With writer's eyes

It's clear to see I've stopped writing. More fearful to me, I wonder if I have stopped seeing. I don't think so, but a morsel of doubt remains. Enough to make me double my efforts in observation.

My summer goal of taking up painting again set me out once more on an adventure in search of materials, more determined this time to learn the names that are constantly changing. Canvas in English, calico in Kinshasa, critonne in Abidjan. I've mastered Adjame, that overflowing ever bustling market city that used to intimidate me- and I use mastered loosely. My sense of direction  still mostly consists of hoping to stumble upon whatever I am looking for- though I think I have the fabric district down fairly well. I use mastered mostly to suggest I have overcome my fear of walking the streets and getting lost. That is the adventure part after all, no?

I'm still in search of the local version of gesso, though I have a name and (yet another) lead. But somehow, hopping gbakas and woro-woros and finally succumbing to over priced orange taxis was less of an inspiration than I remember. In Kinshasa, I had a blog post or two filling my mind with all the sights and interactions.  But today- a Friday- I noticed only how the Muslim beggars suddenly had more children sleeping near them on the plastic mats they place street side. I wanted to scoop those children up and get them someplace quiet, someplace clean. I wanted to admonish the surprisingly well dressed women for even bringing them out there. The hurt has always been there, but the anger? It's something new.

Our journey started out  amiably enough. We accosted a painter in his outdoor studio and grilled him with questions about what and where we could find materials. He was friendly enough and helpful enough and even accepted my (rather rude?) self-invitation to come back and paint together. There was such a beautiful breeze and so much greeness surrounding him in the vacant lot. I am nearly desperate to find that artistic connection again. I may have been a little forward.

We followed his advice only to end up across town at exactly 12:00- siesta time apparently. The store, the only store that sells the one thing I need, is closed from 12-2. What to do? We sat for a bit, talking with workers strolling aimlessly about on their 2 hour break. I refused to believe it could be this difficult.

Eventually, they sent us off to (impossibly) another hardware store- we'd already spent the previous day in Adjame following false leads. I tried to be more positive and less doubtful, though it got harder with every short-cut turn the driver took, leading us deeper into side street villages tucked unsuspectingly behind city storefronts.

When the driver finally announced our arrival in front of an unremarkable corner quincaillerie much like all the other hardware stores we'd visited, I tried to hold out hope. There was a row of women (and a few men) sitting in chairs along one side of the opening. Ousmane remarked on their style of dress, guessing them to be Guineen. His plethora of West African languages often comes in handy when navigating shopping stalls, bargaining for fruit prices or even changing a dull taxi ride into one of brotherhood.

The people along the entrance didn't look friendly though. They looked regal. I'm not sure if it was Ramadan, or Friday, or Friday and Ramadan or just regular regal wear for them but they were definitely dressed in their best. And it's not that I didn't notice it, it's just the way I noticed it. Later. After I was inspecting paint cans and wondering what trap eau meant exactly.  I did admire one man's cap, sitting  at an angle on his head, and the embroidery that lends the royal air to so much of Guineen clothing design. But my admiration was buried under my frustration and hunger and disenchantment.  I forgot to see the beauty first. I forgot to look with writer's eyes and find the story.

Too often lately I have been forgetting.

Filled

She didn't ask me a million questions, the way I asked her. She responded to my inqueries...
what was most surprising? what did you see that you expected to see? what was the best? the worst?-
with reflection, with thoroughness and detail, with answers that sounded surprisingly like me.

She didn't ask me a million questions, but I'm answering them anyway. I was surprised to find she was taller than me. Surprised by the way this made me feel -too old and too young at the same time.
I was delighted by her beauty, which I expected, but surprised by her grace and confidence. I was awed at her determination to just a hop a plane and fly on over to Africa to see us, a week before her graduation, with a million things strolling through her mind. She put everything on hold, braved a pilot's strike and dedicated a week to us.

It was a week that left me thirsty for more and yet strangely satisfied. We prioritized and planned our moments, making sure to get in all the things we miss doing together. We painted and baked and took market trips. We had clothes made- even a graduation dress in that fabric that is all the (African?) rage. We couldn't squeeze four missing years into that too small, just right week, but surely we tried.

My favorite Mohamed moments were watching them play soccer in the sand- yup, she jumped down there and joined the guys on the beach. It was enough to make a few passersby stop, and take it in, this white girl playing African soccer. I love the video she showed me of Mohamed, telling me how good it was and narrating the important parts so I could really understand. I love the party we made in his hospital room, eating lasagna and wearing birthday hats.

My favorite Nabih moments were making pottery together and flying on the swings at Paradisia. She's always had patience for Nabih and something of a calming effect. He managed a few disappointments with much more decorum than usual. They are bakers, those two, and we compared recipes and swapped treats- he a lemon tart and she cocoa brownies. He even made his signature quesadilla for her- sibling exchange at its finest.

My favorite Mbalia moments were teaching her to take a 'selfie' and dancing circles on an overtired night. I love the way Mbalia jumped right into her arms as soon as we came through the gate, sisters from the very first.

And the me moments? Going to the marketplace and being mistaken for sisters, for twins even. Choosing fabric and feeling that satisfying thrill of having clothes custom made. I loved baking together and painting together. Exercising and laughing together. I loved laying around on a rainy afternoon and waking her up and saying goodnight. I loved just being in the very same house. Together.

My favorite just her moments- Those soccer shoes she brought, all worn apart and taped up at the toe-looking like a ballerina's practice flat and showing all the signs of love for the game. Her perfect eye for snapshots from a taxi window and her try anything spirit. Everything about her filled me with love and awe and admiration. I admit to being a little dumbstruck, lovesick, marveling with delight. But then, she's always done that to me. Her patient nature, open, accepting, curious, maturity without judgement- it's all come together in such a genuine, graceful way.

To soccer, with love

There isn't a worst, beyond the obvious- it was such a perfect time. But as it has passed, I wonder, did I hug her enough? Did I kiss her and call her sweet names and make her feel a mother's love? We talked a lot but there is much we didn't get to say. And there never seems to be enough time, or the right time, to explain, how hard its been, how long and lonely, how deep and wondering, how nothing is ever quite complete when there is so much distance, how some holes just remain.

But I am not stuck there. Instead I am filled with her inspiration for art, her excitement at moving on to the next full phase in life and the joy in knowing this intelligent, confident, beautiful woman. I feel honored and privileged that we worked together on decorations for her dorm- a painting of encouraging words filled with all the images of her dreams and passions.  I am filled with positive thoughts for the future, looking forward to hearing about her college tales and planning our next adventure. I am filled with courage in a way that I simply wasn't before. Congratulations to my love, my sweetness!

Super pleased she choose the best African wish
to adorn her graduation cap.  

arrival

I spent the day remembering my first trip to Africa, the way I feel in love with travel. The many languages in the airport, secretly satisfied when I hit the point in my journey when English was no longer the first in the long line of translated announcements.

I remembered the way the African climate enveloped me. The sounds of the night making magic in the air. I spent the day reliving the newness of it all and hoping my girl is having her own journey of wonder.

The day I've been waiting for, finally here. She's coming. Tonight. To Africa.

Draft SAT

She looks at me- guiltily
and I have decided she is
taking the test to please her
family
filling in circles randomly
She's not even calculating
her future path
is different than her family's
vision
When our eyes meet
I change my story at
the judgement there
She's evaluating me
Conspiracy
Sent by the SAT
Trying to cheat,
Copy questions
Double check the validity
of my authority

But in the last 25 minutes
When she's been finished long
before the others
continue page turning, pencil scratching
She sits, head in hands
Watery eyes filled with sadness