Kid R Us

They like to peek through the door of the bursars office
This is what we encounter at every school as we step out of the car

Duck, Duck, Goose Team
I have groupies. They scream and giggle and follow me home. They reach for my hand and hold onto my wrist. They all chant when I pass and stare as if I am from another planet. They come to my house and beg for more. They crowd my taxi and tell their friends. I tend to ignore the fact that my captive audience is actually just kids, living in rural Africa, entertained purely by the anomaly of a tall white person with blond hair in a bright blue dress walking through their backyard. They are probably as amused with me as I with them, but so far it seems to be a happy exchange. I take pictures of the hundreds of kids pouring out of a school or dancing in my yard, and they stare at me fully taking in the mental picture.

Sometimes they run from one end of the village to the other, taking short cuts just to yell “muzungu” at me all the way to gate. Sometimes they will gather in the yard and we will play a confused game of “duck, duck, goose”. Sometimes one will just hold my hand and walk with me home.

I am not ignorant to the fact that this is not a rare international experience. But I have never really consider myself a kid person. Don’t misinterpret me, of course, I plan to have my own troop of kids, my nephews have my weekly devotion, and I will happily baby-sit my friends adorable children, but if it comes between working in an orphanage or getting dirty in the field, my boots are on before you can say pacifier. But I will tell you this, there is something here about the kids. They seem to be handmade in factory quantities each one with nothing more than skin, bones, smiles, and a whole lot of character wrapped up in a thin cotton uniform. They never seem to cry, they dance like an MTV rap video and there is a lot perseverance. I want to package them all up and bring them home in my suitcase.