BEGGARS AND CHOOSERS

There is a saying that beggars can’t be choosers but in Rwanda that is not the case. There are a numbers of reasons for the phenomenon of begging, sometimes it is just poverty and lack of opportunity but sometimes it is pure business acumen. In Rwanda it is hard to tell which is which, on the road to Bugesera nearly all the peasants we passed were sticking their hands out. As if we would throw money out the window to blow in the wind, there must be some dumb Expats who do that from time to time, otherwise they wouldn’t bother. Maybe it is the huge disparity in income that makes them want to eat mere crumbs off the table, but there might be a better reason.


Rural African culture relies on sharing as a bonding agent, I remember on visits to the village as a child, my rural cousins would want to share everything. A tiny banana would split 10-ways; all you’d get is a taste, nothing to fill you up. The thought of eating alone was alien, nobody ate off their own plate; you had a large tray in the centre and bare hands for forks. It was like lions at a kill, everyman for himself and God for us all; it wasn’t a matter of size but character; a small kid could fight his way to the top of the food chain based on tenacity alone.


When you all share it is a wonderful thing, but when the urban ethos of self-determination clashes with this; you get the concept of begging. When you have a common history and homestead then it makes sense to share; for today I could eat and tomorrow I could starve. Even if it gets spread very thin, the chances of survival are greatly improved. In an urban environment in is different, there is a competitive element that makes you see your fellow city-dwellers as rivals for scarce resources. In the absence of a brotherly bond, pity is all that is left to sway the cold heart.


The first thing you notice in Africa is the crippled beggars, the dregs of society that have sunk so low that they don’t even register on the minds of locals. But a foreigner sees it, long after the beggar has passed; he is singed onto your mind, as you eat your dinner, as you take a shower, as you try to sleep. Your conscience is not just pricked it is stabbed with a rusty ice-pike, you hate yourself for ever being born with legs or money, or whatever it was the beggar lacked. The first one I saw was particularly unnerving, a crumpled pile of humanity that seemed to lack a spine. Folded up like crumpled chair; I stepped on him as he was barely two feet off the ground. He contorted in pain as I nearly tripped and in a split second, his hand was extended plaintively before I could escape his gaze.


I pathetically motioned that I didn’t have any money, which was true as I was going to the bank to withdraw $500, twice our nation’s per capita income, in order to blow it on mindless fun. I walked away with such a heavy heart, all my former- Catholic self-hatred rose in my bile. I walked into the bank, but was still distracted by the man; I couldn’t even enter my PIN. I wondered about why God made such an uneven world, all men are born equal but within a second, all that equality is gone. I was disgusted as I collected my money, I walked out and went to a coffee bar where I thought some more.


On my way back to my uncles’ place I was deep in thought, I purposefully avoided the spot where the beggar sat so I took another route. I was shocked when I saw the beggar again; I couldn’t turn around so I kept walking. I thought I should give him at least a portion of my money to ease my conscience. He was hunched and looking away from me, I went to tap him on the shoulder and was shocked to see him counting the biggest wad of money I had ever seen. I distinctly remember thinking “You fucking little bastard! I should break your legs for that!” but I realised he was already crippled. I then proceeded to spend my money in peace and even more irresponsibly than usual. I was glad about that; I was immunised with cynicism and wouldn’t bat an eyelid when cripples begged.


In town I met a young boy who nearly changed my opinion; he was the cutest raggedy little kid you saw with bright eyes and perfect teeth, cute as a bay hyena but soon he would be a rabid carnivore. He immediately slipped his has in mine like we were brothers and it felt like we were. He pleaded with me that he needed money for school fees; I informed him that school was free and he was indeed unfortunate to be the only fee-paying kid. He said he needed books, I said he should give me the names of the books and I will buy them for him. He said these books were rare and could only be purchased in a very far place. While we were discussing the best way forward I nearly failed to see his accomplice trying to pick my pocket.


In Butare, I was scared shitless by this woman-beggar whose only handicap was being extremely ugly. Then there was another Albino mother who threatened to curse me if I didn’t pay up, at least she was providing a service. Beggars are always looking for ingenious ways to reach an ever more desensitised market. This boy comes to the Estate in Gaculiro, a wealthy suburb; he has a green-rotting wound that looks gangrenous but is actually smeared with avocado for maximum shock value. Charities hand out wheelchairs to the disabled but this often curtails their finances, so the wheelchairs have to be parked at a distance while they crawl to their pavement offices.


In a society where disability is still seen a curse, where the sins of a parent are seen to be handed down to their unfortunate children in a form of physical defects, what else is there to do but beg? It isn’t enough to give them wheelchairs; we need to give them opportunities, equality, honour, value and love. That is more valuable than money; money is not a substitute for caring.