in the way

reading news for months of only corona headlines 

just when I wonder…how does it end?

suddenly, it’s gone  

states just decided to open up, as though it never existed

and thousands of lives weren’t really extinguished 

only to have one life grab headlines 

spark anger

reading news for weeks of nothing but tensions rising and fear mounting

fear of living, fear of simply existing

fear that brings a grandmother out into the front yard

in her housecoat and walking cane

to cover up her grandchild who is panicking

police training their guns on him as he lays across the lawn

knowing there is nothing he can do to stop the bullets 

from finding his body 

laying still on the grass, crying for help, raising his arms

no action or non-action will be enough to 

save him 

from his skin

and my own news sends me to my heartland

where already rumors fly

of doctors willing to kill to gain ten- grand

for every body lost to corona

no one knows what to believe when streets talk

and life is worth a mere 10k

I see the connection

between the panic that assumes 

a doctor could murder so easily, so quickly,

so callously

because the white man called

with money in his mouth

and the killing of blacks

across the ocean 

just for being

in the way 

of privilege. 

Tilling the ground

I wrote about quarantine long before it was actually a thing. Seems like the whole world is locked inside now, but it's not much of a change for us. Luckily, since we live on campus, our "back-yard" is vast. There is much to be grateful for in that sense.

I have been thinking back to other lock downs and pending evacuations. The first time it happened in Congo I was torn between having the school potentially require me to leave and feeling that there was no better place to be than exactly where I was.

In the face of these new uncertain times, no such dilemma ensued. In fact, our school borderline required us to stay. Not in so many words, of course, but there was definitely, initially, a lot of pressure. This didn't really influence my decision, as the only other place I'd rather be wasn't really available at the moment. I do think most people with families should have been encouraged to join them as soon as possible. As a result, there are quite a few families and singles waiting on evacuation flights. I've heard these last minute flights have gone off without too much of a hitch in some other West African nations. Not here, naturally.

While no one is exactly sure why, the emergency flights set up for this week were postponed and rescheduled every day, until finally being cancelled 'until further notice.' It seems to have something to do with negotiations around allowing the pilots into the airport. Clearly not successful. It might be too late.

We are in the awkward position of watching our family and friends around the globe battle this illness as it makes it way to Africa. I have been hoping against hope that somehow Africa will be spared the worst of it. She has suffered so often and bears so much of the pain of life, I would be grateful to see her sit this one out. It's time, I think. She has certainly paid her dues.

I have no doubt we all be touched this. The virus travels in humans, and witnessing the spread from country to country and across continents proves how interconnected we all are. Our family recently received that middle of the night call that everyone dreads. Except it came in the afternoon. Having the sun shining while hearing of death doesn't make the knees stronger. It doesn't stop the heart from dropping or the tears from flowing. And now we are filled up with sadness. Our personal sadness, the sadness of thousands of families losing the ones they love, and sadness at the injustice of it all. Beneath the tragedies, lies a basic foundation of injustice and we can only hope that somehow, in the rebuilding of new systems, the ground will be dug up, turned over and a truly fresh start ensues.

quarantine

I am completely not supposed to be here. I have been avoiding papers due- in days, maybe even tomorrow- and presentations and other PhD work. I stopped by just to look for something, some details from an old post that I am working on turning into a respectable piece of writing.

But my creative titles and random word labels had me searching a bit longer than anticipated. And then, of course, I got sucked into reading. About corners and walking home and being in the world with my neighbors. I also realized I hadn't written at all this year and I am in danger of blogging out. Which I really don't want to do.

Nigeria is hard to write about. The very small, very elite, very closed-off island bubble we live in here is even harder to write about. Living on campus means no walk to school- or at least a super limited walk to school. Since I am not feeling positive about so many things here, it's practically impossible to write about.

There are a few things that come up- and there was one thing that seemed really perfect- I remembered thinking that it captured the essence of here without having that negative bent that so often colors my thoughts these days. Of course, I've forgotten it now, but the back of my mind is working on retrieving it.

Lately I've been feeling like every country has me itching to move, but this one especially so. I could make a list of things I miss, but it is more interesting to challenge myself into making a list of things I like. We have a kiln at school. That's one thing.

I guess I need to head off and write my papers now. But I will be back. At least once a month is my goal for this year. With an interesting tale of some sort or another. Or rich descriptive piece that illuminates a slice of life here. I miss writing here, documenting our lives in other cultures. For now, we're mostly in our apartment.

The Carrot Guy

I intended to get back to writing regularly but I think this last semester was more taxing than I realized. Motivation and coherent thinking has been hard to come by. I am still highly ambivalent about Lagos, mostly because I have been caught up in a very small world. Maybe it's time for a return to the bullet list.

Things I want to write about but haven't yet the storytelling frame of mind:

• The holiday season started off with a fantastical tale of this ballet party dress, which I found to be a bit expensive and not so well made. Mbalia's costume had a piece of trim from the neckline detaching before she'd even had it on. When I made a remark to the woman who was selling them, she looked at me in that rushed but serious way women get when they're dealing with a line of parents, on the day of the show, selling costumes in the foyer and things aren't going so well. "Yes, I am so sorry. You know why they are so expensive? We had to fly the woman in from China and she just got here Friday night and has been working like crazy to get all of the costumes done in time...." She lost me at "fly her in from China..." As if there weren't enough people here in the country to do a shoddy assembly job. Trevor Noah once again feeling my pain by reporting on Nigerians flying in pizza from Britain. Because it's all real. It's happening.  

The fancy light-up costume

                                       
                                                     It all started with the pizza....

• 3D commercials in the stores- rounding a grocery aisle is likely to land you smack in the face of a real live commercial. Around the holiday season, there seem to be more of these product peddlers on hand. They sell everything from insecticide to wine. I think the ones I have run across most often are for powdered milk or chocolate spread. The most interesting one is the Laughing Cow, whom I might have written about previously. Like an animal version of Santa, he can be found in stores across Africa, wearing his red suit and making children laugh (or run screaming in terror.)

• The mall or grocery store is the place to go for holidays. A walk around the mall or snapping photos in front of public Christmas displays is a popular way to pass the holiday. We spent some time doing this (by necessity rather than true desire) and decided to take advantage of the train running through mall. It's there all year round, along with the dressed up animals loitering in the hallways, waiting to snap photos with the kids and hand out publicity for children themed clothing shops and play centers.

The Palms Plaza Shopping Train

Mbalia was super excited

• The carrot guy- there was a new vegetable guy at the small grocery store I like to go to (not in the mall.) He was so young with a beautiful smile and completely over willing to help. All I had to do was look in the direction of a vegetable and he was there with a plastic bag open and ready. He seemed to glide just above the floor, simply appearing next to me with bag in hand. I asked if I could put the onions and limes together- always searching for ways to avoid the plastic- and his smile got even bigger as he just shook his head. No, ma, you don't want to do that, he seemed to be saying. I couldn't be sure if he even heard me or understood. He was just apparently filled with the joy of the season. Overly nice people have a way of making me overly grateful and slightly uncomfortable so I mentally rearranged my normally high in veggies list. Just a few carrots. I picked up one or two limp orange stalks, shook my head and put them down again. In a flash, he was there, reading my mind. "Let me selection for you ma, so you can have the best." And he did. That young boy picked out all the best carrots from both bins. I felt like I was in a musical- that's how bright his smile was and how weird the whole transaction seemed. If someone broke out dancing and singing, I wouldn't have been any more surprised. As we made our way out of the vegetable section he pointed to the Nuli juice refrigerator. "All natural. Nuli is all natural juice." Like he knew me. I smiled and shook my head, although the Nuli juice boasted celery, cucumber, apple flavor or a watermelon, pineapple, honey combo. The carrot guy folded his hands and wished us a merry Christmas. I think it was the most sincere holiday wish I've ever received.  

• Until we got to the frozen foods, which is near the stairs to go up to the second level. Where I've never been. But Mbalia needed a small screwdriver to change the batteries in a light up unicorn and I suspected if they had tools, they'd be upstairs. I asked one of the clerks if they sold screwdrivers and he shook his head no, but then asked what I needed it for. ? Luckily, Mbalia had brought her unicorn friend along and so I was able to show him. He dashed upstairs and retrieved his own screwdriver, making the battery exchange right there in the store. This whole scene naturally attracted two other employees, making jokes about our hero being a toy doctor. A-plus for SPAR's overly helpful, supremely friendly staff on hand, making every shopping trip a success. 

• The light display put on by Zenith bank were truly spectacular. We snapped our own small picture from the keke. I'm not sure how they got a video that seems so devoid of people but the night we were out was filled with pedestrians, cars, motorcycles and lines of people hoping to get a ride on the magical sleigh.

Zenith Bank Display

The magical ride-on sleigh, viewed from the keke

• Nabih's birthday came along just before the holidays and we took a trip to the Lekki Conservation center. We convinced each other that a walk across the canopy would be a good idea. Tours set out from the main center and we joined a group of about 25 other people. It seemed an odd way to walk through the swampy forest, but once we got to the canopy walk the group spread out. Only six people were allowed to walk across each section, with a maximum of 12 at each resting tower. It was quite an experience, with other group members really making a difference. Two women in front of us asked to keep the space, because the more people on the walk, the more it swayed and buoyed up and down. The three or four guys in front of them were especially exuberant. After the first two stretches, they were waiting with high fives and congratulations- and the ever present photo op. By the time we got to the end, we found ourselves walking off to a suddenly unusual quiet emptiness. Just us and the forest. After all that bonding with strangers, it was a little bit of a creepy ending. We walked cautiously back through the swamp, alternating between delight and suspicion at the monkeys crawling along the handrail- which signs cautioned against actually using or leaning against. 

View before we began. It's hard to look around
while walking. I kept my gaze firmly fixed
on Nabih's shirt. No time to enjoy the view.
Once you begin, you can't turn back.

The swaying, bouncing walkway 22.5meters high

Monkeys everywhere

The path ahead, mostly secure, beautiful green

Walkway in repair

Swampy view- no crocodiles in sight but
that doesn't mean they weren't there

Naira

The semester is over, marking my first year of PhD studies complete. These past 5 months were full of transition, illness, stress and catching up. I think there were a few sweet moments in there as well, but getting used to a new country is a job in itself, one I tend to underestimate even though I have been through it enough times to know better.

I cannot say Nigeria, or even Lagos, but I must insist on VI. Victoria Island is a microcosm of it's own. I have to keep remembering that. Because when I am just plain sick of the weirdness here, it's helpful to think it is probably not all of Nigeria. Just these little island bubbles.

On the island, there are fireworks every weekend. (Don't they know you can't have Christmas every day or it won't be special anymore?) Conversations everywhere seem to revolve around parties and events. One of the reasons I came to Nigeria was because of the reputation for intellectual discourse, and I am sure it is here- just not in these island bubbles. Or maybe everyone is adhering to work hard- play hard. Playing hard is expensive so the money must be coming from somewhere. Me? I am just hiding out in my flat, trying not spend too much. Just walking out the door seems to have a cost attached.

One of the hardest things to manage is the naira. Aside from the academic reputation, there is the other side. Business is a big thing, and for every legitimate affair, there is someone equally creative working for the powers of darkness. Nigeria does have a history of scams and con artists, which has led to some very complex rules around money.

1. The naira and the dollar are completely separate. I cannot speak expertly about the processes regulating change of naira to dollar but I know they exist. I was in the bank, withdrawing dollar (from my dollar account, which is very separate from my naira account) actually trying to send Western Union (coming up in rule number 2). Turns out you can only send naira by Western Union and so I was wondering out loud about how to get naira. The bank teller looks at me apologetically and says, "Maybe if you know someone....?" Meaning he, the banker, could not actually help me.  I needed to call my money changer. Because I actually have one of those now. Some people have accountants; I have a money changer.

I call and ask him to come and meet me. This time we meet inside the bank, which goes against everything I have experienced about money changers in other countries. Usually, "black market" money exchange is done on the street and at a lower rate than the bank. Here, the bank cannot actually perform this service for me. So Usmane comes into the bank and we work out an exchange. He doesn't really speak English and our exchanges are always a little confusing in terms of communication but I am getting better at understanding. He gives me a huge pile of naira and I go to the "large sums" deposit room to have my money counted, verified and deposited. I receive a small ticket to bring back to the teller to verify that my "large deposit" has been counted. Every time I need more naira, I have to go through this process. I wire my dollars to my naira account, call Usmane to change my dollars- sometimes he transfers directly to my account, sometimes I have large piles of naira to count. Usmane is friendly, always smiling- if we could communicate better I would ask how he got into this line of work. Where does he get all the money from? Who is actually funding his whole situation and where do my dollars go? But I am still slightly uncomfortable with the need to invite a third party into my banking transactions. Nairas spend like loose change here and sometimes it is embarrassing to have Usmane witnessing my 'wealth.'

2. There is no way to get money out of the country. Money transfer options like Western Union and Money Gram barely exist here. You can transfer within country, but sending out is a complicated affair. I managed to do it twice in emergency situations, but it takes at least an hour per transaction and there is a limit on the amount you can send per day. Coupled with the many personal questions required to be completed and I am once again feeling my privacy is being invaded. When it comes to money and Nigeria, there is no privacy.

3. There are limits on everything. ATMs do exist, and there are a few you could risk trying to use your international card at, but you are still limited to 20,000 naira per transaction (about $60.) It is extremely frustrating trying to keep cash on hand- which is actually something the government is discouraging.

4. Electronic transfers are all the rage. Some people even know their bank account numbers by heart. Most banks have mobile apps and from your app you can send money from your account to anyone else's account. It is the way to pay. Cashless. There is a small charge for this service but it's possible to pay for all kinds of services this way, person to person, person to business and you can even directly transfer naira for mobile phone credit. As long as the network is working. That small condition can lead to big problems. People have been super gracious so far, allowing that you pay for it later, when the network is up again. Meaning I have consumed services and then just been trusted to pay for them later. "Network" is a word commonly used to describe any kind of technical glitch. And people have adapted with patience. What else can you do,  really?

Network problems also affect Uber and Taxify, getting in the way of providing useful directions or calculating fares. I have been on some longer trips that miscalculated the fare or just shut down altogether. By this point, I generally have a good idea of what the fare should be and try to leave something of a generous tip, but it's not always a sure thing. I still feel bad about a trip I took in from the mainland and ended up shorting the driver 100N when I had hoped to leave him extra. I figure in the big circle of taxi fares and tips, it has to equal out somewhere along the way. It's all I can do.

5. Credit and debit cards are also a valid form of payment, but rely on the "network." It definitely has the possibility of feeling like a futuristic King novel, with evil something or other taking over and shutting it down. Or itself taking over and ruling as it wishes. I have gone grocery shopping, intending to pay with my US card only to have it rejected. In one case,  I then left the store to try the ATM, also down. I went back to the store, unpacked my groceries so I could reclaim my bags when the cashier tried again- and it went through. I had to repack my groceries. Paying and packing-unpacking-repacking took longer than the shopping itself.

Money and money exchange has become something that takes up precious mental energy space. It now involves planning ahead, calculating wire transfer time, money exchange time (Usmane is actually surprisingly super quick- arriving one time within minutes. If we could communicate, I would ask him where he is doing his business....certainly on the island somewhere.)

As I understand it, our salaries go through their own complicated process. My bank app shows two accounts which I can't actually access, but the money passes through there on it's way to my US account. First, the naira is deposited. There is something about bidding on US dollar exchange- my financial literacy is severely limited at this point- and then it gets converted to dollars, which go through that shadow account and are finally wired to my US account.

Something about all the rules, regulations and conditions works to make me feel everything about it is even shadier than if it just existed. I guess the Nigerians know best, how to combat the fraud and corruption. The whole thing gives me a headache.

Applying the PhD

When I was younger, we played a lot of games. We built card houses and played Rummy and Gin and Crazy Eights. I played numerous versions of Solitary, and almost every card game seemed to have a dice version. So we played those too. We played so often that when I closed my eyes, I could still see the outline of the cards, the shapes of the diamonds and clubs in that eerie reverse lighting that happens behind closed lids.

Studying for an advanced degree is a bit like that. It takes up nearly every spare moment, and even when I am not reading or writing something, I am thinking of whatever it is I am supposed to be reading or writing. I see ethics and moral dilemmas everywhere. Even and especially when I am trying to relax or take a break from the intense analyzing of ideas, the topics present themselves.

One of the reasons I'd accepted the job in Lagos was for an opportunity to "just" teach art, an option that would allow me to focus on only one subject and to follow my passion. I'd imagined there wouldn't be much overlap and one would easily allow me to concentrate on the other.

Naturally, real life is interconnected and all things overlap. It's only taken a few short months for the first ethical dilemmas to begin presenting themselves and refusing to go away. I've designed all of the curriculum content to connect to self-identity and culture, social studies themes or aspects of study in other classes. 7th grade is studying West African history, which leads naturally to an examination of the Benin Kingdom and their stunning work in bronze. Which has led to an entire ethical analysis of the conflict over returning the Benin Bronzes, and African artwork in general (I feel a paper coming on...)

In 1897, Britain plundered the kingdom, stealing religious artifacts and ceremonial items. Oba Akenzua II began the quest to have the items returned in 1936 and it is an ongoing affair. On the surface, it seems to be a straightforward problem. The items were stolen and they should be returned.

There are several complicating factors, which I was happy to introduce to my 7th grade classes. Honestly, I was surprised at their responses, though perhaps I should not have been. A Eurocentric mindset is cultivated in communities across the globe since birth. They are no different.

They wanted to know if England had given credit to Nigeria (is that all it takes to make stealing morally acceptable?) When I raised the question about whether there should be monetary compensation included in the return because, after all, people have been paying a lot of money for a lot of years to visit the works, students sympathized with the Brits and suggested it would be difficult for them to give back the stolen loot after so many years and making so much profit. They suggested a 5 or 10% return. I hadn't read anything about restitution for past profit in the articles, but it turns out Trevor Noah and I think alike. There should be something to atone for all of the profits made over the 120+ years.

One of the responses to Europe's argument that there are not places to store or show African art encompasses the idea that perhaps it is not meant to show. These were not decorative art pieces, but sacred objects. Many were not meant to be seen by the general public but rather kept secluded in royal homes or other places. Just because Europeans have treated the art in a certain way throughout the ages does not mean that is the only way to treat them. Perhaps they go back to their sacred status, hidden, revered and an essential part of the spirit of the community.

There have also been some African leaders who suggest that having the work out in the world has been something of a cultural ambassador for African countries. They say they're ok with keeping some of the work in Europe where it will continue to showcase the skill and talent of African artists and present the history.

It's a complicated perspective since these items can be considered primary sources of historical events, many of which are not taught or discussed in African schools. These pieces provide very clear historical evidence of how kingdoms and courts were organized. Complex, stunning and showcasing great technical skill- those words apply not only to the artwork, but to everything surrounding the controversy and the historical significance of the objects.

I share a room with elementary art and the instructional assistant has overheard many of our debates. She took some time to share with me her direct lineage to the Oba and some of her perspective about the controversy. As someone who has inside knowledge about the use of some of the items, and the implications of having them openly accessibly, her perspective is revealing.

There really is no controversy. Stolen items need to be returned to the owner. The owner decides how best to care for them. End of story really.

The students were still not entirely convinced.  I put everything in terms of their personal items- so, if I steal your sneakers, because I notice you don't care for them very well and I decide I know best how to care for them....is that ok? (no, they don't agree.)

If I come into your bedroom and steal all of your belongings, and then decide to give you a few things back- but keep the rest for myself....it's ok? (no, not really.)

And the one they really weren't sure about- if I steal all of your clothes and go out and make your fashion sense famous, I get to keep the money and anything positive that comes from that? I'll just mention that it was all your idea.....and you never had a chance to make it famous, because all your stuff was with me. (they're not really sure about this one....ownership of the idea versus ownership of the items- even if by stealing- versus power to make something seen)

We're talking about privilege here. The power and privilege to access international markets and international locations. The power and privilege to know your own history because the artifacts are housed safely in locations you can visit or presented in ways that accurately depict how they were used in your culture.

The conversations will continue. I can see their minds are still churning over the ideas and the connections and puzzling it through. Some walked out shaking their heads, commenting it was the best art class discussion they'd had, others kept referring to "our art," though clearly not Nigerian, clearly not aware of the history or culture in any way that would obviously merit an "our." Identity is a funny thing that way, a tricky thing for these third culture kids who live everywhere and belong nowhere. They need to develop as many perspectives as countries they've lived in, and they need to be given the opportunity to explore, understand and grapple with the complexities of colonialism, both its historical context and its current manifestations. They need to come to terms with their own role and the roles of their ancestors. The conversations will continue.

Kin-revisited

I spent a quick week in Kinshasa, just to see. It's easy to romanticize the past and to exaggerate an affinity for something until it becomes an ideal. I am pretty happy to report that my obsession with Kinshasa is a reality. I loved every minute of my stay there. Ideally I could have gathered up the sounds and rhythms of life in a bottle, allowing me to breathe in the ambiance of the city whenever loneliness overtakes me.

As it were, I found it hard to even take photos. Capturing one small fraction of the greater picture seemed hardly likely to do justice. Even video, with its ability to move and record sound wouldn't be able to really express the essence that is Kinshasa. It wasn't until my last day, en route for the airport, that I began to snap random images and take pocket videos. I let the recorder run as the taxi moto flashed through the streets, leaving me with a traveling sensation of energy of Kin.

There were many moments I wanted to freeze. One evening, we were sitting and talking with a friend's family. The husband and wife chatting with the us, a few older girls sitting nearby, one playing with her mother's hair. The busyness of evening chores filled the air around us. I imagined trying to capture the moment and knew that the togetherness of family and the fullness of life would  be overshadowed by the dimness of our surroundings. It would become an image of absence, highlighting the lack ofs rather than the fullness I felt.

I did come away with a positive story to tell. I encountered the center, La Vie est Belle, a very cute little house on a sweet little street nestled magically in the middle of Victoire. One right hand turn is all it took to be transported from the bustling energy of the city center to an almost suburban ideal. The street was lined with trees and kids playing soccer, teens hanging on the edges listening to music and gathering in that way teens do.

 Beautiful street

The center is a small house with a yard large enough to host a little cafe in front, a few outbuildings and several rehearsal and making spaces in the back. On my first visit, the place was alive. A band, complete with guitarist and drummer playing a large plastic jerry can, a la mode de Kin,  was rehearsing in the back. Two dance groups were practicing their moves, one on the outside terrace and one inside.  Several guys were gathered under a tarp near a garage, painting butane canisters black in preparation for some street performance. And two other guys were busy washing plastic bracelets in a bucket and working with a homemade silkscreening device. There were preparing t-shirts and a performance for an artist who'd suddenly passed away- car accident on his way to the village.

This place was nearly the exact embodiment of my dream center. Talking with the manager, Peter, revealed we had a lot of vision in common. I told him I saw his mouth moving, but it was all my own words coming out. It didn't take long for us to devise a project together. I proposed presenting their work at an upcoming conference at UI&U and also creating a my own mini-series in response.

Entrance to office on the porch and small cafe to the right

The center has 4-5 rooms which are available for artists who write a project proposal. They can come and do a residency for free, meals provided. I jokingly suggested I'd be sending in my own proposal, and then wondered how much of a joke it had to be. Spending a month surrounded by such creative energy and support sounds like a paradise.

Art lined driveway to garage and making spaces 

Several work areas here in the back

I passed another evening or two engaged in great conversation with the artists. I learned about their work with the neighborhood children and they all seemed to express a sense of responsibility for providing a creative atmosphere for the kids to experience. They talked about wanting the children to have toys and a chance to play. They recognized the importance of being creative and building and inventing. Right now they might be working with cardboard, true, but maybe next it will be circuits and sockets and motors. The tinkerers of today could easily become the engineers of tomorrow.  I was impressed with their action and insistence. "If the government is not able or willing to step in, then we have to do it," they told me.

Artist working with and educating the neighborhood kids- 

Of course, for every story of courage, there is a story of despair.  A friend took me to Maluku to see the village, although officially still a part of Kinshasa. He's trying to put together a small organization to work with the children in area, actually taking care of a few and offering dance workshops for the many.

As we walked around the town, children ran everywhere. It was a Thursday afternoon but school was closed due to heavy rains the night before. Apparently attendance is sporadic at best for most kids anyway. Parents don't always see the value of school or they can't pay for the materials. Even though there is a new initiative for free education, there are always costs for books or uniforms or other things that make it difficult to get a child to school every day.

My mountain climbing gear....I didn't know

                                                    
                                                                     

Cozy little spot for rent- about $30- you'll need to run your 
own electricity lines. Likewise on your own to figure out 
water, cooking, and toilet structure.

View of the city and across the way Brazza

Some girls with nothing to do but pose for photos

The first place we actually stopped was to visit the family. My friend wanted to introduce me to his mom and also to see a little boy he'd decided to take care of. The story isn't really clear- stories are never really clear- but it sounded like he'd come across this baby, who was said to be 2 years old although he couldn't walk and I don't think he talks. The mom was young and didn't really pay much attention to the kid. Apparently there a lot of young moms here in the city-village. Young like 12 or 13. Too young to be moms.

The houses in Maluku are small, wooden- framed with little windows and cement floors. I pushed aside the curtain in the doorway and squinted to see in the dark interior. There were a few plastic chairs, one soft stuffed chair and a table. Flyers from an annual dance festival in Kinshasa lined the walls.

I didn't notice the baby on the floor. I greeted the young girl, my friend's sister or cousin or some member of the family who was around to help. She was eating and it was only later that I saw the baby, sitting in the shadows, impossibly quiet, eating foufou. He looked to be about 6 months old. His eyes were too big, his legs too small and it was apparent he had a serious lack of nutrients and energy.

My friend, earnest in his desire to help, lacks experience. He's young, has no children of his own and has only ventured into the bigger world outside of Kinshasa few times. He said he'd bought a baby walker, trying to encourage the boy to use his legs but he just didn't have the strength. He asked me if I knew of some medicine that could help- as if the answer would be found in a bottle or a few sips of liquid.

"The child needs a doctor," I told him. "There is no medicine that can help him. He needs nutrients, possibly therapy, and I am not sure if there is something else the doctors can do." It is a dire situation, this child, sitting in a small dark room in a quiet village town an hour and a half away from anyone who might have an idea of what was wrong. There was no urgency about it.

I am sure he is not the only child in need of care and food and attention. Too many children in Kinshasa and Congo in general, lack the basic needs. There is a very real danger of a lost generation. It's one of the hard parts of Congo- the potential to be overwhelmed by the need. But in the end, I realized that just getting back and creating a simple life, doing my small part, it's the best I can do.

I left a little cash and strict instructions to take the child to Kinshasa, to a reputable doctor and to call me with a diagnosis. We'll see what the next steps are- maybe there is something that can be done, or maybe the damage is long lasting. In which case, the child is lucky to have fallen into the hands of my friend, who has a big heart and sincere intentions. He's willing to foster him, take care of him and provide the basics.

I don't know how it happens- how he can imagine and then actually proceed to take in children. It's part of my creative response, an idea I have been grappling with for the last few years. It deserves a post of it's own perhaps, but I wonder how the people live with no money. My friend is an artists, a dancer. He's struggling himself and yet, somehow there is room to take in this baby, and a few others, try to keep them fed and clothed. It's the great mystery to me- how it all happens on less than a dollar a day, as they say.

Road back to Kin