Mbali swivels now and spots me as I enter the chapel each morning where pre-school is taught. Her eyes lock onto me with recognition and she does not look away.
(photo by Abby Twarek)
I nod to acknowledge her and then point toward the chalkboard and indicate she needs to pay attention.
Her stare lingers, and then slowly she will turn to face the teacher.
In this moment I praise God that Mbali is back in class. I praise the Lord that she is safe and sound in this small tin-roofed, cement-floored, dusty little chapel where she can learn her ABCs and 123s.
For most of the morning, I will step in between the benches and quietly intervene and interrupt boyhood quarreling, confiscate crickets, sticks and other oddities from their pockets and separate the trouble-makers. I referee the pre-schoolers as their teacher draws out and erases lesson after lesson on an old-fashioned chalkboard.
In unison their high-pitched little voices recite their lessons, and eventually they’ll break out into a melodious repeat-after-me cadence with their teacher.
An hour into class, the rows get dismissed one by one to go use the toilet. Potty break. Mbali disappears with the rest of the wrigglers dashing to the bathroom. Minutes later she’ll reappear right beside me and press herself closely in. She is now completely past the phase of shy high-fives and expressly makes known her need to be hugged and loved.
Tilting her head back, she peers up at me as if to ask “Do you see me?” I gently poke her nose or squeeze her cheek and chirp “I see you! Hi Mbali. Hi beautiful girl!” She now habitually smiles.
If I even hint that I’m going to tickle her, dimples give way and she erupts in laughter.
We are friends.
