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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The rooster crows early in the Zambian morning. With subtle sunlight starting to appear on the Horizon, ten year old Dikembe begins has journey to gather water for the family from the Luapula River. With water buckets balanced on the ends of a bamboo stick he carries across his shoulders, Dikembe returns to find his Mother starting a fire to fix a sparse breakfast for her three children. The morning sun already beats down on the dusty village now alive with life. The ever present flies are already pestering Dikembe and the sores on his limbs. Dikembe sees the white man on the horizon entering the village by foot, carrying his bag of medicines. Women and children start to form a line at the small hut he will use as his office on this day. For hours, the white man examines one patient after another, administering what little medicine he has and offering healthcare advice that he knows is not understood and/or will go unheeded. Dikembe sits in the corner of the hut, watching it all with curiosity. At the end of the long day, the white man packs up his bag, walks over to Dikembe and hands him a piece of gum. Dikembe smiles and mumbles, “Thank you” in broken English. As he puts the piece of gum into his mouth, Dikembe remembers the stories one white man once read to him from a book called the bible, and he thinks, “I love, Christmas. I hope it is this nice again next year.”
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