Shade of a Glisten

I plod through thick, dark mud and sit on the cold, concrete porch of a one-room schoolhouse.

What can be done in only a day here? I wonder.

In the distance, grey clouds droop until they seem to brush the tops of a hundred rusty tin shacks. Toddlers in oversized clothes play quietly and unsupervised between the scattered buildings. The older children roll old tires and collect sticks from the splotches of dirt and grass.

I am afraid of scaring them with my white skin and American accent, so I stay seated, observing. I prop my chin on the palm of my hand. My silver camera is tied to my wrist and dangles between my knees, its shiny surface greatly contrasting the dullness of my surroundings. So far in the trip, the memory card only holds landscapes of a war-torn country, not alluring native faces.

As I stare at the horizon, where the dirt meets the clouds, I feel a small hand tap my right leg. The sudden presence startles me. My shock frightens the Kenyan toddler, and she shyly takes a step back.

“Oh! Hi, there…” I say with a smile so big that it nearly turns the greeting into a laugh. Not knowing if she understands me, I try again, “Jambo.”

Silence. A crooked smile. A step forward.

She reaches out her little hand and grasps my intriguingly lustrous camera. When I turn it on, her eyes widen. She jerks her hand back as if I made the inanimate object come to life. She looks timidly at me. Without words, she asks what it is. Without words, I answer by taking her picture then turning the camera around to show her the screen. Her black eyes shimmer with excitement. I wonder if she has ever seen herself.

In an instant, her playmates are surrounding me so closely that I can barely move. Shaved heads. Mismatched clothes. Runny noses. Dirty feet. Their beauty astounds me.

At least 15 hands reach for the strange gadget and tug at the string that ties it to my wrist. Finally, I release the camera, and half the crowd backs away to take their first photos.

The other half begins to examine me. The girls tug at my bright jewelry. I try to explain the colored beads of the Salvation bracelet I am wearing. “Blue is for Baptism,” I urge.

“Baloo… baaalooo…blue. Blue!” the younger ones repeat in their crisp accents, then laugh at themselves.

Colors now. Concepts later. I try to comfort myself. Oh, Lord, please, give me a later.

Small, dark brown fingers pull through my tangled, dark brown curls. Innocent yet experienced eyes stare at my white skin and American clothes. Swahili words hover between giggles.

A little boy comes with the other half of the group to bring back my camera. The memory card is full. The battery is dying.

“Time’s up,” I utter with a shaky voice. I make a frown in an attempt to relay the message.

They don’t understand.