"En Afrique" —
“Matthew 5:42 — What to do?”

by Gerald Stephens Jr.

“We’re children of the street,” she says when I ask where she lives. I don’t believe her. Eight, maybe nine-years old, always barefoot and wearing rags. From time to time she’s seen tending to an infant, who, I assume is her sister. A street orphan wouldn’t have an infant sister. Or would she? I wonder.

Our conversation always begins when she appears at my side saying, “Donnez-moi cent francs!” Usually, I’m walking across town with my mind nailed to some impending church problem. Her voice is harsh, demanding. It jolts loose my thoughts. I look down. Her hand is stretched toward me, palm up.

A hundred francs. Comes to about 25 cents. In my pocket, a wad of 100-franc notes the size of a baseball. I look around us. Among a national population whose average age is 24, tons of children are everywhere. Now, throngs of them are watching me and the girl, her hand still outstretched as she keeps to my side. I worry: “If I give her money, I’ll draw a huge press of kids, maybe twenty or thirty, each clamoring for a hundred francs.”

I walk faster. She keeps up. “Papa Gerald,” she says softly. Where did she learn my name? “J’ai faim.” I’m hungry. I do believe her. I walk faster. She keeps up.

Surreptitiously, I reach into my pocket and free a 100-franc note from the rubber-banded wad of bills. Hand still in pocket, I wad and crunch the paper into a tiny ball.

Withdrawing my hand from my pocket, I over-dramatically shake my head and shout, “Non!” I raise my open-palmed hand and drop it. A blade chopping air. A great gesture of denial.

“Non!” I shout again.

I stop. She stops. Her brown eyes, wide with hope, gaze into mine. She knows the bill is tucked tightly between my thumb and forefinger. We’ve done this many times before. I bring my open palm down on her outstretched hand, as if knocking it away. The tiny wad lands in her hand. Quickly, she clutches it and pretends to sulk away.