Merry Christmas!

The weatherman promised snow, but it is sleet that I hurry through on my way into the Greyhound Bus Terminal. There is only a coffee machine inside the terminal, no people. The coffee has a metallic taste but it is hot. I am catching the late bus to the airport, having enjoyed Christmas and New Years with my family. The sleet has turned to cold, driving rain by the time the bus arrives at the airport. Inside it's all tinsel and carols and I window-shop after I have checked in and am free of my baggage. The electronics store window has a fascinating, smooth little black device in the window. It's small enough to fit in a pocket and has beautifully crafted little buttons and switches on it, and tiny blinking panels. I cannot tell what it is - whether it is something you listen to or talk into or it tells you your heart rate or something.

Thirty hours later I am flying over the Sahara. The desert is barely visible below, obscured by a dusty haze and evening shadows. Night falls and the shadowy dunes disappear. Four hours later I am home. The house is quiet and empty in the night, but outside is Africa. I know that in the morning the sun will shine and the birds in the lemon tree outside will greet the dawn with those deep resonant whistles and whoops that can only be the result of joy. In the morning I listen very carefully to see if I can detect territoriality or lust in these songs. I am convinced once again that the Barbary Shrike whistles simply because it is capable of making such a beautiful sound.

I leave the house an hour ahead of my usual time because I cannot wait to immerse myself once again in Africa and to see the street kids at our drop-in center. My head is full of questions and plans as I pull the old motorcycle up to the corrugated iron gate of the center. From inside I can hear the noise of kids playing. I thumb the horn to give my signature toots and inform the gateman that I have arrived. A sudden silence falls. When the gate opens I see about 50 kids scattered around the compound all standing and staring at the gate. One of them calls my name and they all come running towards me. I have only time to put the kick-stand down before they are on me, shouting and talking and laughing. Every hand has to be shaken and they press so close I often cannot tell whose hand is reaching out. One of the center staff stands laughing outside the group of kids, unable to get through to me.

Not much is accomplished in the morning since a similar scene is re-enacted every time another group of street kids comes through the gate. But I am especially happy to see Modou arrive just before noon. Beautiful is the only word that adequately describes Modou. Polio has left him with an ungainly set of limbs and a strange way of creeping along with one hand on his knee. His head seems too big for the rest of him. But when you speak to him, he turns his eyes on you and smiles with such warmth you have to feel good. He's twelve. Before I left for Canada I had taken him to a rehabilitation center in the city to be fitted for crutches, which he has never had before. We are to pick them up today. There is a great deal of laughter involved in getting all his straying limbs safely attached to the back of the motorcycle but eventually we succeed and make our trip. I never thought crutches would bring joy to someone but by late afternoon, back at our center, Modou is in a state of bliss. For the first time in his life he is playing soccer with the other boys, having learned how to 'kick' the ball with one crutch.

Towards evening I sit at the plastic table I use for a desk at the center and try to concentrate on accounts and reporting schedules and how to make our limited budget go a little further. Beneath the window are bunch of boys talking and laughing. Eventually their laughter becomes impossible to ignore. Something very amusing is being discussed. I ask one of my staff to tell me what they are laughing about. He says it's another funny story about that little Ali.

It has been in the back of my mind that I haven't seen that little Ali yet, although most of the other boys who regularly come to the center have come and gone. I worry about him because he's different. He's about eleven, a stocky little boy usually wearing a big gap-toothed grin. But sometimes I find him crying, sitting alone in some corner of the compound, behind the kitchen or in some such hidden place. He doesn't make any noise when he cries. He just sits and weeps silently in profound sorrow while big tears roll slowly down his cheeks. I once asked one of the staff to ask him what was wrong. He reported, "He says he doesn't know what's wrong." All one can do at such times is sit with him until it passes.

Today's funny Ali story is not setting my mind at ease. It seems the boys were at the beach one day on their begging rounds and Ali suggested they go to my house, which is close to the beach, to see if I had returned from Canada. For a joke, the other boys said that I was not coming back, that they had been told that I had decided to stay in Canada permanently. Ali ran towards the ocean and into the water. He cannot swim and the other boys were nearly out of their depth before they managed to drag him back to shore. He was going to swim to Canada. I recall that once, when I'd chanced to meet him on the beach I had pointed out the direction of Canada, on the other side of the Atlantic. I make a mental note to add a little geography to the life skills classes we are giving.

As evening falls and I am closing the center I hear a noise. That little Ali climbs out from under a table where he has been hiding. We go outside and I finish locking up. I ask the gateman to ask Ali what he is doing here at this hour.

"He says he wanted to say something to you. In English."

"OK. What?" I say, looking at him a little sternly.

"Merry Christmas!" says Ali proudly and gives me that big gap-toothed grin.

I am embarrassed for about the tenth time this day. I pat the back seat of the motorcycle, he jumps on and we chug off into the evening twilight. I drop him when we reach the street where he lives and watch while he runs away into the darkness.