Half Full

Sometimes, when so many discouraging, disappointing, and just plain sad things happen, we’re faced with a choice: are these the things that we’ll focus on? Are these the things that will define us?

In the month since I got back from vacation in the US, a number of sobering, and tragic, things have happened. The director (principal) of my school died, rather suddenly, leaving behind a large, young family, a school that was dependent on his authority and guidance, and many friends. In the same week, the director of a nearby primary school died, and so did a little girl that lived near me.

Meanwhile, I was not helping things by reading a very depressing book on the history of post-independence Africa, getting worked up about the primaries in the US (I'm rooting for Obama, by the way), and getting frustrated with my colleagues.

But I will let this all rest. And instead, talk about something that could have added to my layers of sadness and frustration, but in the end, was a source of encouragement.

There are four young boys who live in my compound. Three are the sons of my landlord and neighbor, Saka, who is a primary school teacher. The fourth boy, Dembo, is an orphan who, in return for a place to sleep and food, runs errands for my neighbors. This is a fairly typical arrangement.

Dembo is probably around eight or nine years old. Like any boy, he enjoys running around and throwing things. And like any boy, sometimes this means falling down, or getting hit by something. So Dembo got cut on his leg – a fairly typical thing – but, since he has no parents to notice this type of thing, didn’t wash the cut out, and spent the next couple days running and throwing and scratching the cut. By the time I finally caught sight of his boo-boo, it had morphed into, literally, a festering wound.

So I sat Dembo down, and made him wash it out with soap and water, put Neosporin on it, and bandaged it up. I shook my finger at him, telling him to stop scratching it and to go the health center the next day. He didn’t go, I’m guessing because he liked the attention so much that he figured I would clean out the wound the next day too. And I did. And the next and the next.

He did eventually go to the health center, and they told him, “We don’t wash cuts here.” What???

For about a week, Dembo and I sat down to dress his wound. Of course, I had no idea, really what I was doing. I figured I knew enough to clean it out, to use my filtered water, and to keep it covered. Slowly it started to look less pussy, but still I fumed over the health center’s response: what if he got a staff infection? Gangrene? I checked his forehead often for a fever.

Something, however, that I didn’t count on, was the crowd that we attracted every night with our cleaning ritual. The three other boys, plus some extra ones from nearby, would gather to watch. And I figured this could be a good lesson on hygiene for all of us.
“Now, do I just throw these dirty bandages out in the field?” I’d ask.
“NOOOO!!! Put it in your latrine!” the boys would yell.
“And now that I’m finished, should I just go eat?”
“NOOO!!! Go wash your hands?”
“Ok, what with?”
“With soap, Guannigui!”
When Dembo didn’t want to wear a bandage, because it got hot, I explained that if he sat under a tree all day then I would leave out the bandage. But, since I knew he would keep on running around and throwing stuff, we needed to cover it up. “Is the bandage dirty at the end of each day?” Yes, it is, he nodded. “Well, all that dirt on the outside of the bandage would end up inside the cut if it wasn’t covered.” Yuck! All the boys made disgusted faces.

I had to leave last weekend to go do some work in another town, and I worried that by the time I got back, Dembo’s leg would be back to where we started. But when I arrived three days later, his leg was looking pretty good. I found out that my crowd of boys had taken over the cleaning responsibility, and had cleaned out the wound every night, covering it in shea butter (their own idea) to keep the dirt out.

I praised those boys up and down. I was so proud of them. I was reminded all over again that you just never know when a small victory will pop up. And that in a world where defeat seems to dance wildly and audaciously and ridiculously all over, sometimes I just have to choose to look past it to the small graces that quietly keep working, smoothing ruts and healing wounds.