So, I think we are out of eggs. Or else we are being punished again for not finishing
meals. Or else we’re being
rewarded for eating most of our meals, which are wicked spicy. Instead of egg
sandwiches, we were fed bread.
Just bread. White
bread. This could mean anything, or nothing at all. We’re past the point of
psychological warfare, here.
While John and I were eating, we watched the show:
 |
| Juliet and Emma, ready for church. |
Edem had come by to wake the kids up at the crack of dawn to
get ready for church. It was quite
a production. Emma was running
around with one sock on, Juliet was chasing him with the other, and Gabriel was
chasing her holding Matilda’s switch.
The older girls were primping and trying to keep Nancy from removing her
pants for the third time. The
older boys were dressed and sitting around looking annoyed and adorable, all
lined up in their jeans, crisp t-shirts and button-downs, and slick pointy-toed
shoes. Everyone had on their
Sunday best. They finally made it
off to Church, but I decided not to go. Three hours on a hard bench listening to scripture in Ewe
wasn’t something I was up for.
Edem disappeared just before Sister Francisca led the throng
through the gates, and moments later Barnabus came back. He had left earlier to get a tro home
but returned saying the roads are still bad so there’s still no tro tro out of
Kpando to his village. He’ll try
again tomorrow.
While trying to reach Edem to tell him about Barnabus, a
family of six showed up. They were
dressed well enough, and sat quietly at the picnic table. The woman explained that her husband
had died and she and her brother wanted to leave the four kids. Now we
really really wanted Edem to come
back.
John and I went into the office to call Edem again, then went
back out on the porch and sat with them. In the middle of an incredibly long
and awkward silence, which I spent judgmentally scrutinizing the family and
trying to determine their motives, Tim showed up with his parents. They were carrying an enormous
suitcase. Tim’s parents wanted to
give a donation of toys to the home, and they opened the suitcase up right then
and there. The woman and her
brother exchanged a wide-eyed look and the whole family gawked as Tim’s parents
rifled through the contents of the suitcase. It was like Christmas in September. Our audience started to grow as passersby
stopped to hang over the fence and gape at the white folks lavishing the
orphans with cheap plastic toys from China. Who wouldn’t want to
leave their kids in such a paradise?
It’s no wonder kids yell out “YAVO!” on the street and stick out their
hand expecting a gift.
In the middle of this circus, our kids started to return. They bee-lined it for the toys, of
course, gleefully snatching up whatever they could get their little mitts on,
free-for-all style.
I thought about how useless this stuff is. Not only is it useless stuff that’s
going to be shredded to bits in under three minutes flat, it’s making the
neighbors think that this place is Disney Land. As it is, perfectly well dressed, finely quaffed adults are
throwing their babies at us.
As Nancy sauntered past us holding out a plastic squeaky toy
and squeezing it incessantly, I thought about the gifts that I had
brought. I had a suitcase full as
well. Mine wasn’t opened up in the
middle of the compound as church was being let out, but certainly people would
know that the new kick balls and soccer balls the kids were playing with at the
stadium were a gift from a yavo.
My school supplies were helpful, but the art supplies even seemed a
little superfluous. Diapers. That would have been helpful. Formula. Medicine and hand sanitizer. Antifungal medication.
Stuff that isn’t showy and obvious. It’s not as fun to give, but it’s not about me, after
all. Next time I’ll know
better.
Edem arrived in time to see the shit-show. He smiled and shook hands with Tim and
his parents. He thanked them
profusely for the toys, which were now scattered all over the compound, some of
them already in pieces. Nancy
handed me her squeaky toy, which had taken quite a beating. The squeaker was mercifully
dislodged. I removed it completely
and shrugged my shoulders. “Sorry,
Nancy-pants. It’s broken.” John silently mouthed “Thank you.”
 |
| Edem with his new Safe Sex sign in the office. |
When everyone had been fed, and Edem had sent the mooching
family of six along their way, I conducted a Sex-Ed follow-up session. The girls told me, once again, that
HIV/AIDS was contracted by sharing bread, so we started again at the
beginning. Now, these are kids
whose parents died of AIDS, and some of them are positive themselves. They don’t know that, of course. They’re too young. But you’d think they’d know better than
“if you share bread.” I’m not sure if they didn’t understand me the first time,
or if they just didn’t believe me. Probably a little of both.
So I explained then quizzed, and explained again, and
quizzed again, and explained some more.
“Minua, is it easy to get HIV/AIDS if you are smart?” I ask firmly. “No.” she says. Good. Phew. Although,
if they’re learning the whole bread bullshit at school, this probably won’t be
the last time they’ll need to be set straight.
This was my last evening, and I spent it on the veranda with
John and Mauwli, chatting and swatting mosquitos.
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