Every day it won't rain

I sit in the growing dark with Mustafa, my six-year-old neighbor and contemporary. Mustafa and I love hanging out because he's at an age where if he says things that actually make sense, they're pretty non sequitur - not unlike most things I try to say in Swahili. Most of the time he's coming up with excuses about why he shouldn't have to start going to school, playing with charcoal or tree branches or anything he can get his hands on, and chasing our cats and chickens. When he appears at the gate of our back courtyard, his mama wearily tries to get him to "shikamoo" me, however he's young enough to get away with not greeting people, and his shy, hilarious smile makes up for our shared lack of communication.

Yesterday my mama explained, very rapidly, that she wanted me to get coals from mama Fatuma's house. I only caught the coals and Fatuma part, and I thought I needed to take coal TO mama Fatuma's house. I poked around in the kitchen, but all ashes were cold. I walked over to mama Fatuma's house, and asked if she needed coals. She looked confused, then told me to bring something from my house. I didn't know what it was so she sent Mustafa with me. Which was, of course, a mistake, because we spent our time poking around the courtyard, laughing at each other, and clearly neither of us knew what we were doing! Eventually we got it sorted out that I was to bring a metal lid to carry some hot coals back to our house. Mustafa instructed me how to put the charcoal in the jiko (stove), and my mama came to the backyard and turns out we had actually done our task right.

I sat in the growing dark with Mustafa, waiting as the potatoes cooked on the jiko and the mosque called to prayer. Mustafa chose a charcoal bit that had fallen out of the jiko one by one, bringing them over to the wide concrete step where we sit, cook, and relax in the back courtyard. He spoke and laughed to himself as he drew his versions of numbers, buildings, and figures, wiping the surface continuously with his small hand to make more room for his charcoal ramblings. Every so often he would look up with his ever-entertained, bright eyes.

My mama came back outside after praying, and it was time for Mustafa to return home. He stood up and struggled to pull about a dozen more small pieces of charcoal out of his tiny pants pocket. He scattered them across the clay courtyard, and ran home.