both my parents are dead.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied, not sure what more to say. We walked on in silence and I wondered whether his parents had succumbed to violence, disease, or perhaps pure hunger. This country has many killers.   

Sam followed us to the car and lingered as we put our shoes back on. It was clear that he was hoping for some sort of tip. I knew what he expected of me, and to be honest I was happy to play the role of emotionally vulnerable tourist. It certainly didn’t feel like acting.

I knelt down, touched Sam’s shoulder and pressed a 5,000 leone note (about $1.25) into his hand. I could feel my throat start to tighten with emotion.

“You promise me you’ll do your homework” I told him, feeling suddenly and very deeply invested in this little boy’s future. “You study hard and you’ll be a math teacher one day – your parents would be so proud of you.” He met my gaze and nodded slowly, then turned and walked back toward the beach, money in hand. 

I got in the car and we pulled away, with the windshield wipers batting furiously. I started to cry quietly as I looked back out the window.    

It was a confusing moment: my heart ached for Sam and all of the other children like him here in Sierra Leone. But I was also aware that Sam might have been lying to me – or at least exaggerating to increase both the size and likelihood of a potential monetary gift. I had no way of knowing. Either way, though, I was happy to have met him and glad to have offered up that tiny bit of cash.

I’d like to go back to that beach sometime soon and find Sam again. Next time, though, I think I’ll bring him a calculator.