Little One

It was the skirt that did it. The purple skirt I had made in Burkina. We were headed to church this morning and I wanted to feel just a little ‘African’ so I wore it. And when church was done I didn’t feel like changing, so I kept it on, despite the fact that most everyone else had donned much more trendy attire.

We went to the market, where I spent the afternoon playing Owarré (aka mancalla) and drumming (very badly) with a shopkeeper named Will. And when my hours in the market were finished and I went to return to the group I found a bunch of our group playing with local kids. I noticed the kids: the boys of all ages playing soccer, the oldest girl sitting with my friends against the wall. And the little one that was sitting near the rest, she was the sad one with the vacant stare.

I turned to watch the soccer and then the littlest one, the sad one, grabbed my skirt. When I bent down to say hello to her she pushed herself into my arms. And when I asked her how she was she replied with “fine” even though her sister said she couldn’t talk. And I crouched on the ground as long as I could with Little One half in my arms. I figured that even though I was a total stranger, I was wearing a skirt she could identify with. It was enough for me.

When my knees felt ready to buckle and I couldn’t crouch any more I had to push little one off so I could plant myself on the ground more firmly. She was scared when I moved, and stared at me confused until I told her she could sit down, and her brother (not so gently) pushed her into my lap. I told him she didn’t have to, and tried to help her get up, but she’d planted herself back down.

I felt crazy – sitting with some random person’s baby in my arms, in the middle of downtown Accra. But I would have felt five times worse not holding her. I talked to her, and tried to play little games with her fingers and toes, but she just stared ahead blankly.

When it was time and I got up to go to the bus Little One took my hand. I found her sister and handed one hand over. They followed us to bus, sitting outside my window, until we pulled out of the parking lot.

And part of me doesn’t want to think about Little One and all the children like her because it’s hard to. Little One makes me want to say it shouldn’t be like this. Little One makes me feel hopeless and hopeful all at once, and I’m never sure I want to experience that combination.

But I’ve thought of Little One all day.