Veronica just left. She got here at the crack of dawn. She did my laundry by hauling water on her head and filled my bath room and kitchen buckets in the same manner. She wore a plastic bag tightly around her hair. I watched her cleaning the bathroom, taking long stares at herself in the mirror. She's a little vain. I like this about her. I am rarely here when she is here but we didn't have electricity today so I canceled sewing class. I am normally prepared for days like this. We could have cut out patterns and price tags, but all I could think about was going back to my dark house for a nap. So I did. Veronica dropped pots and pans and banged around in the kitchen, but I slept in spite of it all. I woke up in time to find the power back on and her ironing my linen pants. She was about to give up because she couldn't get the iron to work. I twisted the dial until it lit up and began ironing. She sat in the chair next to me and I ironed while she talked. I finished the pants and she picked up a shirt and we switched places. We talked about men and babies, what most all women talk about, eventually. She's my age and has had 6 children. One died when he was 1 week old, Martinu. She talked about her poverty and praised God in the next breath. She is full of life. Her faith inspires me. He takes care of her, she says. She's not bitter or angry or fearful. Just vain and happy and full of life. It's a moment I want to bottle up and keep for forever. Lying on the rope bed with Veronica. She taught me how to say, "I love you" in Makua, but I have already forgotten.
Last week I noticed Veronica wearing make-up and I told her, "You look beautiful today." She smiled, waited a beat and replied, "I always look beautiful." Yes, my friend, I stand corrected, you always look beautiful, you always amaze me, and you always trick me into doing my own ironing.
After lunch, I met with the GM of the restaurant where the boys are interning and we have plans to have their graduation ceremony on Saturday. He is paying them 1000 mets for one month of full-time labor. It's a little more than $30. He doesn't have to pay them anything so we are grateful for that but it just seems like such a small amount for so much hard work. I think I want to find a way to double that, which mostly likely means me and you. I know they will most likely squander it and they will all be walking around with new cell phones next week but I want to see them rewarded.
I've been thinking a lot about Rofi, who we assisted in applying for a scholarship. All he needs for four years of university is $5000USD. I wish I could find a way to have him work for me during the summer and make enough to support himself each year. That means I need a business, a license, capital and revenue. I know there are solutions and many of them quite simple. But he needs a solution now. I always feel like my work here is a drop in the bucket, but when the bucket is empty it does make a difference.
I am constantly blown away at how my just showing up has created so many little things that are helping. I love having a job where I get to see the fruit of my labor every day. And the real secret is that I don't know what I am doing. I speak the language like a two year old. I have no credentials in telling Africans how to live their lives, but every day I get to help them with immediate needs and long term ones too. And every day they make me the most grateful woman on earth. It is the same cycle for me. I wake up completely clueless and often sleep deprived, but go about my day simply being who I am, and trying to join the Africans in their relationship focused flow of life. They make fun of how fast I walk and work and I try to slow down and join them. I teach what little I know and they forever change me. I want it bottled up, the cup of joy and the cup of suffering. It is my biggest prayer, that it sticks.
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