There is a girl named Diane who helps me get water. More on her later. Today, Diane brought a friend so even more water could be collected for me. Her friend brought her baby sister, carrying her wrapped tight on her back. As the two girls left my house with buckets and the promise of candy and coloring books upon their return, the baby sister was left with me. Somewhere between two and three, this child definitely spoke no English and had no background knowledge to know that she should be nice to the strange, white lady. She sat on my porch with me for awhile, until my cat came out and scared the bloody hell out of her (kids here run from cats and dogs - but beat spiders and snakes with a fearlessness and determination). She cried and cried and kept on crying. If I was at home, if this was of one my nieces or nephews, I would have picked that baby right up and spoke words over and over again until she started to quiet down. Then I realized, I am home.
I put her on my hip and I walked out into my front yard, through the speedily growing grass, letting the cool drops of water from a previous shower graze against my legs. She kept crying but that was okay. I told her it was okay again and again and I held that baby to my chest. I even managed a few words in Bemba - your sister is coming. We stood by the road and watched as cars passed. Older community members walked by and greeted me, taking no notice of the child clinging to my shoulder. It was the first time I’ve held someone here. Held someone close to me, and rocked back and forth on my feet, shushing and feeling like someone needed me. She was afraid of my cat, but she wasn’t afraid of me. Her sister had no reservations about leaving her in my care. Those older community members didn’t blink an eye. I felt trusted. Eventually she fell fast asleep, her snot running down my arm and back, her hot head pressed against my collarbone. I didn’t put her down for awhile. I kept her weight cradled in my arms and continued to feel needed for just a little while longer. Holding her reminded me of one time I truly felt what pure love feels like. When one of my nieces, climbing out of the bath before bedtime, gave me a fierce hug and said, “I love you Helly” with no prompting or me saying it first. She ran away, naked, leaving me with my heart growing two sizes too big. It’s a memory I’ll never forget. Kneeling there, with an empty towel before me, feeling loved and feeling needed. Her sister and Diane came back and the baby woke up. The older girls practiced writing down all the English words they knew, then they drew some pictures in the Elmo coloring book, and eventually they went back home. Diane is in Grade 4, just one year shy of being in my own class. Next year though, I will teach her, and we’ll go through all the letters of the alphabet and read small, small words until we can tell stories and write about our families. Even though I miss my own family, it’s okay, because I get to learn about other people’s families here. Sometimes, they share their families with me, sometimes without even thinking twice. The kids in my Grade 5 and 6 classes are energetic and they want to be taught. They are bright, cheerful, and they make going to school, something I’ve been doing for 16 years now, fun. Even though it’s overwhelming, especially with those small 5th graders who still can’t read English, they make me feel needed. I know not everyone feels needed all the time, because I’ve been there a lot too, so I’m trying my best to feel grateful for the experience. To be able to hold someone close to my chest and rock them back and forth. I hope that one day, they will feel like they need me just as much as I need them.
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As promised, the rain came and now I’ll write about the fortunate rain.
Every storm is like holding your breath. Driving through dark tunnels, your cheeks bulging out, praying for luck. Some storms, cloudy for hours, eventually pass on by, not shedding a drop. Other storms rage against the world, going from a measly sprinkle to a soaked-to-your-bones flood. My roof made of tin, the rain a thunderous roar. The rain is bliss, truly. It comes in the sense of rest. Don’t worry, you’re here to stay. Everything, everyone, stops. You sit under your roof, under a neighbor’s, under a stranger’s. If you’re down by the river or too far to make it back, you pick the closest, biggest tree and fling yourself under. It can take hours or seconds, whole nights or mere minutes. In Zambia when it rains there’s nothing to do but wait. My head teacher calls the rain the most ideal napping sensation. When it rains it’s hygge - it its near perfect form. You’re inside and you’re warm. It doesn’t matter who you are, what you do. When it rains everyone feels the same. When it looks like the beginning of a storm, a small smile on a child starts to creep. Young, old, no matter the age, you run carefree to find the most welcome cover, tax-free! Not to mention the buckets! The buckets wedged all in tight. In many different colors, all lined up in a row. Under the tin roofs they collect this water in full. One drop at a time, under heavy flow. You see, the soft sprinkles they don’t count. Here, here we demand the downpour! Give us the water in its infinite glory. We become greedy monsters of the lake, desperate for more. Even just one more drop, we plead, we bang on our buckets. When the rain slows and unwillingly (for us) comes to a halt, the world cracks open once more. You peer out from your window, your door, embarrassed, meeting someone else’s eyes, who’s also been freshly reborn. With a slow churn and hesitant step, things return as they once were - now washed clean and flushed with the news of the miracle that has come. I got a kitten a few short weeks after moving in. I’ve known her name for a long time. A perfect orange plucked straight from a fruit tree in the heat of the day. My kitten, a beautiful calico, even has patches of peach fuzz to boot.
I watched as they took her from her mother, an only child, the lone wolf of a litter. She was too young, even I knew. Tiny, barely the size of my palm outstretched. I watched, as the kids scared the Mom off, thwarting any possible rescue attempts. Days later when worrying to a friend, she told me that even if I returned the kitten, her mother might have forgotten her scent already, disregard the child she once had. Suntala was tense and afraid at first - but above all she’s curious. Ever since scooting her into her new home, my house, she’s never been one to hide in corners or shy away from my presence. I continued to worry about her size, her teeth, her might, for weeks. At the same time, I was mean. Despite her objectively being the cutest kitten alive, with abundant charm and the sweetest sleeping positions known to man, I felt angry. She, my sole companion, during a restless time of boredom and feeling unfit. Tala is greedy around meal times (rightly so, let’s not forget) and I would not at all kindly toss her out of the room, out of the house, while I cooked. Toss. As in throw a small little angel of a thing. Swift as my anger, toss. And then my anger would shift, shift, shift again. To be someone who didn’t want to hurt animals on a moral high ground, how could I, how dare I, be so cruel to the one animal closest to me? I continued to be mad and toss toss toss for a few more days, maybe even for another week or two. I don’t toss her anymore. By my best guess she’s around two months old now, maybe even two and a half. I let some of my anger go. Some, not all, I’ll never be perfect alright. I stopped letting myself feel unwelcome here. I’m trying not to be so hard on myself. I’m trying to make friends. I’m letting myself off the hook. Breaking the news gently to myself. I’m not going to be good at this. Not for a long time, anyway. I’m an introverted person doing an extremely extroverted job. Leaving the house is a hard, almost insurmountable mountain most days. The weight of it all feels like the exact opposite of my palm-sized two month old. Finally there came moments, now even full days, when I am able to put down that weight and understand this new life for what it is. I’m not here to do and be the most. I’m here to do what I can. For now, that means doing one thing everyday - just one! As for Tala, I love her and she loves me. By being kinder to myself I am able to be kinder to her. She is playful, bold, pretentious, soothing, and wild. She refuses to learn her name, as if such a thing as a word could ever tack her down. I still worry all the time, not about her growing, but about if she’ll survive. If something bigger comes and takes her, or she gets lost, or gets hurt and I’m unable to heal her. A lot of its selfish for sure, it has quickly become a thought reel of ‘How will I do this without her?’. Just as I think it, I also know she worries about me too. Will I keep coming home? Will I make it through? In my hope above all hopes, we’ll make it through together, her looking out for me and I for her. |
Author's note:Hi, I'm Helen. Welcome to Lifted ~ I write to lift myself up. Archives
March 2021
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