New Friends
I’m making new friends—two different women are teaching me Portuguese, and today I started the first English lesson with one of these women.
But my favorite friend is Estelio, age 3, I think. We have a whole pack of kids (all boys usually) that greet us every time we cross the street, asking for candy, balloons, or to have their picture taken. For some reason I can never remember their names, so I’ve asked each one 40 times and still only remember three of them. But Estelio, his was the first name I learned.
I write this to you because I woke up this morning from a dream that someone told me he had died last week while I was in Maputo. I laid in my bed racking my brain to remember if I had seen him since I’d come back, anything to prove it was only a dream. I finally could picture him sitting on our front stoop yesterday with a newly shaved head. Whew. So I took extra joy in watching him this afternoon strut down the street, dancing to the beat of the small parade singing the praises of Frelimo. (Why was there a march, you ask? Elections are coming up, and Frelimo is a major party, the founding party of independent Mozambique, in fact. And why was I able to witness this funny scene? The power was out for an hour or two, leaving us with not much to do besides hang around outside the office, leaning on the porch wall.)
But my favorite friend is Estelio, age 3, I think. We have a whole pack of kids (all boys usually) that greet us every time we cross the street, asking for candy, balloons, or to have their picture taken. For some reason I can never remember their names, so I’ve asked each one 40 times and still only remember three of them. But Estelio, his was the first name I learned.
I write this to you because I woke up this morning from a dream that someone told me he had died last week while I was in Maputo. I laid in my bed racking my brain to remember if I had seen him since I’d come back, anything to prove it was only a dream. I finally could picture him sitting on our front stoop yesterday with a newly shaved head. Whew. So I took extra joy in watching him this afternoon strut down the street, dancing to the beat of the small parade singing the praises of Frelimo. (Why was there a march, you ask? Elections are coming up, and Frelimo is a major party, the founding party of independent Mozambique, in fact. And why was I able to witness this funny scene? The power was out for an hour or two, leaving us with not much to do besides hang around outside the office, leaning on the porch wall.)
posted by Art Shotwell at 9:10 AM
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