My Trash is not My Own

Everything I throw away gets rummaged through by all the children in my village.  The large hole behind my hut, meant for dumping rubbish, becomes a gathering place for six to eight children any time they suspect I have tossed something into the pile of empty beer bottles and wrappers.  This is the same pile where I threw out an ant-infested loaf of bread that was then eaten by these same children.

I can always count on the faces of these children trying to peer in through my windows multiple times throughout the day.  Since most of them are too young to speak English, the best I can do is lift up my curtain, make it obvious that I know they are there, and knock on the glass.

I’m always being watched.  I open my door, it creaks, and there I am facing the rest of my village.  It seems that the sound of the door creaking has become the announcement that my house is now open to all the children who wish to go through my stuff.  And I’m doing my best to let them be curious and still keep my space.  Doing my laundry becomes entertainment for others, my short walk to my pit latrine can be seen by everyone, I can never go fetch water alone (though I do appreciate the help), and I can’t leave my door open unless I want to supervise the children.  The feeling of being watched 24/7 is exhausting.  Especially when you’re someone like me, who has always needed space to unwind and reflect and breathe.

And sometimes when I think I can’t take it anymore, Imasiku and Simalumba (also refered to as Simamba, Bamba, Bomba, and various other things) always restore my love for the kids here.  Imasiku no longer refers to me as mukuwa (the word for white person), but does his best to call me by my name (which comes out as Shala).  And Simamba, well he’s the cutest baby that looks like an old man that I’ve ever seen and when he waves at me I can’t help but feel better about everything.