One of my many grandmothers.

"Hello, mama," I said, "It's me, Nakor(u)."

Her sightless eyes shifted back and forth as her face broke into a huge smile. "Nakor(u)! How are you?"

"I am fine, grandmother. I have been sick for the past few days, but I'm getting better. I haven't seen you in a while - how is your place?"

"I've never seen you!" We laughed. "Our place is fine. The baby is well. My daughter" - here she reached out, grasping for her daughter's hand - "is fine."

"I'm going home now - my head is hurting. Greet all in Kopetatum."

"Yes, child, you go home and rest. You will get better. Greet everyone I haven't seen!"

I love her.

After Kopetatum village burned down last year, we went to see if we could help with the rebuilding. My dear "grandmother", Tata, who has no family save her daughter and granddaughter, was in need of some help. So I joined them in the mudding of the house. Her daughter, Namer, would carry water and dirt, I would mix it and carry it into the house, and Tata would throw it onto the frame that would support the mud walls.

After a while of bending over, her back became sore, so she took my hand and showed me how to throw the mud onto the walls properly. I took over for her for a while, so that she could go rest. I did what I considered to be a fairly good job, slapping huge chunks of mud into the spaces. Since the house had already been thatched, it was quite dark inside, so it wasn't an easy job for someone who relied on their eyes. The smoking remains of a fire only added to my discomfort, and soon I was sweating, aching, sooty, and covered in mud.

When Tata returned, she ran her hands over the walls. "No," she said. "You have to throw harder. It isn't going deep enough." She bent down and felt around for the mud pile, not knowing I was already bending over it. Our heads collided with a CRACK. Pain exploded in the back of my head and I fell forwards.

"Ai....aiee....." As the stars cleared from my vision, I turned and saw Tata clutching her forehead. "Sorry, Tata, sorry..." I said, still reeling.

She moved her hand out of the way and leaned towards me. "Is it bleeding?"

"No."

"Okay, good. " She put her hand on it again. "Aiee...."

When I was leaving, she thanked me. "You can't give us money."

"No, I can't."

"So you gave us your strength. Thank you for helping me. You are my daughter."

"Thank you, Tata. I am your daughter."

A Series of Notes I Jotted Down About Our Bible Study Today In Hopes to Write a Blog Based Upon, but Then Liked Them the Way They Were

little baby girl on her sister's back
reaches out for me as we stood waiting in the village
grabbed my hand, turning the fingertips white
and I knew that I was caught
finally, she was pulled away
we walked together out of the village, avoiding the crabby cows
I led singing
as I held the pictures, she reached up a hand for me, toothless gums bared in a precious smile
I grinned back and took her hand
she toddled over, staggering precociously
clutched my skirt, tugging it dangerously
sent her back to her sister
I felt a little chubby weight hit my skirt, pulling it.
I look down, and she's wrapped around one of my legs, clutching my skirt in her chubby fists, smiling and smiling.
she loves me.
adoration in her eyes
Mary comes over and peels her off me
she stares into Mary's eyes, mesmerized by the blue, and we're able to get her off.

time for prayer.
Mr. Clawson stands before the children.
"Let's pray"
all of a sudden, a rumble of rocks and hooves.
bullfight
great hulking bodies in the sunlight, muscles quivering with every collision
jarring, hitting eachother
a white bull, triumphant, the black one lying down submissively, being shoved
over and over and over again.
kids shrieking
men yelling in dismay
throwing sticks and rocks.
cursing at their animals stupidity
the lowing of the cows, like a crowd at a game.
The white one trots off finally, horns held high.
The victor.
Is the black one hurt?
It still lies silently.
The men push it, it stands.
Neck lowered, it walks off slowly.

We herd the kids back to the tree.
"Let's pray."


we walk back through the overflowing culvert
stop and savour the icy water, grinning at each other
the public pool is open
brown bodies gleam in the murky water
we watch enviously - no bilharsia for us.
back home. Teatime.

It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you.

"I wish I could go home," he said. "I love this country. I love it. But it's not home for me."
"Well, you could go home," Mma Ramotswe said. She nodded in the direction of the border, not far across a few miles of scrub bush, behind the hills. "You could go home now, couldn't you? There's nothing stopping you."
"That place is not home anymore," he said. "I left it so long ago, I don't feel at home there."
"And this place? Here?"
"It's where I live. But I can't ever belong here, can I? I will never be from this place. I will never be one of these people, no matter how long I stay. I'll always be an outsider."
She knew what he meant. It was all very well for her, she thought; she knew exactly where she came from and where she belonged, but there were many people who did not, who had been uprooted, forced out by need or victimisation, by being simply the wrong people in the wrong place. There were many such people in Africa, and they ate a very bitter fruit; they were extra, unwanted persons, like children who are not loved. '

-- "The Good Husband of Zebra Drive" by Alexander McCall Smith

The everlasting quandry I find myself in every moment of every day.

"I am a traveller.
You call me stranger.
No matter where I go,
I don't belong.
But, still my restless heart
Is ever moving
No matter where I am
I am at home."