It seems slightly unfair that we wait for this time of reprise and then find ourselves with long lonely days that are so hard to fill. It feels like more waiting, more limbo. I'm trying to remember all of the things I wanted to do with this abunudance of time. Very few are accesbile. I try to remember the spirit of adventure and determination that motivated the decisions which have brought me here. I've been deserted. I can't think of a single way to meet someone.
I am the only white person in my neighborhood and it shouldn't make a difference, but, of course, it does. (I am sure I wouldn't know how to make friends with a bunch of European or American neighbors either, but they would. They might reach out to me.) Mohamed pointed out this situation, albeit indirectly, as we were walking home one evening. "I hate it when they call me 'white boy.' Like in Kinshasa when everyone called me mondele. Aren't I metisse?" It doesn't happen often here but occasionally the little ones can be heard saying, "Regard le blanc," which sounds especially odd in their French. Being white seems so much more exotic when it's in a non-European language.
It's the first time Mohamed has come out with a decision. I've been waiting to see how he will 'identify.' American, yes. There's always a deep pride in being American, though in the last months it's been peppered with questions. The boys are forgetting real memories and trying to determine how much of their images are assimilated by others' ideas of America- or media representations- and how much is due to real experience. Mohamed has dreams of becoming the first great American soccer player. He thinks he can change the way the country views the sport if they have one of their own to root for. It's likely America will claim him when he's famous, even if he has grown up in Africa. She is forgiving like that. But if the boys are metisse, than it leaves me as being the only real Caucasian around. Does it matter? It seems to suggest a bunch of things which may or may not be true. Very few are taking steps to find out.
There is one bright spot in my day. Our next door neighbor has a cutie little girl who is often busy doing chores around her yard or running errands.Whenever our paths cross or gazes meet, even from a distance, she is quick to greet me. She pauses whatever she is doing and looks at me directly with a firm but hopeful stare. "Bonour Tantine." Her voice is strong and quiet. I can't help but smile and return her greeting or offer a wave. It's nice to be seen.
We're not the only foreigners however. Abidjan is sprinkled with West African transplants. There's even a young guy we pass just down the road - a fan of Mohamed's- who has taken to greeting me with a deeply accented 'good morning.' Apparently, incredibly, he doesn't speak much French. But Mohamed said he couldn't really understand his version of English that well and guessed he might be Jamaican. There is such a variety of African pidgin English he could be from anywhere really. I haven't heard him say more than 'Morning,' which seems to come at any time of day and so can't hazard a guess.
But it's a thread.That's what we search for as strangers in a new place. Some common thread that can connect us to another and form the beginning of a web of belonging. Ties that bind. I think often that I am not the only one alone, without family. Death is rampant all over the continent and plenty are left without complete families. But the African system of greeting ' brother,' 'sister,' 'auntie,' or 'uncle' seems to take care of that, obliging connections where Americans might not see any.
It's a tangled web, I notice, often filled with under layers of suspicion and doubt. But on the surface, even the most orphaned African can find him or herself surrounded by a shield of brothers and cousins and aging aunties. It's something I can't do- or at least will take much longer. Erasing the boundaries and the lines of my history to feel surrounded by people who know me. It's a forever case of not fitting in anywhere. There's no past to retreat to and no clear forward to step into.
Here in this newness, I pass houses overflowing with people. I walk down small streets filled with busyness. I catch snatches of conversation, see endless games of soccer between children and adults alike. I see groups of women with children, young girls running errands and people passing their time in daily routines. I return to my house and feel it bursting with emptiness.
