Edem disappeared at some point during the morning, of
course, so John and I had been left to our own devices. After all that talk about periods and
sex and HIV/AIDS, I needed a break and went to my room to read and fell asleep.
I awoke to shrieking.
It was coming from The Hall, which was right outside my door. A small mob of the kids were fighting,
and when my door cracked open the mob descended upon me and the stories started
flowing. And each of them had a
different story. In the middle of
the room there was a heavy chair still pinning Nancy to the floor, and
Ernestina was standing next to her in hysterics. Consensus was that Israel was to blame. He denied it, vehemently, which set
everyone off again. I wasn’t in
the mood for this crap.
I put my hands up in the air and, in my deepest voice,
firmly announced, “If the guilty party comes forward, they will be asked to
apologize. If they do not, we will
ALL have a time out.”
No one fessed up.
I started plunking chairs in corners and leading children by
their elbows to sit in them. They
were LIVID about having a time out.
I explained that there is no talking during a time out, so they all sat
around the complex, in their chairs, glaring at me silently or facing the wall
sobbing. Minua got even more angry
with me when she realized that Elikplim had snuck away from the fray and was
inside the boys dorm instead of in a time out chair. When I didn’t’ hunt him down and make him sit… if looks
could kill. Oh, the injustice!
When they were all settled and I took a minute or two to
revel in the silence, I tried to impress upon them that this lesson was about
honesty, not fairness. I’m not
sure it worked, and although they were retained for less than 15 minutes a few
of them were still clearly pissed at me and going to hold a grudge for the rest
of the day.
When The Great Orphans Injustice was over, Sister Matilda
served lunch. Junior and
Christopher carried our heaping plates of red-red and plantains into the office
and set them on the table. The
beans were spilling over the edges of the over-sized bowl and the plantains were
heaped five inches high, and it was all swimming in a vat of red oil and pepe
flakes. My eyes started watering
from the hot pepe as I sat down, but I was determined. I was going to win at least one battle
today. John and I finished every
last smoldering bite, accompanied by three water pouches apiece.
I’m not sure whether we won or not, because come dinnertime
we were presented with plates of normal sized proportions of fried yam… and fish
stew. On the one hand fish, or any meat, in a
meal is like a holiday around here.
It could be seen as a
gift. A concession. Admittance of defeat. We had accepted her Lunch Challenge and
won. If this were not Sister Matilda we’re dealing with here.
She knows that we “do not take
fish.” We’ve told her many, many
times. “Will you take fish, Auntie
and Uncle?” “No, thank you, Sister
Matilda, we do not take fish.” We
do not take that ancient, crusty, fly-ridden fish. This is Sister Matilda we’re dealing with, and so, those
hundreds of little fishy eyeballs and tiny bones whisper dangerously to us from
our bowls, “this is a see, and a raise.”
Down the hatch, Sister Matilda. Down the hatch.
I plugged my nose and dug in, ignoring the tiny shards of
bone that scratched my throat on the way down and the smoky fish-paste smell
that threatened to send them all back up, thinking to myself “this is how she
kills me.”
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