Banana trees collide and sing

May 10, 2011

Fine lays on my lap, wearing the same bright neon orange spandex shirt that she has had the last two years. It is now short and tight on her, not even stretching below her belly button. As the bible story is read in her native tongue, I stroke her hair. She falls asleep.

Nineteen of my graduates have come. We read, sing and play together every Wednesday afternoon. Today, we will make play-dough. The children all choose a color – blue, yellow, red, or green – and we get to work mixing and stirring. More songs are sung. Laughter is heard, joy is shared. I smile…from ear to ear.

As we finish, I walk the children across the street. They cling to my sides and fight to hold my hands. My fingers, spread wide and grasped tightly by small dark fingers, are not enough for them all. They all thank the guard for opening the gate, bidding him good afternoon. (So sweet. They have been taught well).

As I attempt to part from the children, waving good-bye and backtracking through the dirt, my feet, bare and dirty, Fine tells me that she is not well. I touch my palm to her forehead. She’s hot, really hot. I gather the remaining children around me and we pray…and then pray again. “I still don’t feel good’ she says, longing to feel a touch of relief, looking up at me with pleading eyes… “I will keep praying” I tell her, squeezing her once more. “Tell you mom you need to go to the hospital in the morning.“ Malaria.

“I don’t want to go home alone” Fine beckons me with her words. Barefooted, wearing a long cotton dress and hearing the growl of my own hungry stomach, I bend down, allowing her to crawl up on my back. I walk past the mosque, taking a small trail through the bush, banana tree leaves whipping me in the face, small red ants clinging to my toes and using my feet as a bridge…

Fine slides down my back as we approach home. Her mom grinds corn in a deep wooden bowl. Her little brother, not yet a year old, plays alone in the dirt, partially hidden by overgrown green folidge. Mary, her three year old sister, runs giddily to me, wrapping her little arms around my legs, not letting go until I scoop her up in my arms. Hmmmmm. This is life.

I am invited to eat. I politely refuse, but Fine insists. “Okay” I laugh, sitting down in the dirt next to her, Mary snuggling up on my lap, Inefe (an older sister) pouring water over my hands into a shallow basin. I rub them vigorously together, hoping to clean them well enough.

Dried fish and massa. Fine and I eat together. The larger (of the two tiny fish) is left for me. “Eat it” Fine tells me. I dab at the sauce surrounding this little fried body, it’s large fish eye looking up at me. “Eat it” I am told again. How can I. I’m famished, yet it’s such a little portion of food for just Fine. I want her to eat it. Watching her watch me, I begin to pick at the small fish. In several tiny tiny bites, it is gone. The massa (flour mixed with water and boiled) is delicious, ground by Fine’s mom.

I compliment the chef. She turns to me. “I really like having you here.” she says, a huge smile on her face, her eyes, dancing. I smile back. I want to cry. “I really like being here too” I say… As I sit in the dirt, the little one on on my lap hugs me tightly, glad, too, that I am there. The smell of fish lingers on my fingers. Fine sits nearly. A gentle breeze begins to blow, causing the leaves of the banana trees to collide and sing. The mom returns to pounding the corn. Life.

 

Easter 2011

Woke at 6, thanking the Lord for a beautiful, bright day. Yesterday… a continuous downpour, cloudy, wet, muddy. Today we needed sunshine. My hair, still wet from having slept on it all night. I carefully wrap it, clipping it back at the nape of my neck… and pull out my dress to iron.

Twelve weddings. Three of my employees will marry today. I received a hand-written invitation on Wednesday, ‘Para Directora Julia’ written neatly on a square of it, it being a sheet of notebook paper folded into six perfect little squares. Very sweet, a proper invitation to the weddings of M and Zec, former gardeners, present pre-school teachers, forever brothers.

Lee and I wait for days alongside the road, hoping for a chapa (public transport vehicle) to pass us by. I stoop on the side of the pavement, drawing circles in the dirt. We are getting nowhere. It is Easter.

Walking, flailing our arms at any passing vehicle, we hitch a lift within seconds. I am grateful that the driver is not transporting cattle. Who knows what we would smell or look like after 20 minutes in the bed of a truck w/animals and their dung.

We stop near a group of men selling charcoal. As our vehicle slows, they rush towards us, their faces hidden by the large, ash covered bulky bags that they hold preciously, precariously in their arms. They are eager for a sale. We quickly disappoint them by the shakes of our heads. We are here for a wedding.

With a point of their hands, we are lead in the direction of the Catholic Church. The ground here is sandy, not like the red clay dirt that covers our compound and makes its way into all of our homes. The homes are closer together, unlike the stretch of gardens, fields and bush that separate all our neighbors here. Yards are swept. We are greeted by all as we walk by. Lives are lived outdoors, so everyone is outside.
The wedding ceremony/church service/Easter celebration is just short of 4 hours long. (Knowing this would happen, I had an extra large serving of oatmeal and a crepe for breakfast). Dancing, prayer, song, a liturgy… The event is held under a canopy of mango trees. Absolutely beautiful.

There’s an American/Western feel to the day. White dresses, nice suits. Upon further observation though: brides wear 80s pumps with Nike ankle height running socks, borrowed dresses aren’t fit properly, white blouses are seen underneath. A beautiful thing. Beautiful that there’s a celebration. Beautiful that it doesn’t matter if the perfect shoes were found, if the dress fits just right. It just doesn’t matter.

Most of these couples have been together for years. In a country coming out of war and incredible devastation, proper wedding ceremonies weren’t on the list of priorities. People were just married. Now, churches are recognizing the importance of it.

The couples are each given a ring during the ceremony. I’ve noticed them on my employees hands all week, completely love them. They have betrothed themselves to one individual for the rest of their lives. Amen amen.

The ceremony ends. The newly married couples are ushered into the oblong brick church building with tiny windows and a thatch roof. Lee and I wait outside. The master of ceremonies spots us, welcoming us in to join the newlyweds. We are seated at the head table and eat chicken and rice with the residing bishop and a brother of the church. Honored guests.

The remaining hours fill with home visits, picture taking, more eating and cokes. Lee and I walk the 6 kilometers home. It has been a full day. We are just in time for dessert.

Hoping that you all had a blessed full Easter,

Julie

—
Julie Fredrick
Mozambique, Africa

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