|
The Presbytery of Sheppards and Lapsley “En Afrique” — Living in Two-Thirdsby Gerald Stephens Jr.
Gerald writes from Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, on the fringe of the Sahara where he and wife Bonnie are studying French in preparation for their mission work in the Congo.
His name is Zahn. At least that’s what we’re told. The child himself has not offered his name. Coming and going from our apartment, we make a point of kneeling, as kindly as we can, to look into the face of this four- or five-year-old. “Bonjour” or “Bonsoir” we say. He doesn’t respond. We ask him, “Comment t’appelles-tu?” His silent stare is almost blank, except for the faint hint of fascination. We first noticed him a day or two after we moved into our apartment, on a morning when I was looking through our front window, which opens onto the terrace we share with three other apartments. Movement beneath me drew my attention. It was Zahn in short pants, tee-shirt, and flip-flops, seated on the terrace. His legs were sprawled in front of him. He was leaning slightly backward on one hand. Between his knees were the objects of his attention: a dozen or more old bottle caps. Though I was fewer than four feet away, Zahn didn’t know he was being watched. As if in a private world, he carefully picked up each bottle-cap and placed it into the pocket of his shorts. Then, having gathered them all, he reversed the process, replacing the caps delicately on the terrace. In his world, was this money? Was he buying and selling?
Now and again, we see him sitting with the housekeeper of the apartment that faces ours. A tall, slender, hard-working young woman, the housekeeper spends much time outside the kitchen door preparing meals of fruit, vegetables and meat. She uses a huge pestle and mortar to pummel the food into a kind of mush. Zahn likes to sit next to her, watching curiously her every move. Occasionally he’ll speak to her in a quiet voice, and she’ll let him drag a finger across an emptied bowl, collecting the leftbehinds. Then, putting finger into mouth, he shuts his eyes and throws back his head as if savoring the finest cuisine. The housekeeper smiles. Curious, we asked Esther, our housekeeper, about the little boy. She made some inquiries and told us that no one was sure of his name. Still curious, we asked her to which of the families in the complex does the boy belong. “None of them,” she told us. Her mouth smiled, but her brow furrowed as if we were missing something obvious. Well, who keeps him, we asked. “Nobody keeps him. We all keep him,” she said. She further explained: the boy’s father bicycles him to our apartment complex every morning on his way to work. While dad works, the boy spends the day here. “What about his mother?” we asked. “Elle est partie.” She left. Not long ago, the guard for our four-plex volunteered the boy’s name. Zahn. Sometimes, when the days reach their hottest, Zahn slips quietly into the thin shade beneath the apartment eaves. Bonnie brings him cold water. Gingerly, he takes the cup from her and says nothing, though his eyes express gratitude. A few minutes afterward, I will notice, while seated here at my computer, a small hand emerging from beyond and below the open window. The hand taps the cup lightly against the screen. Zahn is still thirsty. Bonnie fetches more water. I think of Jesus saying, “and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple … ” (Matt. 10:42) Zahn is yet wary of us—more of me than of Bonnie. He still refuses to respond to me. He’s not as likely to take food from either of us. But he will timidly shake Bonnie’s hand and softly, almost inaudibly, say to her, “Bonsoir”— always with the trace of a smile at the corners of his mouth. Henceforth, when in the Gospel of Luke (18:16) I read of Jesus saying, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them,” I will remember Zahn. He’s one of Jesus’ little ones. To such as him belongs the kingdom of God.
|
