I've become that person. You know, that one girl... The one who freaks out when someone wastes food. The one with a story about Africa for every situation. The one who harbors unreasonable irritation against Western culture as if she isn't part of it. Yikes.
A few weeks have passed, but I still feel like I'm floating around in Limbo. It's sort of as if I'm watching myself from the outside. Not to prolong the Narnian metaphor beyond it's lifespan, but I wonder if this isn't how Peter, Susan, Edmond, and Lucy felt upon returning "home." Did they see Narnia everywhere? Did they dream about it? Did they close their eyes and cling desperately to memories in a wild attempt to convince themselves that it had really happened? And how, pray tell, did they go back to their normal lives as normal school children?
I wonder if Narnia changed them. I wonder if it changed them and shaped them so much that they no longer fit back into the puzzle they originally came from. In many ways, that is where I find myself-- trapped between two worlds. Not quite Narnian, but a stranger in my own land.
Weird.
Anyway...
Peter, Susan, and Lucy each received a gift to use in their times of greatest need. Aslan sent me one too.
Once upon a time, the dusty and quiet streets of Kazembe began to stir with life. Dust turned the sky a dull orange. People appeared from everywhere, as though they were simply rising up out of the ground. A massive celebration was brewing.
I can tell you more about the Mutomboko celebration later. Pretty much all you need to know at this point is that there were thousands and thousands of Zambians crammed shoulder to shoulder in the streets for pretty much three days straight. Because I'm hopelessly in love with all things African, Zeger and I were in the Boma for basically all of that time. It was absolutely amazing, a little terrifying, and a whole lot of fun.
The word "Iwe" (ee-way) means something akin to "hey you" in Bemba. I would often hear it used to get someone's attention amongst people in the village. The nannies often address the kids that way. It has also become a name for the street children. They are Iwes. Hey You's.
I heard many people use it in that context as a rather derogatory term. "I had to chase the Iwes off my porch again this morning." I hate that any child is thought of that way. For me, there are few sweeter words. Many of the non-Zambians I came in contact with said that I'm still in my Zambian honeymoon phase-- I'm totally in love with everything even remotely related to Zambia. Maybe they're right. May God grant that it never ends.
Some of my sweetest memories are of my little Iwes. Especially during Mutomboko.
The first morning we went down, we were all crowded around the entrance to the Mwata's palace for the bringing of the beer (don't ask...). Several dozen village kids were gathered around us (as per usual). I could not have been happier. I could go on for hours about the little moments I shared with them, but for your sanity's sake I'll just tell you about Monica and Cynthia.
They were both beautiful little girls. It's so difficult to guess their age-- they were probably older than I suspected. I would venture a guess at somewhere between 8 and 10 for each of them. Both of them were literally dressed in rags. Cynthia's shirt was falling off, and some of the other better-dressed kids were laughing at her. She kept clutching it up over her shoulder, the shame evident on her face. She was one of many that I took into my lap as I carefully tied the tattered pieces of their clothing back together. I sang softly in her ear and ran my fingers through her brittle hair. Monica stood protectively over her. I wondered if the two of them were sisters, or merely friends fighting for survival together. They stayed with us the whole morning. I tried to talk with them, but their English was very limited. Most of the time, we just stood there holding hands. I was okay with that.
Later that day, Zeger and I were headed back to the orphanage to grab some food. I felt little fingers grab my shirt. As I turned around, Monica pressed something into my hand. It was a small, pink and silver metal bangle. I asked if it was hers. She shook her head and pointed to Cynthia. I reached out my hand, and Cynthia placed her little hand in mine. I thanked her, a little at loss for what to say. She only said one word. "Remember."
I gave her a black hair elastic from my wrist in exchange, and we parted ways. I remember being totally shellshocked. There's a pretty decent chance that this little Iwe had just given me the only piece of jewelry she owned. Maybe not. But maybe so. This terribly dirty little girl who smelled like urine and barely spoke a word of English somehow found the right word to say and made a gesture that spoke louder than words ever could.
That bangle hangs from a beaded cord around my neck. A charm shaped like Africa and painted with the colors of the Zambian flag is nestled in the middle. In my times of greatest need, when I can't imagine going one more single second without holding one of my kids, when the sights and smells slip like vapor through the windows of my memory, I reach up and grab that bracelet. As the harsh metal edges press into my skin, I close my eyes and am carried back to a place where, for me at least, the world makes a little more sense.
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