African Damaged Goods Bolgatanga, Ghana West Africa Sunday, September 2, 2007
This woman sits in the streets, the rains come, the world passes her by, she stops being a person, she becomes an object, she is African Damaged Goods.
This women is difficult for me, there is a small dysfunctional hook in my brain that needs to save women. I know this exist, I am fortunate; I know where the path leads.
She sits, mumbled, jumbled, wrapped in cloth, eating rice with her fingers, scraping the gourd bowl. She is nuts, crazy, over the edge, I am happy someone gave her food, I wanted to give her money, she does not ask, I do not force a person to be a beggar, they have to make the choice, I am worried. The worst of the worst, do not ask for money, they are over the edge, they need approached.
Orphans, and street children, small urchins I have not found in Africa, they grow up to be big urchins, not my worry, I do not think about children. However, I do worry about the certifiable crazies walking around naked, confused, mumbling, talking to the Gods, the stars, and I pray not to me, too dirty to touch, to much to endure.
Orphans have no parents, they will survive, this person has no mind, she has stopped being a person, she is now, African Damaged Goods. Hell, I do not know what she needs, I cannot save her. I saw her the first morning after a huge rain, lying at this junction in the road. What does it feel to be in the street, wet, raining, and not have sense to climb into a hole, or maybe she is afraid, only the street will allow her to sit, there is no safe place for her.
What does she need, a plastic bag to cover herself, a blanket, money, what does she need? I have a meter of cloth, I was going to make it into a shirt, I will give it to her, I want her to feel warm, I feel cold.