This single photo tells a thousand stories. Everyday Ariyo came early in the morning to the guest house and waited at the front door for me to wake up. The first time I welcomed her inside she was hesitant to enter. She stood along the wall, staring at the bright red couch with big eyes. I had to take her by the hand and insist she sit on it. She had never seen a couch before.
We shared a lot of firsts together. Bubbles. Nail polish. Smelly markers. Glitter pens. Coloring books. Noodles. Bubble gum. Glow sticks. Flashlights. A lighter. A toilet. Laundry detergent. Radio. Perfume. Matches. Avocado. Making bracelets. Using a fork. Eating at a table. Cement floors.
I was experiencing the world all over again. With new perspective. And it is an astonishing place. I started to anticipate the way Ariyo might understand new things----ATM machines just give away free money?!
One day I tackled the lunch dishes while she was finishing up her food. She brought me her bowl, screamed and dropped it. Yamaweeeeeeeee!! Where was the water coming from?! Where was it going? She spent 20 minutes staring at the water spout and the drain and the piping underneath. Turning the water on and off and watching it swirl around and disappear. Watching drops of water run down the sides of the basin, racing each other to their inevitable doom.
Ariyo told her friends that there was magic water at the guest house. Water in Kishanje doesn't come from plumbing. It's fetched from a muddy river at the bottom of the mountain. Dragged home in full jerry cans heavier than their tiny owners. Of course they didn't believe her.
The sink phenomenon turned into an out right phobia of a flush toilet. I can hear her thought process right now. If I don't know why or how or where that water vanishes to then why would I sit on top of it and get sucked into its vortex? As they say in Uganda, It is refusing.
Ariyo asked to go to bed when the sun was still out. All she wanted to do was sneak into the room to see her bed again. Imagine your first smell of laundered sheets. The first time you felt that crisp fabric on your bare legs. Snuggling up inside of a fuzzy blanket. Laying your head down on a pillow. Laying on a foam mattress. Finally. She slept with all of the blankets pulled tight over her head, creating a vacuum-sealed sauna I can't imagine was very easy to breathe in.
When we went into town for her special day she had new firsts. A boat ride. Motion sickness. Grape soda. Foosball. A statue of a gorilla she was convinced was real. More flush toilets. Seeing your reflection in store front windows. And all of those things you can buy!
We had been walking through town and Ariyo was walking on her tip toes, hiding half of herself behind me and gasping in fear every so often. Was this a bad idea? I thought to myself. Why was Ariyo behaving as if we were walking through Jurassic Park? We were passing a dress shop when I connected all of the clues. OH MY GOD SHE THINKS THE MANNEQUINS ARE HEADLESS PEOPLE. She started crying and wanted to run away. Poor girl! All day long she thought she was in a weird alternate universe filled with white people missing heads and eyeballs and they were all identical. She had already acclimated to me and my horrifying pale skin. One muzungu was enough.
I held hands with the plastic person and knocked on the body to show her it was hollow. I poked them in the eyes and even touched the ones with fake eyelashes. I took off one's dress, freed one of its wig made of yellow yarn, and she stared at me as if I was mutilating these poor people.
Eventually Ariyo got close enough and brave enough to poke a mannequin and immediately realized it was just a statue. She started laughing hysterically and I rewarded her with a lollipop for being so brave. My polite girl suffered through her lunch without one complaint believing she was eating in the presence of a 12 foot gorilla.
Another day I turned the camera app for the iPad on and Ariyo stared at her face for hours. Can you imagine becoming acquainted with your facial features for the first time? She touched her nose and rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue and touched her dimples and counted her teeth and fixed her hair and showed me her eyelashes and had everyone in the house come and look. Obinere, I said. You are beautiful.
Now that I am home I stare at things in my apartment with tears. There are so many things that I want to show Ariyo. Fireworks. Piano. Bubble baths. The aquarium. Riding the train. Pillow fights. Apple juice. Bouncy balls. Goldfish. Animal crackers. Dogs wearing clothes and walking on leashes. The list is endless. I want to teach her how to tie shoe laces. How to solve math homework by drawing pictures. How to catch snowflakes on your tongue and cherish a mean mug of hot cocoa with marshmallows. I want to teach her how to swim and ride a bike. How to stamp a letter and send it in the mail. Show her our four seasons and our monthly holidays. Trick or treating. Egg hunts. Sparklers. Candy Canes. Valentine hearts. Birthday cake. Especially birthday cake. I want to spend my life celebrating her.
I'd do anything to have Ariyo here with me. For now, my prayer is to never stop experiencing the world the way that she does.
How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.
