Teem-o-tee

He is three years old. His name is Timothy (or as his sister Agnes says, “Teem-o-tee”), and he lives down the road.  I love him dearly.  He doesn’t run up to me the way some of the other village kids do.  He’s not very talkative.  But if I sit still for more than 5 seconds on the front porch, he crawls up in my lap and buries himself in my chest. His little head settles into the hollow below my collarbone.  I tuck my face down by his and hum softly, and the vibration seems to soothe him.  He wraps one arm around my shoulder and tangles his fingers in my hair. I wear it down for him, so he can play with it.  His other arm finds a secure hold around my waist.  His little nervous fingers work constantly, scratching at the back of my shirt as if to assure himself that I am still there.
 

His forehead bears a pear-shaped mark—maybe a birthmark, maybe a scar; I’m not sure.  Agnes reacts in sheer delight when I pick him up.  Her trilling laughter rings out across the harsh landscape like a tiny bell.  I wonder what she’s thinking. I wonder if anyone ever held her the way I’m holding him.  I wonder where they sleep at night—Agnes, Timothy, and their brother Vincent.  I wonder what will happen to them, and who will protect them, and I wonder if they know that I love them, or if I’m still mostly just the musungu novelty.  But no one has called me musungu in a really long time.  They call me Meghani.  Teem-o-tee calls me Meghani.
 

This night there are more kids around than usual.  Zeger’s parents are passing through, and the appearance of more outsiders has drawn an adoring crowd of elementary school kids. Teem-o-tee wraps his arms around my thigh and smothers his face into my leg. I absentmindedly run my hand across his head—and stop short. There are several large raised spots on his scalp, each the diameter of a golf ball. I place a little pressure on one, and it bursts. Blood and pus pour out. I can’t think. I can’t consider. I just react. A million thoughts rush through my suddenly mechanical mind as I dart to my room to grab my first aid kit. Could be staph, could be boils, probably needs an antibiotic… I return with my personal first aid kit. It takes several alcohol swabs to open the boils and wipe away the drainage. I know it hurts. His whole body is shaking, but he just stands there. Not a sound. Not a whimper. A single tear. Agnes holds his shoulder with one hand and my elbow with another. I’m not sure how to read her face, but I think she trusts me.  The last spot is stubborn. As I try to clean it out, a quarter-sized piece of dead flesh sloughs off into my hand. That image would replay in my mind for weeks.
 

Finally, it’s done. I slather a thick layer of triple antibiotic ointment on. Someone had sent me with a couple hundred little sample-sized single use packets of the stuff, so I send a handful of those and of alcohol swabs home with Agnes. I try to explain to her how to care for him, and my heart breaks. She’s just a kid. Nine years old, maybe? Perhaps a bit older?  Just a kid. She listens and nods, but her brow furrows together. Normally she would just say “yes” to everything she doesn’t understand, because that’s what they’re taught to do in school here. I think she’s scared, though. She looks scared.
Gideon, one of the older boys that was playing soccer, must have seen part of what happened. He comes over and says he will take her home. I’m partially afraid he’ll pocket the medicine, but I have to trust him to do the right thing. I watch them walk all the way back to her house. Agnes is holding the medicine. He doesn’t try to take it from her. When they get there, an older woman meets him in the yard. I see him gesture to Teem-o-tee, and they talk for a minute. Then he comes back up the road and joins in the game as if he had never left.

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I’m a long way from Teem-o-tee now. I thought about him this morning as I sat down on the hard concrete steps in front of the nursing building. I think I half expected him to make his way into my lap. I wonder if his wounds healed. I wonder if they’ll get worse. And if they do get worse, I wonder… and I fear…
 

It is remarkable and fascinating how isolated their world is. In the States, tragic illnesses can make the evening news.  The nature of a technological society is that family circles become extended. You can watch your cousins on the other side of the continent grow up via facebook. You can travel to see them over Christmas, because we have airplanes and the money to use them. If a child dies here, they are mourned—or at least pitied—by so very many people. Not in all cases… but most. But there, in the bush… if a child dies, the family will probably mourn. Sometimes the families are so intermarried and massive that it seems like the whole village mourns. But that’s all. On the outside, no one knows. No one cares. It’s as if that kid never existed. Life can just… slip away…

Some days, I think that’s why I tell their stories. Life should matter more than that. Every life. Every life should be treasured. Every child should be fought for. Every kid should be loved. And is much as every lost life should be mourned, so too every living life should be celebrated. That’s what this post is about. This is a celebration of Teem-o-tee.

Let us celebrate his smile.
Let us celebrate his courage.
Let us celebrate his innocence.
Let us celebrate, and let us pray that as his beautiful little eyelashes flutter open in the morning, a daybreak breeze will envelop him in a hug to let him know that he’s not forgotten.
He is celebrated.