Moon Bay // Harry Styles Series #2 - Ghana

The Crying Boy

I heard him before I saw him. 

Over the softly lapping waves came a completely unexpected sound. A sob, followed by a loud sniffle. Sitting on a large rock beneath a stand of palm trees, head bent forward, he mopped his eyes with the hem of a dirty shirt.

"Hello? Are you alright?" I spoke softly, not wanting to startle the young man.

He looked up at the sound of my voice, saying nothing. His entire face was tear-streaked and mottled red, his eyes swollen, his chin wobbling as he sucked in his lower lip along with a great shaky breath.

"Do you speak English?" It was a reasonable question; the guests at Moon Bay came from far and wide.

He nodded as he dropped his face into his hands.

"Are you hurt?"

He shook his head, still silent.

I walked closer. "What can I do to help you?"

He shook his head again, unwilling to look at me.

Sitting beside him on the rock, I reached out to rest my hand on his shoulder.

"Are you staying at the Lodge?" He nodded. "With the group that arrived earlier this afternoon?" Another nod. "Shall I go get someone for you?"

That did it.

"No." A big sniff. "I mean, no thank you." A wipe of the nose on his shirt sleeve, like a little boy. "I don't want them to see me like this."

He was English. A teenager in long shorts, a long sleeve t-shirt, and a rolled bandana keeping his brown curls off his face. A mess. 

"Alright. But would you tell me what's wrong, or if I can do anything to help? I don't want to leave you here like this."

The raw emotion in his voice, which cracked as he spoke, was heart wrenching. 

"It was Accra. The hospital in Accra. The babies dying. I held a dying baby. She didn't even have the energy to cry. I can't get it out of my head. What if we can't help them? What if it wasn't enough? I can't get it out of my head."

Ah.

A friend from the British embassy had mentioned that a popular band was coming in to film a segment for Comic Relief. They'd visit the slums, interact with the residents, and hopefully get teenage girls at home to convince their parents to donate. There was something about making a music video as well. I hadn't thought twice about it. Being neither British, nor a teenager, nor particularly fond of boy bands, I had let it go in one ear and out the other.

Until now. Here was a boy, obviously a member of the band, falling to pieces on my beach.

Well, not my beach, but one of the beaches of my haven, Moon Bay Lodge, a small bit of paradise on the Atlantic coast. I came every month or two to escape the more dreary aspects of being the American ambassador's wife. A woman can only plan and attend so many teas and luncheons and state dinners and art openings and fund raisers before she goes mad. Peter understood. He had never come here. This was my place.

And suddenly this crying boy was in the middle of it.

"My name's Annie. What's yours?"

"Harry."

"Harry, I've been to Agbogbloshie, to that same hospital, a lot."

He looked up at me. Between swollen pink rims his eyes were a unique green, streaked with flecks of brown and blue.

"You have? Why?"

"The help with my husband's work. I help raise funds, just like you."

"How can you not be gutted, every day, knowing what's happening?"