Day 375: Daily Knockings

"Tell Lola I have mercy for her."

White Lola is sick. Meaning she has a fever, or had for one day, and then got better, and then began vomiting 2 miles into a 20 kilometer run. It was all very concerning for the children. The door to our apartment, on the first floor of Tumaini, opens into the courtyard. No one can go anywhere without passing our kitchen window, and by extension, our door 2 feet away. On average, we recieve about 200 knocks per day. This means 200 chances to have no idea what is going on.

When we are lucky, the children know what they want.

"Tell Loola I sorry."

"Tell Roola I greet her."

"Give me paper."

"Black Clayon, where is Jonathan?" (The answer, America, is still befuddling.)

When things are more entertaining, the children themselves have no idea why they have knocked, and instead hide their faces in their hands in the apparent shyness that erupts when Tumaini children are spoken to directly by mzungus (white people). Never mind that they were the ones to knock on the door in the first place.

Some children are more afflicted by this phenomenon than others.

Rhoda, for instance, is not one of these people, and is actually one of the more outgoing of all children alive, ever. Furthermore, at the ripe age of eight, she is actually a reincarnation of someone's grandmother, and leaves nothing out: her expressions, her nosiness, her tone, her gait, her nurse shoes, her canary yellow nightgown dress at all times, her swearing. One day, when Rhoda came to get the scraps for the cow (a much sought after responsibility), she was invited into Lara's room. Lara said it would make her feel better to see Rhoda dance with her neck, which is a speciality she has.

Rhoda did her neck dance, which is weird and freakish, and then astutely asked: "This it is blanket?"

The answer, "Yes Rhoda," prompted the children's favorite cuss word: "Gey!"

"Clayon, where is you sleep?"

"Back there Rhoda."

"Master!"(Rhoda's personal swear word).

And then, Rhoda prompty left, after passing the little dictator who calls me mom, who reigning over his self-proclaimed "bed" of living room cushions. Outside the front door sat another child, on the trashcan, crooning Lara/Loola/Roola's name.

And it all began all over again for the eight millionth time.