Accra, July 9

Day Twelve

I have the two most beautiful children living across the street from my hostel. Every time they see me come home from work (or the mall), they sprint down the muddy street, screaming “Hallo!” as they run. The older one is a little boy, about three years old. I tried asking him his name at some point, and I got something indiscernible along the lines of “Yayo,” so that’s what I call him. God only knows what his real name is. When I asked the little girl what her name was, she stood and stared at me blankly. The little boy, sensing her confusion, pointed at himself and said, “Yayo,” and then pointed at her and said, “Peace.”

“Peace?” I asked, quizzically, thinking it a little strange. He nodded a very big, dramatic nod, his eyes wide open. “Peace!” he shouted, and her head bobbed up and down as if just realizing that we were talking about her.

Today when I returned home from work, Yayo and Peace sprinted down the road for me, so I put my bag down on the curb and walked toward them to say hello. Because Peace had seen me round the corner first, she was easily 40 feet ahead of Yayo on her run toward me. Her little dress, a paisley corduroy hand-me-down that used to button up the front, now, after years of wear, is held together by safety pins. As she runs, it flaps wide open, making it look like she’s running down the street in only her panties. When she reaches me, she throws her hand up in the air for a big high-five. She doesn’t understand English, because she hasn’t started school yet, so we don’t really talk much. Just smile, shake hands, high-five and blather.

After a few seconds playing with Peace, Yayo is nearing us on his run down the driveway. “Slow down!” I call out with a smile, knowing he probably doesn’t really understand English either. Splat! He wipes out in slow motion on a gravelly patch of the road, putting down his hands to brace his fall forward. I stare for a split-second, waiting to see what he’ll do next…and then come the tears. He looks at me, then looks back at his house where older siblings sit and watch, and then looks back at me. I walk over to where he fell and pick him up off the ground. His long, floral-printed cotton shorts cover his scraped knees. I push the shorts up a bit, just enough to see his knees, and rub the dirty spots. After a few seconds he stops crying. We high-five and a smile slowly spreads across his face. He then turns and runs back to “home base,” sprinting almost as quickly as he did pre-splat.