If someone asked me to explain what the AINA Children’s Home is…
I’d be tempted to call it “Wonderland,” a magical bubble created to bring hope.
But the entrance ticket is HIV.
And just like that, the magic fades, leaving only a tiny village.
As soon as you pass through the gate, you feel detached from the outside world: the dominant colors are the terracotta brown of the red earth that coats every corner of the village—turning into a terrifying mud when it rains—and green: a neat, clean green, framed by the colors of the playground and the beautiful plants.
You barely step inside before you’re swarmed by nursery kids aged 2 to 8: they cling to you, hug you, jump into your arms, kiss you, greet you—and maybe throw in a playful smack or two… They play with whatever they can find: bracelets, rings, earrings, hair, the beads on your shirt—anything can become a game.
Boys and girls, at first indistinguishable, with names that seem impossible to remember—because they usually have two, and most of them are the same or combinations of each other, often with equally tricky pronunciations.
Then you turn your head and see the older girls.
More guarded, they size you up, inspecting every detail.
Almost certainly, they’re doing laundry. They’re amazing—always punctual for their daily chore. In theory, the boys should do it too, but you’ll rarely catch them at it. Some of the girls keep their distance, even come across a bit “mean”… but don’t stop at first impressions: you’ll end up loving them more than you thought possible.
You’ll almost always find the older boys playing volleyball.
They’ll call you in to join—at first just to laugh at how you play, talking among themselves in Kiswahili so you won’t understand a word.
But once a bit of trust is built, any day becomes a good day to ask you for a new ball: yesterday’s will have mysteriously broken, gotten lost, or been stolen.
They’ll tell you a ton of lies—just like any teenager. Sometimes you’ll get mad, but eventually you’ll figure out how to handle it… and it’ll be hilarious. That too will become part of the game.
Then there are the less athletic ones—or those who aren’t allowed to join.
Leaning against the fence near the field, outside the dormitory, or wandering the village inventing their own games.
They’re often the shyest and most introverted.
Focus on them too—encourage them, cheer them on.
It might feel impossible to interact with all 90 kids, but patience and determination will surprise you.
It’s a bit like joining a group that already knows each other—you’re the newcomer, the Mzungu.
It’s not easy.
You have to be willing to be teased, to say yes to everything, and to spend as much time as possible with them.
Only then can you really get to know them one by one, adjusting your approach to the thousand different personalities you’ll meet.
After a year of being there, the progress will be incredible—yours toward them, and theirs toward you.
At first, it’s the most outgoing kids who will emerge, and you’ll focus on them—because everything is new and overwhelming.
You’ll need to get used to a totally different lifestyle, a language you don’t understand, saying Mambo and Poa to everyone indiscriminately.
But time will pass, and without even noticing, it’ll all become natural, and you’ll feel like a part of this incredible place.
Will it be easy? No.
Will it be hard? That’s up to you.
I don’t know if they really learn anything from us. Some of them are just too little.
But I’ve learned so much from them.
I’m going back to Italy with my eyes and mind full—with the awareness that I’m privileged to be able to travel.
You can’t forget those gazes.
Those smiles, those crocs on their feet, the runny noses, the laughter, the worn clothes always a bit dirty with earth, those eyes… you just can’t forget them.
Because eventually a bond is formed.
And those gazes have names, arms, hands, specific little feet.
And you’ll remember every single detail.
What will I miss the most? Hearing my name screamed at every hour of the day.
Thank you.
Aliceeeeee
