Listen to the grief

One of the things that I always face when I visit the village home is when the neighbors come and sit around me. News of my arrival travels to almost every corner of the village faster than forest fire. There are faces that i recognize, some tell me who they are and then I try to make the connection with how they look today and how they looked 20 years ago, the time when I left the villages. They are surprised to see me, and so am I. There are some who according to neighbors will be my nephews or nieces. They all have a hope in their eyes. A hope of me doing something good for the village, for their children, for them.

Some tell their stories, some shed a tear or two at their misfortunes. Some tell of their lost children. Children who have left them at their miseries, and moved on to greener pastures.

I listen to them aghast. I am loss of words. I do not know what to say.

I make up my mind of doing something for the village. I decide that the next school that I am going to work on through my child education project is the school in my native village. The building is there. Unfortunately it's a cowshed presently.