Abdul...
I was leaving my compound when one of the kids called me. He normally just greets shyly so it was clear that he had news. 'You know that small boy', he said waving his hand toward the houses near mine. 'He's dead, ma'.
I knew he meant Abdul straight away, but I tried to think of other small boys that it could be. The uncushioned words, the unexpectedness of it all, the powerlessness in the wake of it combined to make it all a bit unreal. But it was real. My smiley 8-year old neighbour died from an illness that crept up on him. There was no hint of it the week before when he carried my bags home for me. Like he had been doing for the previous 18 months. Not when I asked him about school, not when he treaded through the neighbours ducks and chickens, not when he ran off to play football with the bigger boys.
Too many Nigerian children die from largely unexplained illnesses. Illnesses that Irish children dont die from.
I knew he meant Abdul straight away, but I tried to think of other small boys that it could be. The uncushioned words, the unexpectedness of it all, the powerlessness in the wake of it combined to make it all a bit unreal. But it was real. My smiley 8-year old neighbour died from an illness that crept up on him. There was no hint of it the week before when he carried my bags home for me. Like he had been doing for the previous 18 months. Not when I asked him about school, not when he treaded through the neighbours ducks and chickens, not when he ran off to play football with the bigger boys.
Too many Nigerian children die from largely unexplained illnesses. Illnesses that Irish children dont die from.
