Street Kids. City Crimes.

It is Sunday today. The city center of Mombasa is quiet. Closed shops and deserted roads.

I think best when I am walking (or in car rides), and think I did as I walked those deserted streets. Professor Tun Myint had just sent pupils in his Approaches to development class with a list of textbooks, and I wondered how going back to Carleton would be like and also learning more about development through academic lenses. Mio had sent me an email, and I wondered how the Carls would be studying in the libe for their finals now.

I also thought about a kid named Andrew, whom I met as I was leaving the internet cafe, after checking the emails. He is a street kid. But unlike most street kids, who sniff glue and hassle passerbys for money, Andrew said, "I want to go to school but I can't. I need a sponsor." That could very well have been a ploy for money, but he was sincere, and I could tell that he had the potential to succeed, if given the opportunity.

I think most street kids would too. They may appear aggressive, rude, and dirty. But these are consequences of their cirumstances. Once, I was hassled a group of these children. One grabbed my hand, but I just yanked it off and kept walking. It was a [natural] response but when I had sometime to think, I regreted it. These children need love, and care. Not strangers giving them hostilities when they are begging for help. I hadn't want to repeat that.

I told Andrew that I would think about how best I could help him and that I would find him again. With that, I continued walking, and thinking. And I also texted a friend of mine, Danny, who has doing a study on street kids about the organizations. He gave me two names... I was planning on finding Andrew, and refering him to one of these organizations.

Perhaps I was too deep in thoughts that I had neglected reality. It had slipped my mind to pay more attention to my my cell phone and wallet as I approached a busy matatu (bus) stand. It was packed and crowded. Conductors touted for passengers. As I creened through the crowd, I felt a tug on my pockets. I checked my pockets. They were gone.

I looked around. There was a kid walking quickly away, turning back to look at someone. Me, perhaps. I followed him. He circled the matatu. I caught up with him. He looked like he wasn't older than 15 years. He wore rugged jeans and a baggy shirt which was probably not his.

You took my phone, I accused him. He replied, No. And he showed me his front pockets of the jeans. I wasn't sure what to do then. I thought it was him who stole. But I didn't know for sure. If I had insisted on searching him, I could have get my valuables back. But I would also have made a scene.

And if it wasn't him? I didn't want to accuse him of something he didn't do.

So I walked off. Found someone that would lend me a phone and called my number. (It was probably wishful thinking to imagine that the thief would answer it...) The phone was turned off.
I walked back home. And wondered if these kids have learnt these means of survival. Stealing. Lying. Tricking people into giving money.

I am not sure.

I tried looking for Andrew on the way, but he wasn't there. There was also nothing I could have done, or wanted to do, except for thinking about

lost phone
street kids
poverty
lack of opportunities
learning skills of survival
but not education

what I could have done. Or could be doing.

------------------
What would you have done?