Today

Thursday, March 20, 2009
In Bed, King's House (Worringham, Zimbabwe)
Late Night

"Too much tomorrow, I think I'll take all..."

Dad takes a tour of the Mtshabezi hospital and I hang back and view
old photos with Obert from my 2007 trip. Obert is a good man, and I
enjoy spending time with him. He is giving and kind. He is formal,
yes, but his formality ultimately becomes endearing. He and I seem to
be getting along well and we engage in pleasant conversation.

I'm excited today. Today we are set to see Shelton. And even though my
excitement rushes internal as we arrive at the office to plan the day,
I'm simultaneously concerned that he will not remember me.

We arrive at Shelton's school and everyone at the school knows it.
Hundreds of kids lean out windows and doors with diffidence, shying
away whenever I look in their direction. As Dad, Obert, and the
headmaster speak to one another, I move away and play games with the
kids. I sneak under the windows, pop my head up, and scare them,
acting goofy. They laugh at the white clown and run away, only to run
back when I turn my back, repeating the process.

The headmaster calls for Shelton. After a few minutes the boy
tentatively approaches. I notice that he looks very much the same as
when I saw him last. He is quiet, cute, with watchful dynamic eyes
that take in all information. He tries to process everything with his
eyes. He stands apprehensive under the shadow of the circle of men.
Obert speaks introductions to him in Ndebele.

The reason this boy is such a wonder is that for the past few years he
has been living on his own. He is 9 years old. Along with his sister
Margaret (10) and his cousin Concillia (11), they have managed to
survive as three orphan children living in the Zimbabwean bush. It's
fascinating, inspiring, saddening, and a bit abhorrent.

They keep a hen of chickens on their "property" – two huts and a
perimeter fence – and they would sell the chickens in the local
village for food and necessities. They would operate normally as if
their parents were near. Get up in the morning, no breakfast, don't
put on any shoes, walk to school, about 10 kilometers, go to school,
eat at school, walk back to their home, go to bed, and do it over
again. Still, Shelton, his sister, and cousin are playful and
enthusiastic.

We stand over Shelton putting him in the spotlight. Obert asks him if
he remembers me. He takes a moment, covers his mouth with his hands,
and whispers, "Steve." It was pretty cool. I introduce Shelton to Dad.

Another reason that I find the boy to be so profound is that he has
all the right in the world to ask for anything and everything yet he
asks for absolutely nothing. I watch him closely. We are in his
classroom and the teacher is introducing the class to Dad and I. Dad
takes a picture of the class and he moves over to show them. The kids
are excited and they hop on the tables and push past one another.
Shelton just sits there in his chair as children hit and kick him in
the head, pushing him out of the way. He doesn't push back, he doesn't
say "hey!" indignantly. He is so passive. So content.

Later, Dad and I drive the two hours back towards Bulawayo. Earlier in
the day I was learning how to drive the stick shift, but we conclude
that the hilly terrain is not conducive to my necessary learning
pains. And we essentially become a taxi service. Hundreds of people
hug the side of the road walking to and from the city. Some stick
their hands out, hoping for a ride. We pull over. We see someone else,
we pull over again. And then yet again. We drop someone off at a town
halfway between Mtshabezi and Bulawayo, and take some kids on their
way home from school. I think the people in between the towns have
less opportunity to speak English because it is challenging for Dad
and I to understand what they are saying when we ask them where they
are going. I have no idea of the town names nor do I know where they
are located. Thankfully I am able to convey to our passengers that it
is best if you just knock on the glass when you would like us to stop.
The truck has a separation glass between the front bench and the back
truck part. I periodically turn around to make sure that everything is
okay behind me. I give the thumbs up sign, smiling, 'everything
good?'. The old man returns my smile with a smile. We are okay.

There is an infinitesimal beauty when the first instant of surprise
arrives on someone's face. I help an old man and a middle aged
heavyset woman into the truck. They give fulsome thank-you's and
gracious comments. I reach into our bag of candy and hand them each a
Twizzler packet, or a chocolate bar, or some trail mix. All
expectations supplanted.