Musings Incognito

The Little Boy from Lesotho

Our trip to Lesotho in June 2009 was a life-changing experience, but, on one particular afternoon with the sun glistening on the snow-capped mountains, I met a little boy who I have since never forgotten.

I’m not a huge believer in fate, but I believe this circumstance was different. I was meant to meet this boy. He ran up to me, beaming smile on his innocent face, incoherently babbling as his pupils danced their way across my sun-pinked features. I tried to communicate with him in basic Sethu, but it was soon clear that he could speak no Sethu himself. He was mentally-challenged.

What struck me most about him, however, was how cold he was. His arms, as thin and weak as old damp twigs, rattled against his body as if he had no control over them. His teeth, with holes as big as marbles, chattered as he desperately tried to say something, to MEAN something. He grabbed my hand, pulling me, seeking the attention that had escaped him his whole life due to his inability to communicate.

The setting reflects his situation – Lesotho is a desperately poor nation, yet one that holds such unbelievable beauty. In every direction the picturesque mountains are strewn with smooth soft snow; in every sense, nature seems to explode into your very being. What lies in between such splendour, though, is nothing short of utter destituteness. Wooden huts, scattered irregularly over the cold hard plain, stand defiant, yet completely incapable of holding in any kind of warmth. Smoke echoes through the gaping crevices, as the hungry desperately attempt to scrape together something resembling a meal. This is life at its poorest.

And yet, the Little Boy from Lesotho was happy. He was cold, he was poor, he couldn’t speak, he had no friends, no education, no hope, no future, and yet he was happy. In my darkest moments, I see his smile. How could anything I face compare to anything he does?