Mwesigwa opened the large black gate and waited for me to pay the driver. I wasn’t sure it was him, and his face didnt register recognition of me either. The last time I passed through these gates was over 3 years ago, when Mwesigwa was still young enough to want to play on the swingset in the front yard. This time he held a hoe in his hand and impatiently went back to weeding as soon as I entered.
Inside the large house, a troupe of children filed past to greet me, polite but indifferent, too young to remember the six months I spent tutoring them in 2007. The last visit in 2012, too brief to be significant.
I thought for sure Junior (Joe, now that he’s older) would be happy to see me. But even though he shook my hand a little longer than the rest, I wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking. His voice was deeper and he stood as tall as me. I didn’t want to be awkward and gush about how I missed him, so I sat down and he returned to his chores.
I spent a lot of time with Junior, teaching him his numbers and the alphabet and how to play nicely with his 30 brothers and sisters. That was 9 years ago, when he was 6. I had left him an odd gift, a mug with my photo on it, a present I received from an ex-boyfriend in Mozambique. I’m not sure how long it lasted before it broke. Hopefully long enough to cement me in his mind as someone who loved him very much, even if his teenage machismo prevented him from showing it.
The awesome thing about kids is that they often surprise you in both wonderful and horrible ways, even if they don’t remember you.
Outside, some of the other children were preparing dinner, cutting onions and tomatoes. Ruth sat in the middle. She didn’t know it, but I had spent hours fussing over her, even carrying her on my back tied in a blanket when she was just a baby. I have pictures of her learning how to stand and being bathed in a blue plastic tub in the yard. If I had been more brave, I would have brought her home with me, if they let me.
“Auntie Jennifer, are you married?” she asked.
“No,” I said, while moving my star ruby to the other hand.
“But why are you wearing that ring?”
“So men won’t harrass me!” (As if they do regularly)
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
(Exasperated eye roll) “Do you want to die a virgin?”
Flabbergasted, how could I explain that ship had sailed back in 2001 when I got married at age 19, precisely so I wouldn’t die in the manner she suggested? (I’m over simplifying, but you get the point)
“No, I’m waiting for the right one, though.”
And I guess that’s true. As often as I joke about being single, I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.
Inside the living room, I told my friend all about the shockingly blunt coversation I just had with a nine-year old. Deidrah’s response? “Jennifer, you must have rubbed off on her! Now it makes sense where she gets it! She’s just like you were: curious, sassy, and no filter.” Deidrah was one of my Sunday school teachers so I guess she should know.
Then Deidrah reminded me of one more thing. “Jennifer, you always wanted to do what was right, even if you didn’t know what that was. If Ruth is the same, I’ll take it!”
And I remembered being like Ruth. Asking questions. Testing boundaries. Seeking truth. Being bold.
And even though I won’t be able to blame it on my youth, I want to be that way again. So in 2016, don’t be surprised if I show up at your door asking some variant of “Do you want to die a virgin?” And yes, your answers will end up on this blog.
Hope you’re ready!
What questions will you be asking this year? Are you focusing on a theme or ‘word’? Tell me in the comments. Or just tell me an awkward question a child asked YOU!
IN HARD PLACES 