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It is 6:30 am. The sun could be spotted just rising. The air is chilly and slightly foggy mostly from the highly polluted atmosphere than the weather elements. Tin huts, as the brick and cement housing structures are commonly referred to in the Tanzanian urban scenery, cluttered the whole area in the usual unplanned fashion. There was not much life at this hour but movement could be spotted here and there in a rushed fashion as students and adults alike hurried to catch the much cumbersome public transport. Some dressed for the office environment and some dressed in near tatters as they head to their various areas of work as paid laborers or businessmen. A few cars also went by in easy traffic escaping the more congested main roads by taking this back route. Women with plastic buckets could be spotted here and there carrying fresh fish from the fish market in town having gotten off the buses and on the side of the road some could be spotted sitting with containers selling the famous maandazi (doughnuts) and vitumbua (rice cakes) while some were on their verandas cooking the loved chapatti known to be taken for breakfast with tea.
Despite this seemingly placid scenario on a perfect morning, not all is well in this little example of what makes up a large part of Dar es Salaam. It is an area known for its unscrupulous characters, made up mostly by unemployed youths where thefts, sexual crimes, drug abuse and prostitution is the way of life not to mention superstition and witchery. In the urban colloquial this was the typical Uswahilini or Uswazi (street lingo) neighborhood.
Down the road, a small, lone figure could be spotted from afar, walking in a funny way. Obviously a small child, it was no wonder what he was doing out this early, for it is a normal thing to find and see small children as young as 2 years old walking alone along a tarmac road or along inner street paths that snake between the housing structures. Perhaps this would explain why no one had noticed this particular child.
Eyes glassy and unseeing with the shock of trauma, his face was tear-streaked. Barely able to, he was walking seemingly aimlessly. He was obviously confused with his surroundings apparently unbeknown to him. His small white t-shirt; worn out with a few torn areas on the hem, did nothing to cover his nakedness as from the waist down nothing protected him. He was a little over 2 feet tall and looked to be around 5-6 years old.
He was half crouching-half walking, his face in a permanent wince as he made his way down the sidewalk of the recently repaired road. His naked bottom was caked with a mixture of feces and blood. His little legs were trembling. One could see his very soul crawling to safe haven. No one needed ask what had happened to this little angel robbed of his innocence in the most brutal of ways. He was sodomized. How many times and for how long no one knows but obviously enough to render him unable to stand up straight or walk. Where was his mother? Where was his home? What happened to him? It is one of the many stories that remain untold to-date. Nobody was seeing this desolate little boy. Not until the passengers of a ramshackle bus saw him and made the driver stop so they can help.
Angry and crying out in pain, a woman frantically screamed to the driver to stop the bus immediately. She got off along with many others, ripped the khanga off her waist and ran to wrap it around the little boy, hugging him to her while she cried. Another passenger, a man, pried the boy from the woman’s arms and carried him while another helped the woman to her feet and they all started the journey to the nearest police station to report the issue.
That was the first and last Zakhia saw of the little boy from where she sat numb in the bus, wrapped in a cold blanket of terror and rage. Wondering in her heart months later how the boy was, how the mother must have felt upon being told what happened to his son and even more so wondering in the first place where the mother or the boy’s family was when this indescribable act of violation happened to him, she recalled the pain as fresh as it was the day she saw his small form naked, violated and exposed walking down that road. The basic, animal instinct of protectiveness and fierce anger that did not let go of her for a long time every time she thought of seeing the mad, sick monster who could perform such acts of violence on another human being. The pure anger that threatened to turn her into a monster of her own kind, consumed by thoughts of punishing the perpetrator and seeking justice for the little boy’s lost virtue. From the depths of her womb she felt the anger rise in a wave that threatened to spill out from her mouth like a swarm of bees from a tree trunk.
It was a mark that has definitely altered this boy’s life. To make matters worse, in a country where treating and nurturing mental health is not a common practice; where the word “stress” is not in the local vocabulary it is with sheer luck that this boy’s mental well-being will be looked after to help him heal from the trauma.
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Abigail-Precious Ambweni
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