plantain chips and peace

It seems that Harold has some kind of radar when it comes to my bad days. Last week, just when I needed a hug, Harold missed me enough to convince his mama to catch a car and come see me. Yesterday was another less-than-perfect day. Despite scenes like little Isaiah and his water-gulping frenzy, the shift wasn’t great. I seem to have caught the ship-wide case of bronchitis, and I spent much of the day doubled over, trying to cough my lungs out. (The hidden blessing in which is the fact that I think I’ll have a well-defined six pack if this keeps up for another day or two.) And just when I thought my body hurt enough, a combative patient wrapped himself around my neck and pulled just the right way, enough to cause an old back injury to flare up in a finger-numbing blaze of glory.

I was sitting at the computers feeling sorry for myself when a crew member appeared with a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. One of your patients is looking for you. Hawa? Hara? I’m not really sure. He held out the paper, and I recognized my name in Harold’s father’s handwriting. He had come back again, and his smile beamed up at me just as wide as I loped down the gangway. I greeted him and his mama and settled down to chat.

Not long into our visit, with Harold just barely starting to talk, she motioned to a black plastic bag that was resting next to my feet. We bring something for you. That plastic; it’s for you. I tried gently to protest, since the bag was bulging with gifts, but she cut me short. I beg you! We need to say thank you. An Harold choose the bananas his self.

I started to unpack the bag. The first thing I pulled out was a smaller plastic that held a whole bunch of bananas. Harold grinned at me, proud in his produce-picking skills. Next came three little bags of plantain chips. They’re crunchy and salty and just a little sweet and they’re easily my favourite snack here in Liberia. Whenever I leave the ship, I make sure I’ve got 5LD bills in my pockets, just in case I come across a little girl with a tray of treats balanced on her head.

The last gift was the biggest. I pulled out a handful of green cloth and unfolded a dress, complete with a smaller piece of fabric to be used as a head wrap. The dress is a standard Liberian garment; they look like muumuus and fit like potato sacks. And when they’re given to you as a gift, they’re generally big enough that all your roommates could take shelter under your cover in a hard rain. Harold’s family had clearly put thought into this bag of gifts, though. Harold pa get you a different one, but I never let him give it to you. I tol’ him no way, it the wrong size. It were too big for you, even though you got the Loma shape.

To say that I was touched by their generosity would be an understatement. As we get closer and closer to sailing, everyone around us has become increasingly demanding. They know that we’ll soon be gone, and so patients and friends and strangers on the street are taking their last opportunities to ask for the things they assume we can provide. It’s draining, and it gives us all an uncomfortable sense of being used. For Harold and his family to show me such love, asking nothing in return, was the most welcome breath of fresh air.

The rest of our visit passed in the usual style. Harold recited a couple Bible verses for me, along with with mama’s cell phone number. He was rather clearer on the phone number, but I give him style points for his classically Liberian rendition of James 4:8. Dress close to God so He can dress close to you. At one point, Harold’s mama got annoyed with him for his refusal to talk to me and addressed him sternly as Peace. When she saw my quizzical look, she laughed and explained. Peace his yard name. Harold jus’ the name he can carry to school. She went on to give me a lesson in Liberian naming. It turns out that everyone has a yard name, the name everyone knows them by. When it comes time for school, they are given another, more official name, the one that will appear on all their documents.

Josephine, Harold’s mama (whose real name is actually Siah), was pregnant with Harold/Peace in 2005, while the war was still raging in Liberia. She told me matter-of-factly about the rebels closing the port, barricading the roads and preventing supplies from coming through. By the time I were ready to get my baby, I were paying 100LD for one cup of rice. If I could even find the rice. It were not easy. The day the United Nations rolled into town, breaking the barricade and reopening the port, Josephine went into labor and delivered her child. That why he name Peace. Because that day the peace come.

Harold has certainly lived up to his yard name as he cements his place in my life, appearing just when I need love and encouragement and peace in my heart. Josephine said it best. She was talking about the perfection of all the gifts they had brought me (if you can call a potato sack perfect, which I most certainly did), but I think I'll pretend she was talking about everything. This boy, this year, this life of mine.

When God want to do something, He do it well. That's all.