Knees scarred and scrapped, she crouches on the sidewalk, eyes glassy, red and puffy from crying. Her head hung between her knees, she looks up, her eyes a vision of an empty soul devoid of all hope, a forlorn figure, discarded, just like used tissue. And along struts a man of the people, exuding such arrogance and self importance. He looks at this pitiful figure before him and is filled with such disgust, as a plan forms in his head, noticing for the first time that the filth is getting closer and infringing on his sense of self accomplishment.
He shrugs in mock disgust as though shaking off a housefly, thinking how much he’d just like to kick the accursed child into the street so she could be run over by a truck, every trace of her wiped off the face of the earth. His conscience a constant nightmare, filled with visions of the sick and dying, the malnourished, those that break their backs every day so he can enjoy every thing he calls his own, and he’s filled with so much satisfaction and fulfillment, he squeals in delight, and the little girl on the sidewalk looks hopefully at him, thinking he’s happy to be of service.
Chin thrust up in the face of heaven as though in mock salute to his Maker, he straightens his tie and dusts his spotless white suit, twirling a pen in his manicured fingers thoughtfully, as his plan broadens in his mind’s eye, the picture so vivid and so perfect.
Cell phone held snugly to his left ear, eyes black as night twinkling with barely suppressed excitement, he drawls, the sound like a snake hissing to ensnare its prey. Reaching out, he extends his soft hands to the little waif.
“Here let me help you little one, you’re not supposed to be here all alone, see the sun is setting, and you don’t want to be all alone when it does do you?” He says with a smile, a glint in his cunning cat-like eyes. He’s snapped back to reality momentarily by the sound of his phone vibration.
“Oh yes, bring the garbage trucks, there’s so much filth and the stench is chocking me” he answers with a tinge of impatience in his voice, looking at the little girl meaningfully with a predatory look on his face, knowing the sight of her on the sidewalk would elicit unwarranted sympathy.
From far away the sound of a garbage truck is heard, but the little waif is so lost in that sea of dark longing she doesn’t notice until she is hurled off her feet and thrown into the garbage truck, her frantic cries an echo of the cries of the other children on the streets, being dumped like trash off the streets of Kampala.
With a satisfied smile, he briskly strides away, planning his next move.
Lizzy straightens up, wiping sweat off her brow, peering at fiery glaze of the sun, so high in the sky, as she works away in the stone quarry.
She’s a young woman of twelve, working to support her big family, and having had no education, she seems to have no qualification for anything better.