long nights and little boys

Reason Number 4,571 that I Love My Job:

As I walked onto B Ward this evening, admittedly less than excited to be starting my second of four long night shifts in a row, my little friend Abraham caught sight of me. He jumped up from his place on the floor, thought briefly about putting on his slippers, decided against it and danced across the room into my arms, blowing kisses the whole way. Emmanuel, Mercy's proud big brother, was close on his heels and little Mickey, a small one who used to be screaming afraid of white people, toddled along behind. Within fifteen seconds of stepping foot onto the ward, I was on the floor with little brown boys draped across every part of me they could attach themselves to. Probably the best way I can think of to start a shift.


I'm sitting here in the darkened ward, the generators once more beating out their insistent pulse, and I'm so happy. I can hear little Mercy crying like a small kitten in the corner, quieting as her mother reaches for her. I had to settle an argument between Mercy's mama and Mickey's grandma earlier in my shift. They called me over to their corner, and I took Mercy in my hands, curly-haired and feather-light. It turned out they were in disagreement over how long I'd been in Liberia. Mercy's mama figured I'd been here before, but Mickey's grandma stauchly proclaimed that this was my first visit. I have been here since February. I were not here las' year. Mickey's grandma looked triumphant. That how I tol' you. She jus' speaking Liberian. Yongo a clever girl!

Abdullah, the man in the next bed over, decided it was time he got involved. What mean Yongo? he wanted to know. Mickey's grandma explained to him that it was my Kpelle name. Abdullah looked confused for a moment, scratched his head through the bandages wrapped around it, and wanted to know why that white girl needed a Kpelle name anyway. The answer came swiftly.

Because her heart Liberian.

And somehow, after that, the nights don't seem so long after all.