Sweet snippets

It’s only been a few days since my last post, but I want to share two short stories with you that have recently brightened my little corner of the world. Perhaps they will yours too.

The first is an update on the dancing santa dog’s tour of the village. He made a home for himself in the house of Manguiru (the little boy in the photo who had tied the dog to his back like a mom would her baby) and his little brother Aziz and cousin Aicha. And every now and then I see him passing by, looking a little dirtier, a little more ragged, and a lot more loved.

Then the other day as I was walking my bike into the courtyard, on my way home from the health clinic, I hear little Aziz yell “Breejeetie’s home!” as the three of them make a bee-line for my courtyard door. I can tell Manguiru’s got something behind his back, and as he runs I spot a clue: the dancing dog’s spiral hat is bouncing out to his side like a secret he just couldn’t keep in. “Look!” he grins as he pulls it out from behind his back.

And then I see what he’s smiling about: there’s santa dog, as dirty as ever and wearing a clearly homemade “complet” or matching outfit (the nicest kind of outfit there is), complete with a matching headscarf. “He looks so nice!” I say through laughs. But wait. Why is he wet?

“We gave him a bath!” they all burst out in unison, so proud of their motherly deed.

The dancing santa dog, batteries and all, got a bucket bath. Or perhaps now he’s just “the santa dog,” as he will dance no more. Either way, he certainly is loved.

***

The second story is a small morsel of goodness that left me with a sweet taste in my soul. I hope you’ll find it sweet as well.

During my family’s short two-night stay in the village, we set aside one night, under the brilliant canopy of stars, to meet with my neem cream ladies. It’s not “production season” right now, but every other week we gather together to chat, catch up, and save a few coins, little by little. (Each woman saves the equivalent of about 20 cents a week – they just doubled it from 10 cents a week.)

Normally the meetings get started slowly, as one by one the women will finish up cooking and cleaning and bathing her kids and finally wander out to our circle of chatter. But on this night, the four of us walked into the dusty courtyard opening to find a full circle of eager faces silhouetted by the moon, the place almost silent with anticipation. All of the women were crouched low as usual, sitting on the typical log converted into bench or on a rice sack laid out on the ground. But there was an unusual opening in the circle where three empty chairs stood tall and proud, as if in anticipation of royalty. The chairs, of course, were for mom, dad and Katie, the night’s guests of honor.

Since I knew language wouldn’t be our strong suit for the evening, I asked my family if they would go around and greet each woman with the traditional handshake; to show them how happy they were to be here. They threw in a little jumbled up Moore, of course, and sent the women into fits of laughter.

“Why do you only have two kids??” I translated for my mom a bit later, as the women waited for her response with wonder and surprise and more laughter. I responded to their question with the idea that more kids would have meant more money, which means my sister and I wouldn’t have been able to have as good an education. They responded by offering to give her one of theirs.

“A son!” they said smiling and laughing, pushing a hesitant little boy toward the three white people sitting in big chairs in the dark. “You have to have a son!”

There were jokes and laughter and the mingling of different tongues that created a harmonious hum of happiness. And when it was time to go, there was the giving of gifts. First, a bowl of peanuts from their fields, so big you could hardly wrap your arms around it. Then two women kneeled forward to add container after container of neem cream to the top of the pile, to bring back and share with the rest of the family in America. And finally, my friend Ramata reached out her hand with a wrinkled old bill of money, the equivalent of almost five dollars.

“We so wanted to prepare soup for your family,” she said, “but we couldn’t get the chicken ready in time. So we want them to have this, so they can have a good breakfast in the morning.”

These twenty-one women, who sit on the ground for their meetings, and save 20 cents each every week, and sell each container of neem cream for only about 20 cents during rainy season, wanted to give the three well-dressed strangers five dollars. But then again, they weren’t strangers. They were friends.

They walked their new friends home then, an entourage of neighbors, friends and family ambling slowly through the moonlit village, not quite ready to say goodbye. We were leaving in the morning, headed back to the city. But first, we would have a good breakfast.