driving blind

Upon reflection, motorcycles serve as an excellent metaphor for the situation in Kinshasa, in particular, the motorcycle I took this evening. 

In general, it's best to avoid motorcycles in Kin- which is completely opposite of how I feel about motorcycles in Muanda- a post coming on this visit- and a place that has me feeling like I want to learn to ride, much like Kankan, where all the Guinean women drive. 

Tonight I found myself outside with an impending storm. I'd met a friend to talk about grand visions and big actions. Rain plus the curfew did not seem like a winning combination. As I walked toward the exit, I noticed a crowd of young boys gathering around a small red truck that passed. Gathering is a passive word. They were crowding, pushing, overtaking, and yelling. It was somewhat of an alarming scene to be heading into. Chaos, essentially. Fueled by a lot of emotion and desperation. 

What are the questions that run through your mind when confronting such a situation? Well, my first, futile, thought was the two different friends I'd left behind. One had been about to walk with me in search of transport, the other had offered me a ride home directly if I was willing to wait a bit. And this is why. The exit area of this particular venue has always been bad but it seems like the youth outside have grown up, grown stronger and increased in number. I also had time to ask myself if I was really going to walk into that and scope out my route. But just then a moto went by, and I'd been considering a moto as the quickest way to get home and avoid the rain. But not necessarily a smart move. Motos are fast, no helmets, no adherence to traffic rules. 

On the other hand, at this moment, a moto was looking like my savior. With a quick signal he pulled into the parking area, allowing me to remain a relatively safe distance while discussing the price- a haphazard affair in my current situation- facing rain, a gang of street boys and no other real options. As we pulled out, one of the boys approached..."Mama..."

I had only moments to reflect on this- the price in francs seems so unreasonable until I convert it to dollars. It was $2 to escape a potentially dangerous situation and find a fast ride home. Worthwhile. Or was it?

It began to sprinkle huge fat drops. The mass of traffic expanded three lanes and many taxi bus and motos chose the 'alternate route.' Despite putting up a concrete divide down the middle of the road, which aimed at preventing the infamous 5 and 6 lanes of traffic, many still opted to take their chances on the opposite side of the road- all the more dangerous now because once you've crossed over, there's no turning back until the next break in the divider. The moto driver took the chance. He'd become concerned about his phone getting wet and seemed to be rushing, but then, they're always rushing. The drivers of public transport in Kinshasa seem to be the only ones ever in a hurry. As much as I wasn't pleased with speeding down the wrong side of the road on a dark Kinshasa night, I found it preferable to being stuck in traffic. 

Until he removed his glasses. Although the rain wasn't really what I would consider rain, it was enough to cloud his glasses. I kept saying my "oh-la-la's" in his ear, which is probably not helpful at all. It is one of the problems I encounter on the bike. I have chosen to be there, but then I stress the whole way, making comments on every close- or even not-so-close call. 

I was busy thinking about how bad my own eyesight is and how close to death I probably was- riding upstream with a blind driver. And he was going fast. Too fast. I experienced a sense of that vertigo that comes from looking over the edge of a tall building. The impulsive imagination of falling. 

All of that is Kinshasa life. Recognizing the corruption, mostly vowing not to take part but then circumstance pressuring one to become complicit, and feeling slightly off kilter the entire way- while praying you arrive in one piece without getting too wet. Which I did. This time. But doesn't each time minimize our chances for escaping unscathed the next time? Topic of several conversations this week which have kept me intrigued and hopeful for the immediate future. 

America's game of catch up

America is trailing behind. We know it; we've known it. But I wonder if Americans really understand just how far behind they are. Here is the US gov. message sent out to all embassies. It's coming out as new and urgent information.

But here's the thing: requiring a negative covid test has been essential for travelers arriving in Africa since last September, a full 5 months ago. You cannot leave or enter an airport without a negative test result. It was a mandated part of opening airports again. 

At the end of the US notice, there are a few lines about those who live in countries where adequate testing is not available....which is the most ironic part of the whole message because it sounds like inadequate testing has been a problem of the US since the beginning. Across Africa, testing has been available on an on-demand basis, not just for those with symptoms or by prescription from a doctor. In some places, testing is free. Results are generally available within hours or 1-2 days at most, unlike the US which has struggled to get results out between 3-5 days. 

I understand there is a new government in place- congratulations to Americans on the ground. I hope it brings new policies, new attitudes and a new awareness of how America can learn from other countries and not just dictate condescending policies or rearrange foreign governments to suit their needs. (There was an informative and comprehensive list on twitter...which I cannot find again. Perhaps you saw it?)

I realize that is a lot to ask of a new administration. It is likely that, for the most part, day to day life will not change much. But hopefully a new message emanating from the Oval Office will inspire personal change, which is really where it all needs to begin anyway. 

___________________________________________________________________________________

Health Alert - Department of State – Bureau of Consular Affairs (January 15, 2021)     

      

Location: Worldwide – The U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) Director has signed an order requiring all airline passengers traveling to the United States, including U.S. citizens and Lawful Permanent Residents (LPRs), to provide proof of a negative COVID-19 viral test or recovery from COVID-19.      

    

Event:  Effective January 26, all airline passengers to the United States ages two years and older must provide either a negative COVID-19 viral test taken within three calendar days of travel or provide a positive test result and documentation from a licensed health care provider or public health official of having recovered from COVID-19 in the 90 days preceding travel.  Passengers must also attest, under penalty of law, to having received a negative qualifying test result or to recovery from COVID-19 and medical clearance to travel.       

     

See the CDC Proof of Negative Test Result page to view the order, complete the attestation, and to see FAQ’s.       

     

Airlines must deny boarding to passengers who do not meet these requirements.       

     

U.S. citizens in countries where adequate COVID-19 testing is not available or may not be able to satisfy the requirements, should depart immediately or prepare to be unable to return to the United States until such time as they can meet the requirements.        

On community

Community, belonging, loss and resilience- Kinshasa- the community I feel most at home in- has all of those things. Living here, I move among different worlds through multiple layers and each one contributes something to my sense of belonging. Sometimes it is a confirmation of who I have become, sometimes it is a confirmation of the parts of me I have left behind, the me I am not. any longer. Most often, it is confirmation of the me I have crafted and nurtured and allowed to bloom. Communities do that- they tell us who we are, who we are not, and who we want to become. They mirror our faults, embrace our flaws and welcome us in as we are. They give us a chance to grow. 

 Kinshasa is a physical place. I know her curves and turns, her backroads and short cuts, her dark narrow paths and her wide -open boulevards. Kinshasa streets are overflowing with movement and people, with vibrant energy that is nearly visible. I sway with the rhythms of mechanical noise: horns- whistles- the rev of engines and the banging on metal rooftops signaling to drivers that the taxi bus has filled up and needs to move out. I am seduced by the sounds of neighborhood destinations sung into the crowds : Victoire, Victoire, Boulevard, GDC-Sola, Sola, Zando. I move my feet to the click clack of the shoe shine boys announcing their presence and the cling clang of scissors on machines as ambulant tailors search for a hem to sew or a rip to repair right there on the spot in a city street where a young man will kneel down and paint my toenails with the care of a mother I never had here in Kinshasa everyone calls me auntie, mama, eeh mama! Kinshasa where everyone is related especially if you have a dollar or a franc to spare, to share, because in this community what’s yours is mine and mine is yours and yet, we’re all connected but somehow,  not.  Because in this city, belonging means being part of the crumpled masses, struggling to survive to stand up to be seen, belonging is tucked in the crevices of loss and grief and frustration. 

In Kinshasa, belonging means sharing but the kind of sharing that moves beyond freely giving and into barely holding on while others take, pulling, pushing, shoving, fighting to have what I have what you need what we both want or don’t want or can’t find but we know it’s here because the masses are closing in on us crushing down to take that small thing we are trying to protect. We’re so distracted by this small thing we forget the big things, the real things, the children in the streets who are watching, repeating, pushing, shoving, defiantly standing in front of cars who have no space to go around because living in the city means one next to one next to one next to one… sharing the spills, the smells, the suffocating embrace of a neighbor whose come to give story to their troubles and offer a piece of the little bit of nothing in their pocket. 

 Kinshasa is lux, extreme VIP, diamonds, gold and minerals shining in the night sky like a star twinkling just out of reach so you grab whatever is close and you wring its neck before it has a chance to turn on you and admit that without that sparkling, shiny bit of bird’s nest treasure you’re really just one of the masses nothing special education on a fancy paper printed out at the cyber café on the corner whose walls are crumbling cement cracks running across the ceiling if you look up there is always someone waiting there to take your place and so you hold on and pay out dollars you don’t really have to dress better and drive faster than the masses you are stealing from.

Kinshasa is self- hate and group love, trying to find pride in a people who are not sure where they’ve come from but have a definite vision of where they want to go. Kinshasa is speaking a language that’s not your own and living another voice inside where you keep it dark and hidden because you don’t want to pass it on to your children but those children in the street are making their own language when they got cast aside and thrown away because the people of God proclaim there is no God but spirits working their evil in the youth and the family is a sacred construct but only if you have a dollar or some francs to share to build their business of preaching the word whose roots lie in the destruction of culture and the erasure of  an  entire  community 

 

    of people whose bond is deeper than language, deeper than the terrain they share, the forests, lakes, the little slice of ocean, it’s a people whose loss and trauma cuts deeper than the wounds of generations upon generations bleeding into the soil that’s been ripped open and gouged out to prop up the kingdoms and institutions of art and culture and knowledge on foreign ground where people lock themselves in offices and houses and separate little fiefdoms, hoarding their material wealth as if it had meaning, looking down on the survivors of those they’ve slaughtered with contempt and disgust in order to mask the responsibility they share for the murder and destruction of the original spirit of community 

Kinshasa is resilience, never willing to give up or let go but showing up every day, women raising their voices, youth who will not accept a future that has no place for them and together they rise above a past that’s born them into poverty, despair and loss turning these struggles into strengths, giving their time, their energy and their voice to call out and re-claim the riches of this land as rightfully their community,

The retreat that wasn't

Despite my best intentions, I am not winning the life game balance of managing phd and, well, everything else. I finally turned in the last paper of the semester, marking two years complete in the program. Now that I have a moment to breathe, I can catch up on some emails, blog posts and writing of my own direction. 

The semesters seem to get more intense and meeting deadlines ever more difficult. I've had to ask for an extension twice, suffered through multiple bouts of self-doubt and battled thoughts of quitting. Thoughts of quitting don't really gain much ground, but I do spend time wondering why exactly I decided to do this and if the supposed pay-off is really worth the time and effort. I realize the pay off is the personal growth that occurs through the journey- always worth the time and effort right? The hardest experiences lead to the deepest change, or something like that. 

It was in the midst of crisis, deep avoidance and an outright inability to put word to page that I set out for a writer's retreat to Kisantu, home of the botanical gardens and sweet tales of a little village hosting quaint hotels with beautiful views. 

I'd done some web research and was seduced by this page, authored by teachers I used to work with during my round one phase of living in Congo. I figured I could take their word for it- coupled with a few other sites I browsed. I imagined passing one whole day sitting in the gardens, typing away, and evenings sipping strong coffee in dim lighting, writing, writing, writing. I may have romanced the possibility a bit, but that's necessary when trying to complete a doctoral preliminary literature review. I needed it to be romantic and intimate, focused and productive. All of the things it wasn't. 

The first mistake was thinking I had time to pass by an art show at the marché de liberté in Masina. The show itself was ok. There was some pretty impressive music by a group of school kids- marching band drums, soulful horns, cymbals on time. They were good. Dancers included a traditional group with raffia skirts, a fire dancer complete with flaming torch down the pants (what does it say about me that this is old news by now? I am marginally impressed by watching a guy thrust a flaming stick down the front of his skirt. I am always more worried the raffia will catch on fire and wonder what the trick is for avoiding that.) There was also a performance artist covered in slick oil turning his body midnight black. He found me in the crowd and came over for some intense eye contact while he mimicked my stance. All in great fun. 

Marionette dancing to drums

Participants and collectif members

I had a chance to meet the emcee, an enthusiastic woman who is known for covering traditional arts and who gave me a shout out goodbye over the mic when it was time to go. I also met a woman balafon player- which seems rare in itself, but especially so in Congo- who works with a center serving young kids. I am very interested in following through on that opportunity. The Minister of Culture made an appearance and I got a tour of the artwork, complete with symbolic analysis by the artist himself. It was a worthwhile experience. 

But it put me behind. By the time I found a mini-bus heading in the direction of the central station it was early afternoon. A man in a few seats in front of me turned and said, "Ntongo" which proved to be a prophetic warning. "One should really leave first thing in the morning if you're going to Kisantu."

When I arrived at the terminal, I found one bus full and a taxi with one passenger. This meant waiting for others to appear. The driver planned 4 in the back and 2 in the front. It could be hours. It was hours. As deadlines came and went, I decided that if we weren't on the road by 4pm I would just cancel my trip. Go home and write in my room. I'd already spent the entire day in transit of one form or another, in limbo, waiting, not writing. 

By 4 o'clock however, I'd already paid and getting my money back was impossible. The original taxi we'd been waiting in turned out to be 'en panne' and we had to switch over to another. (And just before leaving, we stopped, in the rain, to give the battery a boost...not sure if that was the only source of the breakdown. Things are always just slightly less than clear.)

We were finally on the road. The long, winding, mountainous road to Kisantu. Simply put, the ride was terrifying. The chauffeur drove way too fast for the wet, curvy roads. He passed other cars often, sending us into the oncoming lane, which is not unusual for Congo driving, but in the dark, around the turns- it was breath stopping. I do admit part of my terror stemmed from the fact that my eyesight is particularly bad at night and distance is hard to gauge. I was sitting in the front and cars appeared much closer than they actually were (maybe. I am sure some of the close calls were pretty darn close.) I also don't spend much time in the car over long distance. City traffic is slow and halting. I am now completely unaccustomed to high speeds and so motion sickness likely played a part as well. 

The driver made several pitstops along the way- once to collect money from a debt owed, once to buy bread, once for an unclear reason.  The bread scene, reminiscent of my very first bread scene, was even more hectic than the chauffeur's driving. Women were pushing and shoving each other, stuffing bread in the car, and calling out prices. One woman even threw a small bag at the young guy sitting next to me. The chauffeur had had enough by this time and was zooming off. The young man, who'd already bought his share of bread and hadn't really asked for the flying rolls, didn't know what to do. He threw 1000fc out the window, calling out, "Ehh, Mama..." The occupants exploded into laughter at the craziness of it all. 

Despite the death defying feats and unexplained stops, our ride was punctuated by heated exchanges ending in laughter. Most of the time it was quiet, or the chauffeur went on and on about some tale or another. It became apparent he'd been drinking and was full of that over-confidence that comes with being in one's territory and feeling like a king. I closed my eyes, put my head down, and gave over control. There was nothing more to be done. I understood a lot about the sense of resignation that Congolese must feel on an everyday basis. I also understood a lot about bad decisions and how to avoid them in the future. 

I was torn at times between engaging the chauffeur in conversation and keeping quiet. I'd been stuffed into a carnival ride against my best interests and simply wanted it to be over. At one point, I glanced up to find he was shuffling through CDs, looking for the next great hit to play. He'd been alternating between singing and telling us about his life story- "I only have 3 kids, madame, like you Europeans. Can you believe that? It is not enough..." Keeping my mouth shut proved impossible and I asked if he could watch the road and not the music. This resulted in a huge monologue about his competence as a driver, his familiarity with the road, and his desire that I, a mundele, not be scared in his taxi. Exactly the reaction I'd wanted to avoid. The kind of response that leads to actually speeding up, just to show how competent he really is and swerving with even more zeal, just to show how in control of the car he is. I prayed a tire wouldn't give out. 

Nearing our destination, we stopped to let one of the women drop off a printer she'd been charged with delivering. It had caused her a lot of grief at departure, where they wanted to charge her more for transporting an obviously high cost, precious item. She spent a little too long (not longer than the bread stop, surely not longer than the 30 minute debt collection stop) and the taxi driver actually sped off without her. I was amazed even as the other ladies exploded into laughter. I have to assume she was close to her final destination. 

I got out on a dark street in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. A taxi moto pulled up and offered to take me somewhere. My stomach was racing with the anxiety of the trip and thoughts of having to go  through it all over again to get home. I asked the driver to take me directly to the hotel, which turned out to be a few kilometers up the road. 

And not exactly like website promised. Of course, my former colleagues had published their site a few years before and all information on the internet is subject to change. I felt like a gap-year backpacker walking up the steps to the hotel, pulling open the creaky iron gate and peeking around for hotel staff. Luckily, I found someone at the desk, though it seemed like a chance meeting. There was a room available, sparse but clean with mosquito net. No restaurant.

My dreams of sipping an endless cup of tea and typing away to the chatter of birds instantly evaporated. He offered to send someone to find some bread and sardines for me, if I wanted. I didn't. I had traveled with a few small items and enough water to get me to morning. I sat down to work, exhausted, stomach still rolling with anxiety. I fell asleep to the lull of big trucks barreling down the roadway and some drunken neighbors fighting. 

Beautiful grounds, beautiful exteriors: appeared to 
be mostly home to long term renters now with an
occasional room or apartment suite available

I needed a plan for the morning. I'd wasted nearly an entire day and the deadline remained. I woke early, wrote for about 2 hours and went in search of transportation. The hotel clerk was friendly, smiling and gracious. Excellent service. He hailed me a moto, negotiated the price and sent me on my way. The return car filled quickly in the morning hour, with merely a small dispute about price before we were on our way. 

The drive began with horn honking and trail blazing zeal. I was in the second row this time and ready to just close my eyes and will a positive outcome. Not long outside of the village center, we passed an overturned tractor truck. A crowd was gathered on the opposite side of the road around a motorcycle and rider. There was no ambulance on the way. That is really the stressful part of reckless riding. I had been able to give my destiny over to the universe, but I was still afraid of suffering. There is no rapid response team (or even a slow response team) to arrive on scene. The thought of being thrown out of a car and laying a ditch for hours or even days is downright disturbing. 

The chauffeur was smartly influenced by the scene and the rest of the ride passed calmly. I was able to gaze out the window at the passing countryside, enjoying the beauty of the green earth and blue sky. While my retreat was not one of the writing kind, it did offer the opportunity to see life in a new way.

My kitchen never seemed sweeter, my tea never tasted creamier, and my desk never felt cozier. Despite the retreat that wasn't, I met all my deadlines and am another year closer to PhinisheD. A preview of next semester tells me the most interesting part is yet to come.

Ambushed

Kinshasa continues to break my heart in a way that no one or nothing else will. Unfathomable. Things haven't changed much- or rather I should say, the things that have changed don't much matter and the things that matter haven't changed for the better. The problems seem all the more grand and insurmountable; the progress seems barely a drop in the ocean. 

In the last few weeks I have continued to be welcomed into the community. I have basked in the friendly open smiles that greet me, the waves and greetings from a distance, the sound of my name from faces I mostly remember- though they have taken the time to remember my name, my children and to ask after each of them. 

I try to nurture these relationships, to stop and say hello. Inquire about family. Make some small talk about livelihoods and future prospects. It is not my strong point. Several times, I have been ambushed. It's usually on a Monday.

The leading question is innocent enough. How was your weekend? The fact that the answers come long, honest, and full of a reality I don't quite know what to do with, suggests just how far things have deteriorated. People are not even able to put up pretenses. They are tired. Beyond tired. Sick and tired. Or just plain sick. There is no more "au rhythm du pays" which served as a kind of code for, I'm doing as best I can, considering the state of the country. 

Now I am assaulted with stories of weekends spent searching for water, searching for cooking gas, searching for school fees. Weekends spent sitting inside and outside hospitals while children suffer from nameless maladies or burns that aren't being healed properly. This last one, the story of today, lingers heavily. "It's like they don't know how to treat her. They are not doing a good job." He's told me the story of his daughter who was cooking and spilled the pot, burning her toes. She's been in the hospital for a week. He's lost confidence in the doctors but doesn't have much choice in her placement. I remember that he and his wife had lost a little boy,  a one year old succumbed to malaria before he'd even had a chance to get home and whisk him off to the hospital. I don't know what to do with his latest story. I hold it, paralyzed. My mind is the only thing capable of movement. It races towards answers that don't exist. I force out a feeble response. Something about prayers and keeping your family in my thoughts. 

It's not the first story to throw a gray cloud over what had been an afternoon of sunshine and warmth, and I know it won't be the last. I do admit I've caught myself wondering if I should even ask. A little voice suggests I just keep walking, a breezy ça va? or maybe even a boni? and continue on my way. I don't listen to that voice.  I stop. I pause. I hear the stories, even if all I can do for now is to hold them, awkwardly juggling the raw humanity. Its sacred, this sharing, and as much as I don't know exactly what to do with it, I feel obliged to push aside my discomfort and be present.  

There will be a place to put these stories one day soon. A place to lay them out in the sunshine and invite the world to see. A place to organize and analyze and problem solve. A place to paint life into each numbing circumstance. I hope by then it will be a place of healing. 

For all the anguish Kinshasa inspires, I desperately want to see something take hold and transform her into a power capable of reaching the fullest potential. I feel as though we are once again standing on the edge of something big. If I could will it into being...

Fancy dance moves

 We are finally back, finally free of quarantine and venturing into the world that is. Our little corner of Kinshasa is already offering up tales. The girl is super impressed with all of the trees and the forest walks. It's hard not to be impressed. 

We've begun our nanny search and I was remembering how it took 3 tries for Nabih. I was also remembering how conversations go, how topics get approached and opinions traded. I had a feeling that nanny number one wouldn't work out. She couldn't get to campus on time because she lives a bit too far away and the traffic...always the traffic. 

We spent the first day talking about the essentials, and I told to her to take some time to think about whether it would fit her schedule or not. Oddly, we have a "match-maker" who is supposed to be vetting someone for the position. He asked me what I needed in terms of help- hours, days, duties- and called me saying he'd "found a match." I guess it is always a match. Except when it isn't. This whole thing sounds easy enough to fix- oooh, you need someone on Saturday? No, no I am not available on Saturday. You need someone early in the morning? No, no I can't come in early. Fine enough, thanks for your interest. 

Except the conversation could never really go that way in Congo. The conversation starts like this...

"I have been doing this job for many years. Twenty years, you could say. I have worked for many people. First the Germans, then the Americans. To care for a child requires sacrifice. A lot of sacrifice. You must make sure the child is happy and the family is happy....." And it went on in this way. About sacrifice and duty and experience.  A long speech full of grand concepts about motherhood and giving and working, and sacrifice. Lots of sacrifice. 

No, no I don't want to be part of that, I thought. I am just looking for someone to care for the girl, maybe play with her a bit, maybe clean a bit. She won't always be happy, so need to stress over that. But I do need someone to come on time. It took about 15 minutes and a digression about whether the school year started in August or September this year, before we got around to the point of time. And even then she never said I can't. Because in Congo, you always can. 

Rather she said, perhaps there is one of these mamas who live closer to campus. And they can come. She's completely right and I knew it would come to this the night before. I just forgot how it would come to this. Not simply or directly. But full of flowers and perfume and fancy dance moves. 

Happily, luckily, she said she had planned to come for the next few days until I can find someone else. Because the answer really is always yes in Congo, even when it isn't. 

Not wasting a wish

I lost the month of August in between the cushions of the couch. It nestled in among the lost hair ties and cracker crumbs. It took refuge in what-ifs and maybes and some-days. September is threatening to do the same. 

It's been over a month since we were first supposed to leave. Our original flight was scheduled back in July. The suitcases were packed and the apartment cleaned. Of course, over the course of August, things have gradually found a way out from behind the zippers and emerged into our daily life again. The clean apartment has reverted to it's lived in, cluttered appearance.

I keep remembering these articles about how and why time distorts when we are not making active new memories. Life in lockdown looks pretty much the same every day. I have been starting to get the sense that other people are having a lot more liveliness than we are, but after closer conversations I learn it is mostly not true. And after closer reflection, I remember all the events we have experienced, albeit through our computer screen. (Graduation in the palm of a hand, phd residency #4, Mexico through my daughter's eyes...) 

The anticipation of finally reaching our destination is tempered a bit by the realization that upon arrival we will be isolated again. No community welcome. No exploring the grounds or checking out the classroom. Just more staying home. It's not terrible most of the time. My studies keep me too busy to focus on much else anyway. But it's become downright awkward to still be on the campus of a school I no longer work at. 

We're still here. Still waiting. Trying to manage the complex unification of airline schedules, covid testing turn around time and figuring out how to pay for it all in a country that eschews cash. 

In the meantime, the girl has lost her first tooth. After reading Throw Your Tooth on the Roof: Tooth Traditions from Around the World, she has decided to go for the wish. We wanted to throw the tooth on a roof, but all the roofs are too high. I suggested we throw it off the 7th floor balcony, which has been the site of many long afternoons building, creating and storytelling. She vetoed that idea. 

In the end, we decided to bury the tooth by a coconut palm near the swings. What place could be more magical than the swings? 

                

First wish

I am sure she didn't waste her wish on getting out of Lagos. That would be a mom thing to do. We'll get out of here eventually. It just requires more patience. Lessons of 2020.