I saw him in the corner of my eye as I was looking to see that I didn’t step in anything untoward. He wore a school uniform and an expression of deeply embedded sadness. It was about 3 o’clock and school was out for the day.
I flashed back to my memories of post-school freedom. As the clock edged its way towards home time I would find myself distracted by a longing for the ‘creature comforts’ that awaited me. I would be welcomed home by loving parents, snack, play, read and watch television until it was time to eat yet more nutritious food. I anticipated a womb-like safety.
Then I was struck by the reality of his expression. When his school day ended he knew there was nothing to look forward to. He knew that he would walk through the maze of shacks back to his tiny, dank home. There was no one eagerly anticipating his arrival. The night ahead would bring with it a cold dampness, the threat of disease, and, amid the distant shouts of alcohol-fueled domestic violence, a bitter awareness of his lonely insignificance.
At his age I didn’t even know sadness like this existed.
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