Plastic Bag Ball

Ian sits next to the window in our living room and looks out. "Paul is playing soccer with the plastic cap from a spray can. How nice," he says sarcastically. I'm touched that Ian is moved by the sight of this active young man who seems tied to this yard, playing with toys like a plastic cap. Paul also has a tiny, green tractor, no more than three inches long. He'll crouch next to the curb in the yard and will drive his tractor along, pacing like an inch worm. Today, he's out back and Ian tells me Paul has a nerf-like ball, kicking it around. Ian is washing his clothes just outside our back door. While his clothes soak, Ian plays catch with Paul. It's not a nerf ball, but a wad of plastic bags tightly wound and knotted. From my bedroom, I hear the ball hitting their hands and bouncing on the ground. I hear their breath huffing and puffing as they jump to catch and throw. And I hear Paul's laugh, a real, kid laugh, an abandoned laugh, like kids who play and forget about the rest of the world and their troubles.

Yesterday, before going to work, I go out back to find Paul. He is crouched next to a fire, boiling tea in a pot. Over a second fire nearby boils porridge. Paul is smiling at me as I point and ask if it's chai and porridge. Peter, the teenage boy, walks up and we greet each other. Peter is friendly and smart and his English is very good. "He doesn't speak Kiswahili, does he?" I ask Peter about Paul. "Yes, he does," Peter says, putting his hand on Paul's shoulder, something an older brother might do.

"He's quiet then?" I ask. "

"When he gets used to you," Peter says, "he'll be talking to you all the time." Of course, I need to learn more Kiswahili to talk with Paul.

I pull a pack of colored pencils from my back pocket and hand them to Paul. He is pleased. Peter laughs out loud and pats Paul's head, saying, 'Ahhh,' and telling Paul to say asante (thank you). Paul is shy and says asante while looking up at Peter. I tell Peter I'll get Paul a drawing pad over the weekend. When he shares the news, Paul laughs. There is genuine affection from Peter to Paul and I'm heartened to know he is there to look after Paul.

Paul must go to school. This has become my obsession and I'm working out how to navigate the economic and cultural implications. We'll get there, I've already decided. Ian teases me that Paul could also use a new t-shirt. But I can tell Ian is equally concerned, calling Paul a "yard slave."

"He's had his father figure time," Ian tells me after he plays catch Paul. "Now he needs his mother figure."

Not a problem.