Children/Africa/Honesty
We are the World We are the Children
This Time for Africa
I am an African child
Not because l was born in Africa
But my heart beats for Africa.
My motherland the beautiful land
In her presence I have discovered
The memory of our being.It’s the African in me
That loves the forest in which I wake up in
That has taught me how to love
And how to be strong in hard time
It’s the African in me that makes me
— African-Child by Angelic Takudzwa
It was a work trip that doubled up as an educative one. Not that you expect life not to surprise you.
Of all the beauty nature has to offer in this continent, there were lessons to be learnt from little humans with big heart, which no school on earth teaches you — Honesty.
It was 2013.
I took to Google to brush up on a subject I long left in school. The search threw up some surprises.
Ethiopia, our country of visit, is the fastest growing country in Africa, with education and healthcare making the kill, amongst the government priorities.
This finding was in contrast to my half-backed knowledge about the place propelled by media.
Intrigued by my recent findings, I prepared to explore this picturesque country when work summoned.
Child of my winter, born
When the new fallen soldiers froze
In Asia’s steep ravines and fouled the snows,
When I was tornBy love I could not still,
By fear that silenced my cramped mind
To that cold war where, lost, I could not find
My peace in my will,All those days we could keep
Your mind a landscape of new snow
Where the chilled tenant-farmer finds, below,
His fields asleep
— Heart’s Needle, BY W. D. SNODGRASS
Chanced upon a serendipitous break, we, a team of three, set out to explore the virgin beauty of Lake Assal.
The surround-quite engulfed us.Standing by the desolate lakefront, the arresting stretch of turquoise in view, we soaked in the moment.
The lilting harmony of water touching the shore, the travelling breeze, fluttering our attire stretched like rubber bands while starching our tresses, broke the quiet, sporadically.
We lost track of time……
And, a whistling murmur brought us back.
The murmur grew loud as we located a collection of hazy, little, dark silhouettes running towards us, forming sand clouds, as their feet touched the loose sand.The blurry, quivering vision took form, when the crowd pulled near.
A group of scantily clad kids carrying transparent packets, filled with whitish granules, swiftly fenced us, leaving no room for escape.
Mis-adventurism ticked right, we instantly repented not having a local guide with us.
The kids clamoured all at once, as we started to secure our back pockets, for obvious safety measures.
Speaking in their local dialect and using interesting sign languages, the boy-band communicated that a complete buy-out of the packets is expected from tourists like us.But our raised hands and rotating palm signalled unavailability of any local currency needed for the purchase.
Dark, disappointed eyes glued on our taut smirky visage, minutes passed in silence.
And then it happened.
A lanky teenager, seemingly the band conductor, slowly collected six of those packets, and handed them to us in broken english,
“This raw salt of lake. No find anywhere. Our gift to your.”
The thunderous, sand-cloud dissolved in the distance, as we stood there, holding our gifts, dumbfounded.
This raw salt, unique to this region is a vital cog in the meagre hand-to-mouth existence of the locals.
The packeted salt, we robbed the kids of, is actually their few days of earning, which they gifted us, believing we have ‘nothing’, without batting an eyelid.
Yes.
Gift from the Horn of Africa.
From kids to us.
Call it the perks of slow development or investment in human indices.
Disturbingly silent, our vehicle wheeled out, as the stereo inside crooned:
Tsamina Mina eh eh waka waka he ae e
Tsamina mina zangalewa
This time for Africa…..”
No. I have no plans of shring the song here.
Instead sharing a trailer of the Netflix docu-feature of that night
history was created, a room breathing the best in the craft coming together to sing for children, stand for Africa — We are the world, we are the children.
Don’t miss the documentary streaming now if you have a taste for creative process at work.
I love them, hope you enjoy this too :)
