Street Children
on Anthony Lovat in Bolgatanga (Ghana), Unknown, 34 days ago
Kwesi and I met Attia on Thursday evening and rode our motorbikes in convoy to the cluster of bat infested junior high school classroom blocks just off the main road where he teaches the street children maths and English. We arrived at 7:30 to find a few children already assembled. They ranged in age from, I guessed, seven to thirteen. The younger ones were quiet, shy and nervous. They sat alone on the rickety wooden stools holding their hands fearfully in their laps and looking at the ground. The older ones were noisy and bouncy. Their confident smiles bordered on arrogance. Their bold and immediate questions bordered on, by the standards of behaviour I have come to expect in this country, disrespect. These children have not had the security and discipline that family life provides. They’ll need a fairly firm hand. I shot them a universally understood ‘teacher’s glare’ and they calmed down. They were all angels compared with an average bunch of similarly aged British kids.Luckily, Attia knew just how to handle them. More children drifted in and the seats began to fill. Attia talked with them in the local language, Guruni, enquired after their health, their situations, and their work. The children were all skinny but looked strong– tough, dark, wiry muscles poked through their ragged and dirty clothes. Their lives are hard – carrying loads on their heads in the lorry park, competing with their peers for the work, toiling in the hot sun for a few small coins that must be sent back to their family.Kwesi and I introduced ourselves to the twenty or so curious faces. Despite learning English with Attia every week, they struggled to understand my words, even basic vocabulary spoken slowly, deliberately and with actions. I watched them struggle to keep up with my meaning– the realisation that they would be playing music, learning new instruments and playing in a concert slowly dawned on them. I saw the understanding creep into their little faces. They would look to their neighbours for confirmation, say a few quiet words of Guruni, and translate what they thoughtI’d said. After I’d finished articulating our plans, including times, days and venues, Attia repeated in Guruni and the children, without exception, broke into wide grins and spontaneous applause. Word will spread, Attia promised. They will all be there for the first session the following evening.We arrived early and set the instruments. All the members of TangaCulture were there to meet our pupils. We had told them to come at 7pm. We had laid out chairs and bought bottles of cokes to welcome them. We planned to play for them, introduce ourselves and our instruments and then answer any questions. They teaching would start in earnest next week. By 7:45, no children had arrived and I was starting to worry. Maybe these children don’t really want to learn music. Perhaps, given all the more pressing problems they have in their young lives, they see playing music as a trivial and inconsequential luxury – far more important to earn money and qualifications. Maybe these children have had to grow up too quickly and so have become too haggard and cynical for such musical distractions. Perhaps the childish dream to play a musical instrument has been lost, something that only children seem to have the strength of will and patience to achieve.And then, just before eight o’clock, nearly forty street children walked in – all at the same time. Too shy to enter one by one, they had all organised to congregate elsewhere and then arrive on mass. When they saw the band, the microphones, the drums, the guitar and the speakers, their mouths dropped. Their eyes opened wide, taking the full scene into their consciousness. Attia was right – the word had spread and they were all there. Never have I seen a group of children so appreciative.The older and more confident children danced. The majority sat obediently, in awe of their circumstance. Attia moved amongst them, encouraging them to speak up, joking with them, putting their minds at ease. I introduced each member of TangaCulture and then, to see how much they understood, quizzed them on who each member was, testing them on our names and what instruments we play. We laughed and praised their good memories. The children smiled happily and contentedly.We had a few questions. How does the microphone work? Will we be able to dance? Will I be in trouble if I can’t come one week?The children lined up for their cokes– youngest at the front, oldest at the back. They shuffled up one by one for their bottles and then sat huddled on their haunches in the corner of the courtyard, silently slurping their sugary treats. “Thank you,” each small child said almost secretly as they returned their bottles.We saw them to the exit and watched them troop back down the dark unlit road in the direction of the lorry park. They live in a dangerous insecure world. How easy it would be to take advantage of a child so disenfranchised, so poverty stricken, so insignificant.The following day I was riding through town when I heard a cry of“Mr. Anthony!” I looked across to see two skinny boys in rags at the side of the road holding hands, grinning broadly and frantically waving their little hands at me. I waved back and smiled behind the motorcycle helmet. Their childhood dreams have not yet been lost.