“Wa-ko-sa, wa-ko-sa, SHOO-ah! STARRRR!”
With waving hands and outstretched fingers, we congratulated the small, 3-year-old girl wearing a raggedy pink Disney princesses dress on pointing out the letter “M” correctly.
The little boy wearing blue giggled hysterically, shouted with laughter as the rest of the class bellyflopped onto the bamboo mat to trace their hands in neon highlighter on the poster paper. I chased him around, lightly poking him in the tummy when I could catch him, when suddenly he ran outside. I laughed, opened my palm towards him, and beckoned him inside. He threw a shiny smile over his shoulder at me, and let out a long stream of pee right on the school porch!
“Repeat after me. One. Two. Three. Four…”
Trevor, per usual, craved attention from absolutely everyone, especially his busy mother and orphan care teacher, Christina, started yelling nonsensical syllables at the top of his lungs, warranting a loud “shh” from Helaine.
Mark, in his little red shorts, ran around galloping around on a little faded plastic horse, followed closely by a whining Trevor, begging to have a turn, was finally given a ride around the classroom.
I ran a little airplane over the heads of the little girls crowded around me, up and above their arms, over their little bellies, while they giggled with delight. A little boy, who’s tied a piece of cloth around his head like a ninja, pushed a car back and forth with me, “vroommm”-ing along. Kyson amused them with guessing games with a little horse, and building tall towers with the tin cans and scraps of cloth.
“Old McDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O…”
My mind flashed back to the abundance of toys I received as a kid—Barbies and mermaids and Tomagachis and dollhouses and Beanie Babies and stuffed elephants and video games and Power Rangers. In front of me was a heaping box filled to the brim of donated toys—that is, broken little plastic airplanes with faded letterings, a French book, a sooty and threadbare stuffed cloud, and many tin cans with little pieces of cut up cloth.
I bent to pick up two halved pieces of a truck, affixing a hinge to the other, but to no avail. The truck fell apart again as soon as I handed it back to the wide-eyed little boy.
But they were happy to pieces with just the truck door. Children are children everywhere in the world, ecstatic with toys, but these children were more special than any others in the world. They didn’t whine about what they didn’t have, didn’t fight over toys, didn’t bully or shove each other. At the ages of one, two, three and four, they were more mature than most first-world teenagers.
“A is for Apple, B is for Boy, C is for Cat…”
I asked Pezo to explain what an “apple” was to the kids in Chichewa; he gave me a puzzled glance, then said that none of the children have ever seen an apple in their lives.
We continued our lesson, “D is for Dog,” barking like “ganus”, “E is for Elephant”, making trumpeting noises with our arms as snouts, “F is for Frog”, ribbit-ing and jumping in place.
And that day, we didn’t see the seven-year-old who incessantly pestered us to take pictures of him, who was too old to hang out with these preschool-aged children. At seven, he was in school for the first time in his life.
“I’m a little teapot, short and stout, here is my handle, here is my spout…”
Helaine, Roda, and the village chief, an elder woman about 80-years-old, had prepared a pot of rice, cabbage and fish, all donated by the community for the children.
Later, we were informed that, without the meals provided nearly twice a week, the children didn’t eat. Malnutrition was visible with the swollen bellies, the glee with each spoonful of rice shoved into their hungry mouths.
A little girl, 1.5-years-old, wearing a heavy red fleece sweater, sewed up in the front, was left to sit on the bamboo mat while her two sisters ran to line to wash their hands. She sniffled, gazed around with her bulging wise eyes, and two big tear drops slipped out of her eyes.
Five minutes later, Kyson and I could only stare amazed as the little girl, now with dried eyes and two companions, carefully balled up rice in her hand, dropped it onto her bright orange spoon, and put it into her tiny, one-year-old mouth. Other mzungu children encountered later on this trip were four, incessantly crying, and very incapable of anything beyond spilling bowls of porridge off the table. I am continuously astounded by the feeding dexterity and overall maturity of a one-year-old.
“… you do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around, that’s what it’s all about!”
After our third visit to Govala Orphan Care, Pezo, the village chief, her daughter, Christina, Helaine and John sat us down to pray for our safe travels home.
Malawians are perfect at making long speeches of gratitude and lessons learned. Pezo smiled and handed us a printed Certificate of Appreciation for our time, and it was all I could do to hold back tears.
Children are precious. Education, the consistent conversation topic with Helaine since the beginning, is necessary, pertinent and unavailable. The little that Helaine and Pezo and the Govala community do to provide for the orphaned children is beautiful and so worthwhile. The cycle of poverty is a trap, and it is the responsibility of the growing Malawian population to use their resources, their children’s curiosity and tenderness and capacity, wisely. The future of Malawi rests on the tiny shoulders of these children.
