It’s a day like many others, one of those when time seems to slow down, as if the sun were pausing on the horizon, unsure whether to continue its journey or remain suspended in the warm air of the late afternoon.
I walk over to the little girls who, at the foot of a majestic tree, are busy cooking with vivid imagination. They’re mixing pebbles and leaves in an old bowl their mother had discarded. One of them, with a shy smile and big curious eyes, hands me a bottle cap filled with a bit of sand and asks if I’d like a drink. “Chai?” I ask her, smiling. She nods, a sparkle in her eyes betraying a hint of pride, as if she were offering me the most precious thing in the world.
I take the cap and pretend to drink. “Gulp gulp gulp… mmm, delicious!” Then, handing the cap back to her with a smile, I add, “But there was a little too much sugar.”
The girls look at me, then exchange a quick glance, as if suddenly alerted by my game. After a moment of hesitation, they burst into loud laughter—a pure sound that blends with the rustling of the leaves stirred by the wind.
I smile too, amused by their spontaneity, and ask, “For tonight, will you make me some ugali with vegetables?”
They nod and laugh again, clearly delighted.
I say goodbye, feeling a warmth in my heart that I can’t quite explain, and head toward the grove where, just a little farther on, my eyes fall upon a lone, abandoned flip-flop.
The little shoe
It was the same one I had seen the day before—alone, without its pair, forgotten as if it were something useless.
And yet, that small detail strikes me.
I wonder, slightly confused, why someone would leave a shoe behind without even trying to retrieve it.
Maybe it just didn’t matter.
I walk over to pick it up, and with a hint of sadness, I notice that the flip-flop is torn on one side.
Inevitably, the image of that lone, useless, and now irreparably damaged shoe strikes me deeply.
In Italy, I might have thrown it into the recycling bin—but here, where things often follow a fate we don’t expect, that shoe would likely end its life in a small fire, along with plastic bottles, paper, and other discarded objects.
With a sigh, I place it next to the house, not wanting to leave it there in the middle of the field.
Melancholy and with a deep sense of helplessness, I walk away and continue with my day.
In the days that follow, I often see little girls, around ten years old, wearing two different shoes: a flip-flop on the left foot and a closed shoe on the right—a big, black rubber one, so bulky I can’t imagine how they manage to wear it.
I noticed them, but didn’t pay much attention at the time. I was lost in my thoughts, assuming it was just one of those peculiar things that are simply part of life here.
Revelation
That evening, I go to take a shower, and when I come out of the bathroom, I see the mismatched pair of shoes in front of a bedroom door—a yellow flip-flop and the usual closed shoe.
My heart skips a beat, and I finally realize! How silly not to have thought of it before!!! That little girl didn’t have any other shoes. For three or four days, she had been walking around with two different shoes, and the thought tightens my heart.
I called her, and still wrapped in my towel, we went into my room. No words were needed. I opened my suitcase—I knew exactly what to look for—and handed her a new pair of flip-flops I had bought for myself without any real reason, just because I liked them.
“Are they your size?” I asked her.
The little girl quickly unwraps the plastic bag they were wrapped in and, all excited, says to me, “Let’s see…” while her eyes sparkled and my heart skipped a beat.
“Thank you,” she says with a trembling voice, and her smile made me feel the beauty of that simple yet immensely profound gesture.
She walked out all excited, her first steps in slow motion as if she were holding back, then gradually quicker.
I think she went to her mom… and I’m happy.
