I rarely give
money to beggars.
Through their
welfare system, most rich states help those with housing, health and education
problems. Beside government handouts,
various organisations assist the destitute. Like Outreach UK which says in its
website that, “most people who beg have
accommodation. Outreach workers can help those who do not access a hostel
bed...”
Recent
statistics by the English Metropolitan police claim at least 70 to 80 percent
of beggars tested positive to Class A drugs, i.e. cocaine and heroin. Another
social research document confirms that when you give money to those hanging out
asking for help on street pavements, they purchase drugs and alcohol.
Conclusively then
helping these individuals is for self-appeasement rather than anything else. I
am a good person. God shall bless my soul, your inner voice chant happily. Do
not give money to these people, government authorities and the police always
advice. Offer them food. Buy them a cup of tea. Money fuels drug and alcoholic addiction.
With this in
mind, one night many months ago, I cooked lunch for two friends visiting
London. The couple had never tasted any Tanzanian food. I knew from experience
that Ugali is not the sort of thing non-Africans usually like.
“It is
tasteless...” They always say.
Therefore, I
made spicy beans Mchuzi, sprinkled with coconut, alongside red fried fish and a
large portion of green leafy, spinach salad. Instead of Sadza, Sima and Kaunga (as
they call Ugali in South Africa, Kenya and Uganda, respectively), I made Chapatti,
which we East Africans have adapted from our Asian cousins.
Music was on; I
had the latest record by Adele, queen of English pop. Physically she is natural
and full, unlike skinny, slender singers in the commercial world.
“Hello” her
latest slow, soothing, confessional ballad, roamed my living room like a lazy
majestic gazelle in an afternoon Savannah.
Drink in hand, I relaxed while London-born, Adele, belted and moaned:
“Hello from the other side
I must have called a thousand times
To tell you I am sorry, for everything
that I have ever done
But when I call, you never seem to be
home.”
Meanwhile, I
waited for the door buzzer to ring. Instead of the bell, my phone wrecked the
tranquil, mellow Saturday air.
“Freddy!”
“Yup...”
Alas, my caller
rumbled on. Sorry they were not coming. Someone they had known, intimately, was
killed in the Paris terrorist atrocities. Yes, it was November 2015. My French
friends were in shock, sorrow and grief.
To cut a
lengthy, rambling story, I could not finish the meal by myself. After making
futile calls to pals around the city to pop in that afternoon or even later, I
decided heavens were not on my side. I ate alone.
But they were
too many Chapattis.
I made a
decision to share them with one of the beggars I always see near my residence.
He is always seated face down, a dog, white Labrador, by his side.
Begging.
I wrapped three
Chapattis plus one fish and sauntered towards Roger (assumed name).
“Hi, Roger...”
“Hello.”
“Some food for
you. Do you know Chapattis?”
“Yes of course.
I am starving. Thanks so much.”
He looked like he had just seen Jesus Christ
on Resurrection day. Or maybe I thought I was that. Remember what I said earlier about self-appeasement?
I was pleased with myself. Tell me (self-insults aside), what would you have
done with such good food? Hurl it into the dustbin?
I looked at
Roger closely. He was strong and healthy.
Few weeks later,
he waved at me as I zoomed past. After a few words, I could not dismiss my
curiosity.
“Why do you beg?
Why don’t you work?”
“It is embarrassing, admitting. But let me be
frank,” he wailed. I noticed his teeth were dark brown, stained and seemed like
they will all soon fall out.
Roger: “I had
everything. Big house. Large family. I
just got depressed. I could not keep up with the stress. My wife ...the kids. Couldn’t
cope. Started taking the occasional Spliff. Got addicted. Turned to cocaine. Bills to pay.
The car. Couldn’t afford, mate. As part of my therapy, I volunteered overseas.
Worked with war victims in Sudan. Upon returning found my wife with another
bloke. I just lost it. Sorry, mate.”
He coughed,
sneezed and spat.
For weeks, months
I kept reflecting.
Why do people across our planet always
conclude that their problem is the worst? That they would rather die? Schools should educate us to connect things. That
we are all part of one system. Luckily, I was taught that while studying at
Mzumbe, back in the 1970s. That your problems might seem huge; yet, are parts
of a bigger picture?
Don’t give up!
We all
bleed. All under one tree. Oxygen. One
sky.
-Also published in Citizen Tanzania, Friday 1 April, 2016
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