nyasa

Nyasa stopped me this morning on the way to my office. I paused in the unlit hallway, purse in hand, and leaned against the wall while he said, "I heard you're leaving."

Nyasa is a short, round, forcefully built man with dark skin and eyes that have a lion-like intensity. He's lived at the Center for a number of months; I'm not exactly sure how many, since I don't work directly with the guests in my current position, and before this I worked with toddlers, and he doesn't have children here. I told him what had happened, and he rubbed his chin and looked affronted and thoughtful.

"There's something going on," he said.

I nodded.

"Do you have something else?"

"No. I'm scrambling," I said. This is a familiar predicament for most of the guests, and I feel badly and irresponsible and far too lucky and guiltily blessed that I can say, "I don't have a plan yet, but it will be okay" to people for whom a similar situation would mean a turn back on the streets.

"I'll pray for you," Nyasa said. "Because this isn't right. And because, even though I haven't talked to you that often, you've never acted like you're above us."

I felt the same intensity come into my eyes.

"Thank you," I said.

Nyasa is a Muslim. Oftentimes he doesn't seem to like people very much, and you can see the temper glittering just under his clothes. His temper flares up at injustice. His promise to pray for me moved me more than that promise usually does, because it didn't roll off his tongue as an overworn cliche from a person who didn't know what else to say. He doesn't usually say anything to me. And I know he prays five times a day.