They´re just kids

This story took place more than five years ago during the months I stayed in Ghana. And its lesson continues to grow with me over the years.

There was nothing particular about that day. It was the usual sharp sunshine, the kind that makes you want to take a nap at 11 am, and the dense traffic of the busy hours. I was on my way to the shopping mall. After stepping off public transportation, I found myself on the bridge leading to the main road that I needed to cross before entering the shopping mall’s parking lot. That’s when I saw what felt like a wave of beggar children. In reality, there were probably only two or three—four at most—but their presence overwhelmed me.

I felt uncomfortable, and my only goal at that moment was to get out of this situation as fast as possible.  And so, I held my bag tight and sped my steps.

And when I finally managed to distance myself from that human wave and connected with my breath again, a strange emotion surfaced, and I couldn’t shake it off. It was taking over my mind. And it became clear that I wasn’t at peace with my reaction. I wasn’t proud of it at all. It clashed so much with the good person I so fiercely wanted to be.

 I felt guilty and ashamed of myself.

A few hours later, on my way back from the mall, I saw a man next to his motorbike, relaxed and in full trust of his surroundings. Around him were some of the same children I was so afraid of earlier. They were gathered around his motorbike, laughing together as if they’d known each other forever. Intrigued by the ordinariness of the scene and yet its unfamiliar beauty, I moved closer.

I don’t remember exactly what I asked the man – but the genuineness of his answer stayed with me. 

They´re just kids, he said. 

They were just kids. As simple as that.

He saw them for who they were and gave them the space to simply be. In his presence, they weren’t scary, dirty beggars anymore. They were children—with faces, voices, and stories. Next to him, they had become full humans again.

The simplicity of his answer hit me at my core. For the first time, I, too, could see them for who they were—children. I noticed their beautiful hair, the candour of their faces, the warm golden tone of their skin, and the intriguing colours of their eyes. I heard their contagious laughter.  They were not scary, dirty beggars anymore. They no longer seemed repulsive or unapproachable. They were just kids.

That man, probably a taxi motorbike on a break, was not giving them any money or food; he was not displaying anything fancy or material. But what he was giving these children felt infinitely more precious.  He was giving them his truth – his ability to see them for what they truly were. And in doing so, he allowed those children to reconnect with their truth.

And he allowed me to reconnect with mine.