September 5, 2007- Afternoon at the Library

September 5, 2007- Afternoon

The older kids took forever to get ready to go to the library.  Elikplim, Israel, Isaac, and Justice had to finish eating and wash the breakfast dishes.  Minua, Lebene, Rosemond, Ernestina, and Juliet pranced around giving the younger children a hard time for not being allowed to come with us.  And then they all had to change into nicer clothes.  I’m not sure I could tell much of a difference, but at least they all had shoes on.

When we finally left the gate the boys marched off ahead of us, counting the peswas in their pockets, thinking they could sneak into a shop for some sweets without us knowing.  Minua, Lebene, and Rosemond walked three-abreast, hand in hand, giggling and gossiping a few steps behind us.  Juliet reached for my hand, and tiny Ernestina shyly took Sonjelle’s when it was offered. 

Before reaching the main, paved road, we passed many small shops: a young, svelte, shirtless carpenter sanded a chair on his outdoor workbench; a plump hairdresser wearing a fancy wig braided another plump woman’s weave while they gossiped behind the lace curtain of her wooden shed; broken fans sat outside the door of the electronics repair store; a young boy sat on a blue cooler, his small display of crackers and candies protected by a veil of chicken wire.  On our right, goats grazed and a few men sat on benches playing Mancala, which Edem says is called Oowari in most of Ghana, and Adie in Kpando.   

The paved road was much busier.  The shed-shops butted up against each other on both sides of the road.  The shops on the right, strangely, all rested on the ground two feet below the street-level sidewalk.  Some stores had steps, but some required a bit of a courageous jump for anyone interested in more than window shopping.  Ladies with purses on their heads perused the racks of fabric and men congregated around grills piled high with plantain chips and corn cobs.  Folks stared as we walked past, most in curious fascination, and a few as if we had just shown up to a wedding wearing black.  Children with papaya juice dripping off their chins stopped slurping to chant “yavo yavo, bonsoir!” 

Sonjelle tells me that the connotation of “yavo” is a little unclear.  People use it to mean “white person,” but any non-native African, such as a black person from America, is a yavo.  Fair-skinned locals can also don the nickname.  In general it may or may not be a compliment.  One person told Sonjelle that it translates directly as “dirty scoundrel dog,” but that hasn’t been verified.  Either way, it’s a bit unsettling.  At home, you certainly wouldn’t shout “hey whitey!” down the street to someone and expect them to greet you back with an enthusiastic smile and a wave.  And absolutely no one would respond with “hey blacky,” as is apparently acceptable here, as Sonjelle exhibited.  She sang back, “amebo amebo, bonsoir!” and the children doubled over in laughter.  I was still trying to wrap my brain around this cultural phenomenon when we arrived at the library.

The library, mercifully, had ceiling fans.  As my thick film of sun block and sweat dried, I perused the bookshelves.  One side of the room was for adults and displayed decade old encyclopedias, dusty world-history series’, and remarkably outdated medical and law reference books.  In the middle there were a few shelves for adult and young adult fiction and on the other end of the room sat a short table surrounded by shelves of children’s books.  Not one inch of one single shelf was organized in any sort of order, alphabetical or otherwise.  The librarian napped behind his desk.

Justice found a picture book about geography.  Elikplim, Isaac, and Israel stuck their noses into a short chapter book about a soccer player.  Minua, Lebene, and Rosemond each chose children’s narratives and read elbow to elbow at the table.  Juliet, with help from Sonjelle, found a picture book, which she held an inch from her nose. 

Ernestina sat quietly in a chair by herself, hands in her lap.

Little Ernestina, or Nestie, looks to be six or seven, and although her date of birth is unknown, Sonjelle says she’s at least twelve.  She’s never been to school.  Her father died of AIDS in 2000.  Three years later her mother carried Nestie to an orphanage a few miles from their home, passing away within minutes, also due to AIDS.  The little girl, sick and on medication for the disease herself, was passed from place to place, indifferent caretaker to indifferent caretaker.  One such caretaker cited turning her away due to a “bad odor,” which was most likely caused by malnutrition or her body’s reaction to her medication.  Finally, an elderly woman allowed Ernestina to sleep in her home, but only fed her now and then.  When a social worker finally intervened and took her to a hospital, doctors diagnosed Nestie with “failure to thrive,” which is a delicate way of saying that she had given up her will to live. 

HardtHaven took her in that week, despite the dispassionate doctor’s reluctance.  “She will only live six more years, at best,” he explained in a tone that meant “don’t bother.”  Edem looked at the beautiful little girl, and without hesitation he resolved to make those few years as happy and as comfortable as possible. 

Nestie is the only child at HardtHaven who is on ARVs.  She naps often during the day, and wakes at night with stomach pains due to her distended belly and medications, but she doesn’t cry.  On good days Sonjelle has seen her sing and dance, and even play tricks on the other children.  In three short months HardtHaven cured the little girl of “failure to thrive.”  If only there was a way to cure the rest of her ailments.

I knelt by Ernestina and asked if she’d like me to read her a story.  She looked at me blankly, not knowing much English.  I chose a book, held out my hand, and we walked together to the porch at the front of the building.  She sat in my lap as I pointed to pictures, telling her the English words – “Duck.”  “Boy.”  “Red.”  By the end of the hour she was pointing out ducks and boys and reds to me with pride.  

Ernestina