Home Ain’t Where the Heart Is: Saying Goodbye in Ghana
Wofa and I playing
“I love my life, I love my life, I love my lifeeeee…” sang DeMarco from the CD player. This was everyone at the Ghanian orphanage’s favorite song, and the children danced and sang, turning the cement room filled with plastic chairs, workbooks, and toy figurines into a club. Usually, I would have been in the center of the kids, making them laugh at my attempt at rhythm.
While back in New York I considered myself to be a pretty decent dancer, compared to these children, who grew up with dance and drum beats as part of their everyday life, I looked pretty comical. I didn’t mind, though, as long as they were smiling.
Tonight I didn’t quite feel like dancing. The room was full of energy and noise, but I just felt empty and sad. I had grown so close to these children, playing peek-a-boo with the babies, soccer with the boys, and letting the younger girls braid my hair. The older kids would often come over to the volunteer house to hangout, practice typing, read a book, or just talk. And now, I was leaving it all behind to go back to New York.
All of the kids were special to me, from the sweet, affectionate Mary to John, who liked to act like the big, bad bully. However, there was one kid who held a prominent place in my heart, Wofa.
I have never really seen myself wanting children of my own until I met Wofa. The kid is six and loves to dance more than anything in the world. He doesn’t care if there is a crowd of 10,000 people, he will entertain you with a big smile. Wofa had a big spirit and lots of energy, always up for anything. He loved to make fake guns with the other boys, but was also happy to make mud pies with the girls. He would kick a soccer ball for hours, inventing new ways to pass it, using his head, elbows, and even his butt. What I loved most about Wofa, though, was that he never cried. Ever. I had literally seen him in the fetal position on the ground while his brother beat the crap out of him, kicking him in the stomach, and he would laugh hysterically like an insane person. It was like he thought getting beat up was fun. He was really something, and we were inseparable.
That is why tonight is such a weird feeling for me. My usual joyful Wofa has sprawled himself out over my body as if I am a bed. Since I am sitting in a chair, it is quite an awkward position, but Wofa wraps his arms around my neck so that he doesn’t move. When his brother tries to pry him off of me so that he can also sit on my lap (the children love sitting your lap more than anything), Wofa turns himself to dead weight and refuses to move.
While I know I should tell Wofa to give his brother a turn, I can’t. It breaks my heart that this might actually be the last time he sits on my lap. Suddenly, an idea comes to me.
“Come to my house with me,” I instruct Wofa.
We go across the road to where I am staying and I have him sit on my bed as I rummage through the suitcase where all of the gifts and toys are hidden. I find a small rubber ball with a switch on the bottom. There is a cockroach inside, and when you flick the switch, the bug lights up. Although I know you aren’t supposed to give only one child a toy and not the rest of them, I hand it to Wofa.
“This is for you so you can remember me whenever you play with it,” I explain. “Don’t show anyone. We are going to hide it in your mattress.”
He smiles, happy with his new gift. “The light! The light!” he repeats over and over. His facial expression changes as he begins to think. He points to my notebook.
“Paper and pen?” he asks.
I tear out a few sheets and give him a pen, as he asks me to write down my name, phone number, and address so that he can write to me. Because of his situation I am pretty positive he’ll never be able to write to me even if he could spell, but I am overjoyed that he actually wants to keep in touch with me.
We go back over to the orphanage and hide his new things. I can tell he is tired, as his eyes keep shutting. He is fighting sleep, however, because he doesn’t want to say goodbye, either.
We try to stay awake. An hour goes by, two hours. Finally, I carry him to bed and put him in his top bunk.
“Goodnight, Wofa,” I say, my voice cracking a bit. “I will miss you so much and I will never forget you. Tomorrow morning before I leave I promise to come back over to say goodbye.”
He lays there, eyes glazed over, staring at the unadorned ceiling. He seems lifeless, almost possessed, and I am nervous that something is wrong. There is no expression on his face, no emotion or sign of life. Until suddenly, I see the silent tears stream down his face.
My chest tightens as he begins to wail. I pat his back as his small body heaves and convulses. Because Wofa is literally the only child I have never seen shed a tear at this orphanage, I am in complete shock. I thought he would be upset when I left, but not this upset. For the next hour, no words are uttered. I cry, he cries, we hug, and we cry some more.
As it gets later, I realize that as much as it will hurt to pull his arms off of me, I must if I don’t want him to stay up all night crying. Wofa is still bawling as hard as he was when he started, and if I stay here any longer, I won’t be able to leave. I give him one last squeeze, tell him I love him, wipe the tears from his face, and leave, my heart breaking as I hear his moaning and coughing as I close the door behind me.
Outside, I fall to my knees in the dirt and cry. Never did I expect saying goodbye to hurt this bad. While I am happy Wofa will miss me, I don’t want to see him hurt. And, I don’t ant to leave, not now, not ever. Thoughts form in my mind of how I could maybe take him home with me, or maybe I could move to Ghana forever and work at the orphanage. This all seems rationale until I tell my parents my plan, who spend the next hour (and hundreds of dollars in roaming charges) talking me out of my plans. I go to sleep with a heavy heart.
The next morning I keep my promise, going over to the orphanage to say my final goodbyes to the children. Wofa looks sullen, but at least he is not crying. I walk over and he hands me a piece of paper. As I unfold it, I see my name and address written seveteen times on the paper. Granted, the letter “s” is drawn backwards and some words are spelled incorrectly, but it looks pretty damn good.
“I practiced all night so that I can write to you,” Wofa tells me.
Once again, my eyes open up like flood gates. Wofa cries, as do many of the other children as we say our goodbyes. Never did I believe that leaving Ghana would be this hard. But when you really think about it, it should be hard. If saying goodbye was easy that would have meant that I didn’t really care. It’s the fact that the bond that I created with these children was so strong, and that we all loved each other so much, that my heart is breaking. And while saying goodbye to the children was the hardest thing I had ever done, I was thankful to have had the opportunity to be there in Ghana with all of them.
0 评论: