The Pied Piper
Weekend redeemed.
Five o’ clock. I lace up my running shoes and lock my door. I throw a challenging look at my host mom to see if she’ll confront me on going out in shorts. I know the shorts bother her, but it’s hot, and all the girls in the village are wearing them. Maybe I’m not being culturally sensitive, maybe she has control issues, either way I’m exercising in shorts today. I dare her to confront me on the issue.
Under my left arm is a silver soccer ball. I want to go to the field and play but not alone. Khutso is MIA. I will find children.
I strut down the dirt path, past huts and houses, spotting children practically drooling to be invited to touch my soccer ball, and giving them the wave that says “Come, come to the field, and we will play.” The girls leave their hopscotch, a number of children drop their house work- a car is no longer getting washed, the young life has more or less disappeared from the neighborhood by the time we reach the diverging path.
We walk in a long line: white woman confidently smiling as small African children excitedly trip after her. The eager tension builds: we have almost reached the field. Finally, the ball is punted and throngs of children rush after it, their bare feet thudding against the dirt, each trying to be the first to reach the prized object.
There is such innocent, pure love for this game. Something is unchained in the normally contained children. They laugh and call to each other. They smile and are carefree. They cheer as we allow a 3-year-old to take penalty shots on the goal: his own broad grin increasing everyone’s mirth.
Oh children of Africa: follow me, be happy, be free, forget your woes, enjoy your lives, be young again. Come, come to the field and be free.
Five o’ clock. I lace up my running shoes and lock my door. I throw a challenging look at my host mom to see if she’ll confront me on going out in shorts. I know the shorts bother her, but it’s hot, and all the girls in the village are wearing them. Maybe I’m not being culturally sensitive, maybe she has control issues, either way I’m exercising in shorts today. I dare her to confront me on the issue.
Under my left arm is a silver soccer ball. I want to go to the field and play but not alone. Khutso is MIA. I will find children.
I strut down the dirt path, past huts and houses, spotting children practically drooling to be invited to touch my soccer ball, and giving them the wave that says “Come, come to the field, and we will play.” The girls leave their hopscotch, a number of children drop their house work- a car is no longer getting washed, the young life has more or less disappeared from the neighborhood by the time we reach the diverging path.
We walk in a long line: white woman confidently smiling as small African children excitedly trip after her. The eager tension builds: we have almost reached the field. Finally, the ball is punted and throngs of children rush after it, their bare feet thudding against the dirt, each trying to be the first to reach the prized object.
There is such innocent, pure love for this game. Something is unchained in the normally contained children. They laugh and call to each other. They smile and are carefree. They cheer as we allow a 3-year-old to take penalty shots on the goal: his own broad grin increasing everyone’s mirth.
Oh children of Africa: follow me, be happy, be free, forget your woes, enjoy your lives, be young again. Come, come to the field and be free.
posted by Cait at 1:25 PM
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