Tuamkeni

In the slums of Arusha exists an orphanage aptly named Tuamkeni, the Swahili phrase for wake up. Coming here each day consists of two dangerously bumpy dala dala rides and a short walk past rundown shacks selling soda and patterned kitanga fabrics. Dust settles in my sleek hair and sticks between my toes, like glue. As a volunteer, I teach the children English and facilitate mealtime, often the only food the child receives until the following day.
Today, Amina takes me for a walk across the river to visit Kelvin Roberts’ home. He is one of five children diagnosed AIDS at Tuamkeni. At six years old, Kelvin walks thirty minutes to and from school, five times a week. His home is a tiny shack smaller than my bedroom. The coffee table, on which his grandmother served us chai tea, stood wobbly on three legs. I hesitate as I think: this tea is for the children. But I respectfully received the cup from her wrinkled, weary hands. Quickly, I swallowed the tea, scrounging my mind for something to say.
Kelvin’s brother Abu barged in kicking a “soccer ball,” an apple-sized ball wrapped in a black plastic bag. No Barbies or Legos. Tears form in my eyes as guilt and shame saluted me. Kelvin would not make it past his teenage years, let alone see the Ngorongoro crater. In spite of his shortcomings, Kelvin maintains a pleasant demeanor at Tuamkeni, but perched on the desolate sofa, he epitomizes fragility.
On the walk back, I am unbothered by the locals calling out to me—my mind is focused on the children’s blue sweaters and light blue collared shirts, already missing the dark curious hands that stroke strands of my hair, fascinated by its shine and smooth texture. I pass President Obama’s face on a street advertisement, a blatant symbol of hope for the future, a revered leader.
I am touched. Physically and emotionally. Tanzania’s vibrant, welcoming culture immerses me, slicing open my mind, tossing my beliefs and values, and regurgitating new perspectives. Tuamkeni.