A walk in the dark

Never underestimate the odds of having something little and unexpected and awesome interrupt what you anticipated your routine would be. 

Tonight I was resting a bit in my room when my mama called me out. One of my favorite older mamas was there, and was asking me when I had to leave, because she didn't think she'd see me again. We clarified that I'm not leaving for a few days, so we will see each other, but, as they say, one thing leads to another and my mama and I decide to walk her home. We get halfway and my mama turns back, but I'm undecided and our friend laughs and decides I'm going to come visit her. 

My mama gives me her small flashlight, and our friend takes my hand. We walk in pitch darkness, past houses with the front door open, lit only by small oil lamps inside. She greets neighbors as we walk into a part of the village I never actually knew existed. 

We get to her house and meet her neighbor relatives. She invites me inside and summons her thirteen-or-so year old great nephew (is that a thing? Side note: at this stage of my Swahili and cultural comprehension, understanding how people are related to each other is nigh on impossible.) she asks me what kind of soda I want, and I quaver. "Anjari?" The boy asks, and I agree. She unties a bill from the corner of her kanga, and hands it to the boy who goes off. 

We perch on the edge of her bed and I look around her room. She has a beautiful cabinet full of dishes and cookware, and I ask her about the corrugated tin rolls propped against the wall. She says they are for roofing a building nearby. 

Young teen returns with soda - it's cream soda. He is instructed to find me a glass, and rummages through the cabinet by the light of his phone until he finds a small German-style beer stein. It's hard to tell in the light of oil lamps but I think the cream soda is green. It tastes pretty delicious and I can't remember the last time I had two sodas in one day. 

Once I finish, she says that my mama will start to worry if I don't come back soon. We make a quick stop at my mama's sister's house, and she shows me photos of trainees she has hosted - two of them. 

We walk back, the stars incredibly bright on this clear humid night. We stop to greet an old woman near a house, and a tiny child is instructed to greet me. She proffers her hand shyly - her grasp doesn't reach past three of my fingers. 

Dark nights, oil lamps, women full of grace.