Mama Africa an angel is she, takes all the children to her heart and sets them free. In a house in Barberton the project was born.
The children that arrived were all abused, orphans of AIDs and their lives were tattered and torn. There was Mommy by their side, giving them love and hope, and teaching them pride. Extract from Mama Africa, a poem by
Jean-Louis Jardim, 06/11/03
(Sophia's youngest son) On day one when Sophia came to collect us, we were met with this tall, bony lady, with a fag that turned out to be in a constant dangle from between her lips. She has this earthy beauty about her and a hardness and an inexpressibly expressive bodily language that actually does defy my attempts at a description. She is 53. Her long brown hair is bunched loosely in a pony-tail and surrounding her eyes lays a whole page of lines that slither and slide with her joy and her despair- emotions that accompany her daily. She smiles and I realise that nothing about these next seven weeks need have any British anal-ness about it. Neither her nor any of her family will have any time for our British apologizing. As we pulled up to Esperado Childrens' Haven, around 20 children leapt towards us with high-pitched welcomes. They grabbed our bags and slowly trooped off, ome-by-one, concealed and vaguely flattened beneath our baggage, like a long, determined line of ants. Next came the dogs, the pigs, the goats, the chickens and the white people. These people are Sophia's extended family and are a Quality Street box of characters that surround themselves in a shroud of cigarette smoke, crystals and a seemingly hard exterior. This has in time, however, revealed itself to be a defense mechanism- they are all very loving and very kind, you just have to scratch a little bit harder to find out. And ever since then, with everyday that goes past, we learn more and more about these 20 little people who are here by default- who are here in one way or another because the system, or their mothers or their fathers have failed them- and in some ways, I understand a little bit more and a little bit less about this place. It didn't take me long to understand that whatever these childrens' stories pre-Esperado might be, they are still just children, children like any others. They still need food and water and mental stimulation, and sometimes they fall or get naughty-tired and pull your hair. But mostly, what they really need is to be loved. They need to know that there is someone out there whose heart beats especially for them, who is a warm piece of comforting flesh for them to bury their snotty faces in when that utter sadness that children can feel and then forget in a finger's snap, takes them over. Two days ago, Adam, my favourite little boy at the Home, who is tiny and five, with a big toothless grin and a thousand worlds all of his own invention, didn't come home from school. We hadn't taken the bus home that day as we had a staff meeting, but soon after we got back, Auntie Suze, the large black matriarch of the house knocked on our bedroom door calling my name. 'Naomi. Have you seen Adam? Have you seen Adam?' Suze said, with a certain degree of urgency, but relatively little anxiety. All the children had returned except for Adam; where was he? So, adrenalin packed in, imagination rolled, stomach felt vomitous and I ran to Sophia. "Ooohhh, don't worry my sweetheart' she said. 'This happens all the time with these kids. He'll either be at the school, or we'll contact the police'. Okay, I thought, these people are far more experienced these things than I am. But the sickness in my stomach didn't leave. Myself and Beccy (other volunteer) got into the front of the bakkie (a small pick-up truck) that somehow operates without a first, second and reverse gear, with an old, thin man called Michael from the local settlement and about 10 kids hanging over the sides in the back. And off we went to find Adam. All I could think about was how this small child has no one person in life that lives for him. Surely every child should have this? But, then again, orphaned children are a fact the world over, and without Esperado these ones would be on the streets, or most likely, dead. Just as we approached the school, there he was, in his bright blue superman- affair tracksuit, quietly and seriously holding the hands of two nice old ladies. We pulled up beside them and I jumped out of the bakkie, picked him up and took him onto my lap in the front. He was very quiet and I said 'Are you okay Adam?' 'Yes.' He said like a mouse. 'Did you just miss the bus Adam?' 'Yes' he replied like an even littler mouse. And that was that. For the journey home, Adam sat curled on my lap, head resting softly against me, thinking scared thoughts of his punishment for not getting on the bus, but a little bit safer now in the arms of a strange white lady who is here to love him for seven weeks. Naomi | 
