Once I had a friend named Delsa. There are probably guidelines against picking favorites, but as far as children in Africa go, she easily topped my list. I don’t know where she came from, but almost daily she would show up to my house in Mozambique, shy at first, but eventually confident while running around yelling, “Emilia! Emilia!” (Which in her raspy, little voice came out “Ah-mail-i-a”).
Delsa was 5 years old. She spoke Portuguese, and I spoke very little. Yet in my days in Mozambique, she was one of my dearest friends. Somehow, every time my day turned sour, a few moments later, Delsa would come trotting down the road, belly sticking out, arms wide, a stern look overtaking her young face. “Ola Delsa,” I would call. Her stern look would quickly change, as she responded in a fit of giggles and an attempt to hide from me, every time. Then minutes later she was glued to my side, never departing—unless her mother beckoned or a game of Mata Mata began.
I still don’t know why God chose a 5-year-old girl in Mocuba, Mozambique to have such an impact on my heart. But whenever I think back on Mozambique, Delsa is the only person outside of my host family my heart aches for… Every. Single. Time.
The first day I arrived at my host home, Delsa was sitting outside my house with my avo (grandmother) eating peanuts. She just stared at me. I don’t mean stared as in the way most people looked when they saw a white girl in the middle of their village. Her eyes were locked on me, like if she looked away the world would crumble around her. Intent. Afraid. Curious. At most, she placed a peanut in my hand that day, almost a peace offering, but never letting our eyes meet, and never letting her face reveal a smile. I am not sure how many fearful stares passed before she finally smiled at me.
Once we broke the barrier, I was teaching some of the kids a few simple words in English. Words like “door” or “house”. Later on, to Delsa, I said, “Este e ‘water’ en ingles.” Pointing to my bottle of water. She replied, “ No e ‘gwater’ e ‘agua’.” That’s how Delsa was, fiercely confident and hilariously so.
I remember Delsa coming up to me when I was sitting lonely on my “front porch” because my avo had left me with the babysitters for the day (my 16-year-old host brother and the neighbors). I was lost without the comfort of my avo smiling at me and calling me her daughter, brushing the hair out of my face, making sure no part of my fair skin was peeking out from the shade, and introducing me to friends and family as if I truly was one of her own. Feeling insecure and alone, Delsa marched right up to me and simply said, “Go play with your friends.” I tried to reason with her that I needed to stay with the neighbors and my brother, but true to 5-year-old stubbornness, she ignored my rebuttal and walked me over to my teammate’s host home. Yes, I had to be walked around by a child, what of it?
But one of my favorite memories of Delsa is playing our special game. She would run around the outside of my house, calling my name at one of the three windows or through the door, and I would run around inside looking for her, calling out “Delsa” when I “finally” found her. Squeals filled the air as she ran away as quickly as possible, eagerly searching for her next spot. Her laughter alone made hours of the game pass like minutes.
I remember when I finally brought my camera out to take pictures of and with my family, how intent I was on taking a picture with Delsa. I took many. Specifically, I remember her climbing into my lap so we could take a “selfie” (no, I didn’t teach her the word… she probably would have corrected me anyway). The photo is engrained in my mind, but now I am only able to keep it like a secret, the only one who remembers how huge her grin was when she saw our faces smiling together. It is one of the pictures I am saddest about losing. Sometimes I fear I am losing the memory of her face.
Before Mozambique, I saw these beautiful, joy-filled African children as small, precious, fragile beings who needed me, a strong, white American to save them, fix them, love them. It took a small, beautiful, joy-filled girl from Mozambique, and a year away from Africa for me to realize I was always the one who was being saved, fixed, and loved by them.
lovefromafrica 