Happenstance and Haircuts
We're sitting under a tin roof, supported by beams of tree branches, sides open. Paul is in a chair with a worn sheet wrapped around his shoulders. I sit on a stack of loose rocks and Joyce sits opposite on stones. The 'barber' clips and clips, shearing away the ¼ inch of growth on Paul's head. Occasionally, I see Paul squeeze his eyes, as if in pain. And some cord, attached from his flinch center to my viscera, causes me to feel it, too. “Does that hurt him?,” I ask the barber, who is young and considerate. “I'm sorry,” he says, “I do not understand you.” “Is that painful to him?” I clarify. “No,” he says reassuringly, “it is not painful.”
Next door, about 40 feet away, an old man works under a tree, making furniture. Next to his shack, on the corner, is a grove of trees under which boda bodas congregate to lub their bikes and fill their tires. Foot traffic passes on the road more than cars. From the house next door, a guy pushes his wooden handcart loaded with 12 black water containers. On top sit two boys, grinning. When they stop in front of the furniture maker, the boys jump off and run back to their yard. The man rebalances his load and turns toward town, using his upper body weight as leverage to steer.
The barber asks Paul where he's from; “unatoka wapi?” They speak Kiswahili and Luo so I capture only bits and pieces. It's hard to hold my tongue, not to interject and answer for Paul. The guy asks again in English. Paul is shy and responds, speaking low. When Paul doesn't respond to a question, the barber asks Joyce. She replies, but also in a low voice. At 15, Joyce is shy, too, but not as shy as Paul.
We've just come from town, me, Paul and Joyce, where we visit Black Berry Enterprises, a school uniform shop. After telling the sales girl the name of the school, Central Primary, she assesses Paul's size and heads to the back. As we wait, an attractive woman walks up to me and says, “Hi!” as though she knows me. It's not uncommon to run into friends and colleagues all over town, so I look closer to see if I've met her before. No. I greet her warmly, though, and shake her hand as she says, with much heart, “thank you so much for helping him. It's so wonderful and we're very appreciative.” At the time, it embarrasses me and I assure her no thanks are necessary, that the thanks are all mine because Paul is such a fantastic kid. Thinking now of her shining, intelligent eyes and how both her hands embraced mine, I truly appreciate her thoughtfulness in speaking to me.
The sales girl brings back a shirt and pant. Gently, she guides Paul into the dressing room, where he tries on his new cloths. Joyce points to the wall behind the counter and says, “bika.” I look to see some very lovely lingerie bikas hanging overhead. They're made of lycra and nylon, shaped like shorts with lace trim on the legs and local women wear them under their pants and skirts. We ask to see their bika selection and Joyce picks out a lovely ecru set. The sales girl escorts Paul to us. I check the fit around his waist and find the suit fits nicely, with a little room for growth. Paul is quite thin.
“He's missing one other thing,” she whispers. I'm puzzled until she says, “he was missing something when he tried on his clothes.” So I ask how much boy's underwear are and we settle on a pair, which she takes into the dressing room with Paul. We also buy a pair of socks, part of the uniform. “Can we try on a pair of these shoes?,” I ask her. “I didn't bring enough money today, but if we know what size he wears, I can run by next week and get them.” We pull one of Paul's shoes off, a black pair so worn the sides and back droop. The soles, smooth from wear, no longer display the size. We check the size by holding the shoe up against new ones. She hands Paul a plastic bag to put over his foot while he tries on the shoe. I tell her we're buying the socks, let him wear the socks while trying on the shoes. She refuses for some reason I cannot fathom. Size three is a bit snug, so we decide on 4. They're lovely black leather shoes, very well made, but I feel he needs some tennis shoes, too. Perhaps next month. His only other shoes are red plastic flip flops that sell for 59 shillings, or about 75 cents.
As we exit the store, I ask the kids if they'd like a Coke baridi (cold). Paul grins and shakes his head 'no.' “No?!” I say, teasing him, “what do you like then?” And he says, “Fanta.” I should have known. So we go to the Somi Snacks restaurant in Nyanda Center, a vegetarian shop operated by Indians, and sit at a table. The waiter brings the menus and we each order a cold Fanta orange along with three samosas. The TV behind me is playing an Indian movie. It's a musical scene, where two very attractive stars are singing to each other, standing close together in beautiful landscapes, the woman's colorful sari blowing sensuously in the wind, its loose floating juxtaposing the couple's sexual tension. Paul is mesmerized. He sips Fanta from the straw in his bottle, nibbles on the samosa and never removes his eyes from the tv screen. I'm a little embarrassed at the intimacy portrayed between the adults on screen, but cannot help but grin at Paul's face, turned toward the tv, eyes wider than usual, and fixed! We linger so he can take it all in.
I suggest we run into the Nakumatt, quickly, so I can buy mazewa (milk). Paul shakes his head no again. I laugh, because I'm not suggesting he has to drink the milk. We grab the milk and head to the checkout, where I encourage them to pick out a candy bar. They both select a Cadbury with nuts. I get a Twix. We head home, munching our candy bars (I'm thrilled to find the Twix tastes just like a Twix from home!). We pass through town and head toward our neighborhood when Paul sees the barber under the tin roof under the trees. He tells Joyce he wants a haircut and she tells me. Let's see how much it is, I say, and she says “10 bob.” That's nothing really, but when I ask the barber his price, he says 30 bob. Wow, I was expecting 10 and I look at Joyce, who also indicates the price is too high. “Okay,” the barber says, “I'll take five shillings.” And then I exclaim, “Five!” I don't understand why he went from 30 to 5, a price much lower than I am willing to pay. So often, things happen that I don't understand, but I accept, hoping with time to learn the cultural nuances.
The barber sits Paul down and begins working diligently. Once he's clipped Paul's hair, he unwraps a brand new razor blades and very, very carefully shaves a tiny path around Paul's head, making a straight hair line, even over Paul's ears and neck. Paul looks very sharp. I'm impressed by the amount of work required, and by the barber's compassionate treatment of Paul, so I give him 20 bob. We're both pleased, though Paul indicates to Joyce it's not a good haircut! He looks quite nice, we both tell him and she assures him it's a good cut. As we walk home under shade trees, Paul plays with a 10 bob, occasionally dropping it, where it rolls down the street away from him. I'm truly pleased he still has his 10 bob, because he obviously grabbed it to take to town to buy something. Now he can save it for a very special treat.
Paul and Joyce cannot know how much pleasure they have given me today, allowing me to take them to town, to buy them needed clothing. It's something I did weekly when my children were young and I miss that part of parenting. There's nothing quite like making sure children have what they need. Not necessarily what they want, but what they need. And when they need, say, a haircut, I'll be there to pass on 20 bob and to feel their flinches, direct from their flinch center to my viscera, via that invisible cord connecting us all through happenstance.
Special Note: When I was leaving home to come to Africa, Kourtney Bryant, a co-worker and friend, gave me a going away gift; a $25 check. At first, I thought about not cashing the check because Kourtney is young with a house payment and other adult responsibilities. But not cashing it would seem ungrateful, and I'm ever, ever grateful to Kourtney for all the selfless things she does for others. So I determined to use the monies to assist someone in a tangible way, so Kourtney can know exactly what her contributions have done to change the world. And now we know, from Paul and Joyce's trip to Black Berry Enterprises. Kourtney's $25 has bought Paul a school uniform, socks, underwear, a pair of black, leather shoes, very well made, and has paid a 400 shilling tuition fee giving Paul tutoring for a year in the afternoons. With the death of his father from AIDS, Paul fell behind in school. This tutoring will allow him to improve his English and Kiswahili, which will improve his progress in other subjects. And we can't forget the bika for Joyce, so essential an article of clothing for a young woman! Kourtney's giving continues to ripple out, unabated, along those complex connections that tie us all as one. She is an angel unlike any other on Earth!
Next door, about 40 feet away, an old man works under a tree, making furniture. Next to his shack, on the corner, is a grove of trees under which boda bodas congregate to lub their bikes and fill their tires. Foot traffic passes on the road more than cars. From the house next door, a guy pushes his wooden handcart loaded with 12 black water containers. On top sit two boys, grinning. When they stop in front of the furniture maker, the boys jump off and run back to their yard. The man rebalances his load and turns toward town, using his upper body weight as leverage to steer.
The barber asks Paul where he's from; “unatoka wapi?” They speak Kiswahili and Luo so I capture only bits and pieces. It's hard to hold my tongue, not to interject and answer for Paul. The guy asks again in English. Paul is shy and responds, speaking low. When Paul doesn't respond to a question, the barber asks Joyce. She replies, but also in a low voice. At 15, Joyce is shy, too, but not as shy as Paul.
We've just come from town, me, Paul and Joyce, where we visit Black Berry Enterprises, a school uniform shop. After telling the sales girl the name of the school, Central Primary, she assesses Paul's size and heads to the back. As we wait, an attractive woman walks up to me and says, “Hi!” as though she knows me. It's not uncommon to run into friends and colleagues all over town, so I look closer to see if I've met her before. No. I greet her warmly, though, and shake her hand as she says, with much heart, “thank you so much for helping him. It's so wonderful and we're very appreciative.” At the time, it embarrasses me and I assure her no thanks are necessary, that the thanks are all mine because Paul is such a fantastic kid. Thinking now of her shining, intelligent eyes and how both her hands embraced mine, I truly appreciate her thoughtfulness in speaking to me.
The sales girl brings back a shirt and pant. Gently, she guides Paul into the dressing room, where he tries on his new cloths. Joyce points to the wall behind the counter and says, “bika.” I look to see some very lovely lingerie bikas hanging overhead. They're made of lycra and nylon, shaped like shorts with lace trim on the legs and local women wear them under their pants and skirts. We ask to see their bika selection and Joyce picks out a lovely ecru set. The sales girl escorts Paul to us. I check the fit around his waist and find the suit fits nicely, with a little room for growth. Paul is quite thin.
“He's missing one other thing,” she whispers. I'm puzzled until she says, “he was missing something when he tried on his clothes.” So I ask how much boy's underwear are and we settle on a pair, which she takes into the dressing room with Paul. We also buy a pair of socks, part of the uniform. “Can we try on a pair of these shoes?,” I ask her. “I didn't bring enough money today, but if we know what size he wears, I can run by next week and get them.” We pull one of Paul's shoes off, a black pair so worn the sides and back droop. The soles, smooth from wear, no longer display the size. We check the size by holding the shoe up against new ones. She hands Paul a plastic bag to put over his foot while he tries on the shoe. I tell her we're buying the socks, let him wear the socks while trying on the shoes. She refuses for some reason I cannot fathom. Size three is a bit snug, so we decide on 4. They're lovely black leather shoes, very well made, but I feel he needs some tennis shoes, too. Perhaps next month. His only other shoes are red plastic flip flops that sell for 59 shillings, or about 75 cents.
As we exit the store, I ask the kids if they'd like a Coke baridi (cold). Paul grins and shakes his head 'no.' “No?!” I say, teasing him, “what do you like then?” And he says, “Fanta.” I should have known. So we go to the Somi Snacks restaurant in Nyanda Center, a vegetarian shop operated by Indians, and sit at a table. The waiter brings the menus and we each order a cold Fanta orange along with three samosas. The TV behind me is playing an Indian movie. It's a musical scene, where two very attractive stars are singing to each other, standing close together in beautiful landscapes, the woman's colorful sari blowing sensuously in the wind, its loose floating juxtaposing the couple's sexual tension. Paul is mesmerized. He sips Fanta from the straw in his bottle, nibbles on the samosa and never removes his eyes from the tv screen. I'm a little embarrassed at the intimacy portrayed between the adults on screen, but cannot help but grin at Paul's face, turned toward the tv, eyes wider than usual, and fixed! We linger so he can take it all in.
I suggest we run into the Nakumatt, quickly, so I can buy mazewa (milk). Paul shakes his head no again. I laugh, because I'm not suggesting he has to drink the milk. We grab the milk and head to the checkout, where I encourage them to pick out a candy bar. They both select a Cadbury with nuts. I get a Twix. We head home, munching our candy bars (I'm thrilled to find the Twix tastes just like a Twix from home!). We pass through town and head toward our neighborhood when Paul sees the barber under the tin roof under the trees. He tells Joyce he wants a haircut and she tells me. Let's see how much it is, I say, and she says “10 bob.” That's nothing really, but when I ask the barber his price, he says 30 bob. Wow, I was expecting 10 and I look at Joyce, who also indicates the price is too high. “Okay,” the barber says, “I'll take five shillings.” And then I exclaim, “Five!” I don't understand why he went from 30 to 5, a price much lower than I am willing to pay. So often, things happen that I don't understand, but I accept, hoping with time to learn the cultural nuances.
The barber sits Paul down and begins working diligently. Once he's clipped Paul's hair, he unwraps a brand new razor blades and very, very carefully shaves a tiny path around Paul's head, making a straight hair line, even over Paul's ears and neck. Paul looks very sharp. I'm impressed by the amount of work required, and by the barber's compassionate treatment of Paul, so I give him 20 bob. We're both pleased, though Paul indicates to Joyce it's not a good haircut! He looks quite nice, we both tell him and she assures him it's a good cut. As we walk home under shade trees, Paul plays with a 10 bob, occasionally dropping it, where it rolls down the street away from him. I'm truly pleased he still has his 10 bob, because he obviously grabbed it to take to town to buy something. Now he can save it for a very special treat.
Paul and Joyce cannot know how much pleasure they have given me today, allowing me to take them to town, to buy them needed clothing. It's something I did weekly when my children were young and I miss that part of parenting. There's nothing quite like making sure children have what they need. Not necessarily what they want, but what they need. And when they need, say, a haircut, I'll be there to pass on 20 bob and to feel their flinches, direct from their flinch center to my viscera, via that invisible cord connecting us all through happenstance.
Special Note: When I was leaving home to come to Africa, Kourtney Bryant, a co-worker and friend, gave me a going away gift; a $25 check. At first, I thought about not cashing the check because Kourtney is young with a house payment and other adult responsibilities. But not cashing it would seem ungrateful, and I'm ever, ever grateful to Kourtney for all the selfless things she does for others. So I determined to use the monies to assist someone in a tangible way, so Kourtney can know exactly what her contributions have done to change the world. And now we know, from Paul and Joyce's trip to Black Berry Enterprises. Kourtney's $25 has bought Paul a school uniform, socks, underwear, a pair of black, leather shoes, very well made, and has paid a 400 shilling tuition fee giving Paul tutoring for a year in the afternoons. With the death of his father from AIDS, Paul fell behind in school. This tutoring will allow him to improve his English and Kiswahili, which will improve his progress in other subjects. And we can't forget the bika for Joyce, so essential an article of clothing for a young woman! Kourtney's giving continues to ripple out, unabated, along those complex connections that tie us all as one. She is an angel unlike any other on Earth!
posted by Cindi at 6:14 PM
1 Comments:
I was really moved by the impact Kourtney's gift made to Paul. I hope that is something that I and others can do, as well.
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