Today, as I was leaving the site of my second lunch in three hours (shut up), a young boy came up to me with what is a common sight in Harare these days. It is a typed up letter, or sponsorship form, introducing the bearer and explaining that he needs funds – usually for school. Occasionally, the child will have some sort of unsightly disfigurement – a badly burnt face, a deformed limb – and he will ask for money to pay for corrective surgery.
Today, the boy I met was Albert. He said he was 14 yet he looked about 8 or 9. He was so small.
Then the guard, whose job it is to chase away loiterers, beggars and street vendors, told me that Albert was a big fat con artist and was always there collecting money – mainly from soft-hearted white people (the guard’s words) – and that this boy had made a killing exploiting people’s compassion. This surprised me and, to be honest, a small part of me thought: “Oh good – he’s a tiny little fraudster. Now I don’t have to give him anything.” But Albert insisted that the guard’s accusations were untrue. The guard then told us that if we wanted to continue our conversation, we would have to do it off the premises.
I considered driving off super speedily and leaving Albert and his tragedy of ambiguous authenticity a shrinking blur in my rear view mirror. I think he saw this plan of action play out in my eyes because he bolted to the only exit, faster than I could ignite the car engine.
We talked a little. Part of me was like: Don’t ask him douchey questions like you are some sort billionaire philanthropist, Iris. The other part said: Being asked a couple of questions is hardly going to be the worst thing that happens to Albert today, or tomorrow.
- He’s 14
In Form 1
So far has $32 of the $147 he needs for a semester’s tuition.
He is orphaned – according to him, his Dad died of TB and his mom died of cramps
He used to have a white benefactor (Albert added the “white”) who paid his school fees. (I didn’t ask what happened to this benefactor, I was too busy looking around to make sure that Albert didn’t have some chums lurking in the bushes, ready to jump out and mug me. Sorry, but true story.)
I only had USD$6 left, gourmand that I am, so that had to do. I asked him if he was going to use it for something other than going to school. He, of course, said no. Then I asked him how I would know that he was really going to school. And he said he offered to bring his report cards to me on a regular basis.
And then I drove off and blogged about him.
The end.
But not really. What is the right thing to do for kids like Albert, of which there must be tens, if not hundreds, of thousands? What if most of them are cons?
With their raggedy clothes and their pitifully worn letters of appeal. I’ve heard about how in China, begging is actually big business. Organized by conniving, soulless opportunists who think nothing of disfiguring a newborn baby by mangling her soft limbs to amp up the pity factor when begging agents go on their assignments. I don’t know if this is true, but I’ve heard it from enough people that it is too easy to believe. What if Albert is part of a similar cooperative? A spindly band of physically underdeveloped brothers who tug at our heart strings by being desperate to do what no other right-minded teenager is keen to do: go to school. Such poignant incongruity would soften the heart of even the most unfeeling hag. But what if it is all a giant con?
Then again: what if it isn’t?
Albert's Letter
