The touch of a hand

“Pole.” That means I’m sorry. I will try to always remember that!
A couple days ago, I attempted to practice the new phrases I learned in my Swahili lessons. I played a bit with a little girl whom I have befriended, the daughter of a woman at HEAL Africa who is a seamstress with Healing Arts. A little boy ran up to us, smiling widely with his slightly rotting teeth, an adorable little boy with tight curls and a joyful radiance. I asked the girl, “kaka yako?” (is he your brother?), to which she nodded emphatically. I smiled at the boy and tickled him playfully. My hand froze as my fingers made contact with his belly. Whatever was underneath his tattered shirt was not regular flesh. At the same time, the little boy’s huge teddy-bear eyes widened as he jumped back, away from me. I was horrified as I realized that he had severe burns all the way from his chest to below his stomach. His recently scabbed flesh was intermingled with the gauze that was now a part of his torso. My stomach sunk with horror and guilt. Not knowing how to express my regret that I had caused him pain, I expressed it as best I could with my alarmed eyes. His countenance relaxed when he realized I did it unintentionally. I looked down and smiled tentatively at him, which he returned, even as he slid in behind his older sister. We made friends again through smiles and with distance, but my heart sickens every time I see him, every time I walk through the lava-rock grounds of the compound.