An Afternoon With Sarah

I am interested in people. I am the type that can be seated in a noisy crowded place but not hear the noise.  Instead, I focus on faces and pick out personalities and characters. Like a playwright, I create different personas and try to figure out if they fit the person. Sometimes I wonder about an individual’s personality, what makes them tick, why they are the way they are. I guess that is why I got into writing. But my mother always says that I should probably have done psychology. I don’t know about that but I guess perhaps in another life…

Anyway, my interest in people is what makes my work practical. I meet all sorts of characters and their various personalities give me lots to think and write about. Sometimes though, I meet people who make my imagination screech to a halt. No wondering or imagining or conceptualizing imaginary personas – just the person’s true character. Connecting.  Getting to really know them without having my own preconceived ideas to contend with.  

 I have met such people over the period that I have been working in the camp but there is this one particular girl I met a few months back.  I shall call her Sarah to respect her privacy. Sarah is 12 years old. She is not your regular 12 year old though.  

Sarah is not your regular 12 year old girl.

I met her by chance. I was actually working on a different story about a primary school girl who had done extremely well in her final examination. As I was chatting with the girl, I kept being distracted by yelps of laughter coming from the next compound. Being the curious cat I am, I strolled over to see what was going on there. 

These kids had a lot of fun, playing with a small ball.

There were a bunch of kids jostling on the ground with a small ball. Shrieks of joy would emanate from the group when the ball would be wrestled from someone. They would then take turns at throwing the ball around before it disappeared under a cloud of dust and the jostling would resume.

I was quite tickled by their game; I almost wished I could join in! They were having the time of their lives. There was an elderly lady in a wheelchair seated under a tree smiling at the boisterous bunch. She looked like the owner of the homestead.  I smiled at her and she waved, inviting me into her yard. 

As I said my hellos, I noticed a young girl bent over a big rock, grinding some flour on its flat top with a small stone. I slowly sat down as I stared at how intensely she went about her chore.

 She barely noticed me or the commotion a few yards away. She was so engrossed in what she was doing; she might as well have been in a different world altogether. I was completely taken by her dedication; her slender arms moved back and forth against that rock with such ease; she went about it like it was the most natural thing in the world.  And she was humming some nondescript tune under her breath which coupled with the swish swoosh motion of the rock on the grinder made the whole scenario almost hypnotic. I felt like time had stood still.

Sarah grinds flour on the rock as her siblings watch in the background. 

Almost suddenly, she stopped and looked up into my eyes. That fluid movement was so abrupt, I was completely taken aback. I smiled at her hesitantly and she gave me a shy little smile.

“Hello.”

She smiled again, this time white teeth flashing.

“What’s your name?”

“Sarah,” she replied softly.

Her voice was so soft, barely above a whisper; I had to move closer to hear what she was saying. As I settled on the sun soaked hard ground beside her, she swipe at some flies that were buzzing around her face.

It was then that I really got a good look at her. She had such beautiful, soulful eyes. The kind that bring to life the saying “eyes are the windows to the soul.” I couldn’t help but smile at her. She was such a beautiful girl. I could also see wariness in her eyes, like she wasn’t really sure what I was up to. She watched me as one would watch a stray cat renown for taking off with food from cooking pots.

 I decided to break the ice further.

I introduced myself and showed her my staff badge so she could see my name. She smiled and this time looked at me curiously.

“How do you say that?” she asked, pointing with a flour covered finger at my second name.

I laughed. She was warming up to me.

As we chatted, I noticed her initial hesitation thaw. My curiosity was piqued further. I wanted to know more about her. I was interested in what she was doing though - this grinding process was all new to me. I have never actually seen it in person; I have only seen it depicted in African movies and heard women from my rural village talk about it. My grandmother actually has an old, moss covered grinder somewhere in her old kitchen – it is apparently older than me.

This is no task for the fainthearted - it is tedious work. By the time the grain has been ground into flour so fine that it feels like silk between the fingers, you can barely feel your palms. I was both amazed and disheartened. Amazed because she did it with such ease and yet, disheartened because she was in a corner by herself, grinding away while her peers and siblings played the afternoon away. She would occasionally throw cursory glances at them and I wondered at that point what was going through her mind.

At one point, she paused to wipe some beads of sweat off her furrowed brow then continued grinding away.  I watched her until my curiosity (as always) couldn’t let me stay quiet any longer. So I asked her to tell me her story.

Sarah is an Unaccompanied Minor (UAM). A UAM is a child who has been separated from her family and is by him/herself in the camp. The separation causes untold trauma to the child as one can only imagine. Most UAMS are lucky to be reunited with a relative and are then classified as a Separated Child. UAMs and Separated children (UASC) are considered vulnerable persons of concern and require immediate assistance to safeguard their well-being. Those who are not reunited are placed in either foster care arrangements or child headed households. The child headed households are linked to a family or families that assist in monitoring their progress in the community.

Sarah is one such child; she came to the camp at the height of the South Sudan influx. She didn’t have any family member with her. She was part of a group of other children that were clustered together by aid workers in South Sudan and put in a bus that was transporting asylum seekers to the camp. Months later, she was reunited with her two younger brothers. She and her brothers are now staying with a foster mother. She does not know where her parents are or whether they are still alive.

She stares down the entire time, her flour covered hands clasped in her lap.

I feel at a loss. I am not sure what to say next. I am almost annoyed with myself for making her relive such a time in her life that she has probably been trying to put behind her.

“You want to do?” she asks me suddenly.

“Do what?” I ask curiously.

She points at the rock.

I shake my head furiously. I can imagine what a mess of everything I will make if she entrusts me with what is clearly a feat beyond my capability.

She laughs. “No you can’t. Too hard. Your hands too soft.”

As I laugh with her, I can’t help but think about what she has just said. Yes, it is hard work. Yes my hands are too soft. But so are hers! This is hard work especially for her.

I wish I could take this burden off her. Yes, burden.  Because she would probably be doing something else if circumstances were different. She seems  like such an intelligent girl and a deep thinker. I got the sense that she seemed to have been pulled from something bigger. Something more meaningful and ideal. She wasn’t living the life of a 12 year old girl and thousands of kids just like her have been robbed of their childhood. So many have been forced to grow up so fast and take on responsibilities that are beyond their young lives.

Sarah’s yells as she pauses to chase off her younger siblings who are playing too close to the bucket of fine flour bring me back to the present.  I assume that whatever she yelled is an insult or threat but it seems harmless enough as her siblings dart off giggling uncontrollably.

I stand up to leave and she says a quick goodbye. Before I leave though I ask her one last question.

“What do you want to be when you finish school?”

She pauses and looks at me for a long while. I wonder whether my question was too vague or perhaps I should repeat it again.

She eventually shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe a teacher or a nurse. I want to do something good.”

She then gives me a quizzical look. “What do you do?”

I wasn’t expecting the spotlight to be swung at me. I hesitate slightly before explaining that I am a writer and what my work entails. Her eyes light up.

“I like to write too! I like English! Can you bring me a book to write in?”

I smile at her. Her face is glowing and those big soulful eyes are brimming with hope. I cannot believe that this seemingly glum child has so much passion for something. And it happens to be writing!

I feel my heart expand; I want greatness for Sarah. I want her and all the other kids who feel lost and confused to find the right path that will lead them to a bright and better future. I simply nod because I am afraid my voice will reveal how emotional I am at this point.

I wave goodbye to Sarah and her foster mother. 

I am going to find a book or two for Sarah. And a pen. Yes, I bet she would love that too.

I’m loving – Eva by Angelique Kidjo ft. Asa