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| Sisal plantation on the road between Pangani and Tanga |
The
house went up in flames in a matter of minutes. Once the spark jumped from the
burning field to the nearby palm and then the makuti roof, there was no
stopping it.
The
couple grabbed what they could and fled. Got out with the most important items
in tow: baby, passports, laptop, iPhone, a few bags of clothes.
We
meet two days later; I go with them to the market to buy necessary replacement
items; for two days G has been living in pajamas, her clothes turned to ash.
She tells me the details of the fire while we drive: her fear, the moment she
saw the palm tree go, how she knew then it was time to scoop up the baby and leave.
How it all seemed so surreal – you never
really realize it’s happening when it’s actually happening. How they are
still processing the whole event. How, besides what they grabbed in those first
few moments, most things are burnt to black: furniture, clothing, camera, baby
clothes, sentimental stuff, books.
I
recall a book we lent them last week – a family favorite, a gift from my
mother. I wonder if it survived the flames, but I don’t ask.
G
says that they’ve had wonderful support, except for the one comment that ruined
her day. Judgmental, condescending. Suggesting parental irresponsibility for
having a baby in Africa in the first place, implying that similar disasters
could be avoided if only these young parents would wise up and get their baby
back to the safety of home shores. That comment began with “I’ll say what
everyone else is thinking…”
Not everyone.
The
naysayers come out when the going gets tough. The naysayers will tell you the
things you can’t do. We’ve heard plenty.
You can’t raise a baby on a boat.
You can’t give birth in Mexico.
You can’t sail across oceans with children.
You can’t you can’t you can’t.
The
naysayers are good at prescriptive advice. The naysayers fit life into a space
with four predictable corners.
The
naysayers haven’t tried to live outside the box. They just know they can’t.
When
our first baby was due, we were told we needed a paediatrician before the baby
was born. We did as suggested; we ‘interviewed’ several potential
paediatricians one month prior to the baby’s birth. Important topics such as
immunization schedules, birth weights and standardized expectations for a
healthy baby dominated the sessions. Books were consulted; charts were
referenced. Only one listened to our story – how we planned to move aboard our
28’ boat, with our baby, as soon as
summer arrived – and said, “Listen. You can raise your children anywhere in the
world.” He was from Egypt. He’d seen a few things before landing his practice
in Baltimore. “Love your baby,” he said, “and she’ll have a good life.”
*
Lunchtime.
We admire our purchases from the market; G does not have to walk around in her
pajamas anymore. Our friends tell the story of their wedding bands – metal,
plain – and purchased in Malaysia for $2.
We laugh at that, and we laugh again when they tell us they purchased an extra ring, because E knew he’d lose the
first one. We laugh a third time when he tells us the one he’s wearing is the
replacement ring.
The
baby sits on dad’s lap, blowing bubbles.
“Oh!”
says G suddenly. “Your book! I’ve just remembered your book!” This talk of lost
things. G realises now that the book we lent her is destroyed, gone.
“It
doesn’t matter,” I say quickly. But as soon as I say it I know I’ve misspoken.
The book does matter. Just the like
the wedding bands – the lost one and the replacement. What doesn’t matter is
that the ring was lost, that the book was burnt to bits. But they are still
part of the story.
I
reach to take the baby, to hold him while his parents eat. I put him to my
shoulder and inhale – he smells like he should: fresh, warm, milky soft. He
squirms a bit and almost cries.
“Try
turning him around,” E says. “He likes to see the world.”
