I live today on the island of Bali, Indonesia. Surviving on the smell of an oily rag that goes by the name of Overseas State Pension, for which I remain eternally grateful I must add for as little as it is it does sustain life, however humbly.

So you could have knocked me down with a feather when the Christmas fairies in their wisdom, they probably made a mistake in the seasonal rush, delivered unto me a little more than ten years ago, completely unexpectedly, a twelve week premature black baby boy.

His biological father, a Jamaican soccer player, was killed in a car accident before the mother realised she was pregnant.

Or so the story goes..

A friend of a friend she was only supposed to be staying with me for a few days while she visited a charitable institution where she could give birth when the time came. In another two days she would have been on her way back to Jakarta, probably never to meet again.

But lo and behold, as fate would have it come Christmas day in the middle of a torrential tropical rain storm, as if I didn’t have enough trouble with a leaking roof and falling sheets of water, her amniotic fluids decided to join the deluge.

Off we rushed through the tempest and flooded roads to a hospital on my motor scooter, the only form of transport available to me, where Baby Clemence Gabriel Payne was born, weighing in at a pathetic 1 kg

.
They informed me at the hospital that his chances were slim and that he’d need at least a month in an incubator at 300 bucks a day!

Truth is I was flat broke with only a ticket back to the UK . due to leave in a couple of weeks having exhausted my reserves. One day in the incubator was enough to put me into the red. Nine thousand dollars worth of incubation for the month was delving into the realms of complete fantasy.

The charismatic doctor, rubbing his hands together like a snake oil salesman, informed me that the baby couldn’t survive outside of an incubator for more than a few hours his chances minimal, miniscule in fact.

So there I was all of a sudden faced with a life or death decision, wondering how on earth I had got myself into this situation? 

His mother looked to me imploringly, dazed and confused. It had all happened so fast, this little fellow wasn’t due along for another twelve weeks.

She began to sob, pleading that perhaps they could find someone of means to adopt her son so that he may live.
No dice, they told her. If he was white perhaps, but there’s little demand for black babies in Indonesia, where white is believed to be the epitome of beauty.

She seemed to suddenly accept the fact that he wouldn’t survive and began franticly calling Christian churches to arrange burial proceedings.

I considered the options; if I ran up the bill and couldn’t pay it would have meant a trip to jail and subsequent deportation, they don’t mess around like that in Indonesia where health care is all about money and business and there is no such thing as the Hippocratic oath or compassion for suffering of any kind from the so called health professionals.

In a dreamlike state of disbelief at what was taking place I told the doctor that there was no money for an incubator and to pull the plug.

The toughest decision I ever had to make in my life and I’ve made a few.

Such are the harsh realities of poverty and life in the third world, so with nobody else to make the call then upon my conscience be it.

We all set off for the tiny cottage I was house sitting for a friend, the mood grim, expecting the baby to breathe his last at any moment.

He was so tiny, a skeleton wrapped in translucent skin, his ribcage rising and falling raggedly as he struggled for every breath. I could fit the little critter into the palms of my hands.

I clutched the wee fellow to me willing him to just keep on breathing. Singing to him as I paced, talking to him about whatever madness was going through my exhausted head at the time. I’m sorry, but I was just not emotionally equipped to deal with a dead baby, all the while dreading what seemed the inevitable conclusion.

Meanwhile, my friend Moka was conducting her Javanese juju about the place.

She sprinkled salt around the outside of the house while entering into a trance-like state, muttering incantations that sounded like they came from the beginning of time. Placing cloves of garlic and onions at what she perceived to be strategically dodgy spots where demons intent on evil doings were lurking, unseen by my jaded white man’s eyes.

‘Doktor tidak Tuhan,’ or, doctor isn’t God, she said to me as she bid her farewells, waving her hands about and clapping and yelling to scare off any further malignant entities she may have missed.

For a day and a sleepless night the willing, pacing and singing continued and still the baby clung to life. When suddenly an angel appeared by the name of Putu.

Putu runs an orphanage and school for Bali street kids and had heard of my plight through a friend, Nadia, another angel that rose to the occasion and without whose caring and kindness this may well have been a completely different story. Love you Nadia.

She bundled us all into a taxi and off we sped to Sanglah Hospital, where she marched in sweeping aside the minions that tried to block her passage with us surfing exhaustedly in her wake and like a force of nature which could not be denied, berated and cajoled the head of staff until baby Clemence was given incubation for a month, free of charge.
Chances of survival at this stage they said were a few per cent.

I had become in that short space of time emotionally connected to the child, a strong bond had formed and it was then that I made the deal with the universe/god/creator.

If he pulled through the month then I would take care of him until he was strong and up and running. It had all been such a heart wrenching trip that I couldn’t find it in my soul to abandon him now.

Although I had no idea at the time how I was going to manage it.

After a month of incubation he was still hanging in there and I brought them home. 

What the future holds for my now not so little strapping lad only God knows, having just celebrated his tenth birthday.

He has grown into a beautiful child who bounces off the walls with his irrepressible energy, literally. He has become a very good soccer player also, representing the Ubud Raptors of Bali at the Thai Youth Cup a couple of months ago. They came third in his age group. 

The biggie though is he also just finished a weeks training with the Scottish team Rangers and won a place at their youth academy in Scotland, hence this funding attempt to try to get him there.

His mother has fallen gravely ill. She has malignant tumours in her throat and neck, one of which was removed recently, but the prognosis isn't good right now, she's weak and listless and cannot care for the boy.

That leaves only me, he has no other family.

I'm tapped out and have nothing left in reserve after caring for this boy for the last ten years, which is why  this crowdfunding attempt.

Lawyer and immigration department fees plus airfares total 5.000 GBP.

Please help us by donating 'A Tenner for Clem' and/or sharing on social media. Important to share as we're going to need the numbers. 

Help to secure Clems' future and get him to Scotland this summer.

Bless.
Jeffrey Payne