The White Man's Coming to Eat You!

(Today’s blog is children-based...enjoy)

Walking around Siavonga, especially when passing through out-of-the-way villages, I’ll often come across children who have obviously seen few whites before in their young lives. Some, more than likely, have never seen a single white man before. By now, most of the local kids know me and come to wave and say hello. Some are still a bit wary when I come around. And some are downright terrified.

They’re always the smallest ones. They start by staring and looking perplexed for just a moment. They begin to back-peddle and run towards the nearest friend or family member, holding on for protection. I’ve seen it a thousand times. I’d say a good 50 percent of them start crying. A lot.

And, keep in mind, in these cases all I’m doing is walking by.

It used to upset me, almost hurting my feelings. I didn’t like it at all. Sometime a few months ago, however, I turned a corner and started having a little fun.

Now, whenever I see a child in the initial perplexed stage, preparing to back-peddle and cry, I stop, turn towards them and start walking, faster and faster. I show my teeth and start growling, putting my hands up and showing my claws. Sometimes I yell out, in Tonga, “Here comes the white man!” or “I’m going to eat you!” or both. Man, do they freak.

It’s awesome and strangely satisfying. It always gets great reactions from the nearby parents, too. They think it’s hilarious. They’ve seen white people before and most of them know me by now, so it’s all cool. They always stand there chuckling while their children are screaming and crying in utter terror at their feet. It’s great.

I know, I know, I’m a terrible person. But, the way I see it, I’m working all day every day to support orphans and vulnerable children in southern Africa and I’ve earned the right to strike a little fear into certain children’s hearts every now and again.

That’s my rationalization and I’m sticking to it.

Speaking of children, my little man next door, Junior, continues to grow up right before my eyes. When I arrived in Siavonga last year all he did was crawl and cry and poop on everything. But my little man is really coming along. Now he’s running around and stirring up trouble on a daily basis. He talks all the time, speaking what appears to be a mixture of Tonga, English and Chinese, though none of us are exactly sure. He can say about ten actual words, and I’m happy to say that Sam is one of them. I’m happy not only because it feels good that he knows and likes me now, but also because he stopped calling me “Tata”, or father, before any rumors got started. Phew.

Finally, the other day I came about as close to using corporal punishment as I have in all my time here at Namumu.

I was walking back from church with three of my little Namumu minions, Clivert, Bickel and Shankister. We had gone out to St. Mark’s Presbyterian Church in Mitcho, about an hour’s walk from Namumu, so we had plenty of time to chat on the way home. It’s always a nice walk, providing me with plenty of time to shoot the breeze and catch up with my kids.

So, there I was, chatting it up with said minions. We drifted into a conversation about music. These kids know a good number of American artists, but for the most part they’re all into crappy Zambian pop music.

I asked Clivert if he was into this one youngish female singer who goes by the name “Mampi”. No, he said, he wasn’t. Why not? I inquired. Well, first off, it’s the way she dances...she’s too provocative (his exact words). And her clothes. She’s always showing too much skin. She should cover up more, he said.

I was really proud of ol’ Clivert. Here’s one boy with a good head on his shoulders, I thought, one who won’t be pulled in by temptations of the flesh. I gave him a pat on the back and told him that those were good reasons (though, ironically, her dancing and skimpy outfits are the primary reasons I am completely in love with Mampi, but whetever...).

That’s when things took a turn for the worse.

You know who else I don’t like? Clivert said out of nowhere. Michael Jackson.

Wait. What?

Yeah. Michael Jackson is not that great. I don’t know why everybody loves him so much.

Then, as my anger began to rise, he threw in the kicker.

You know who is much better? T-Pain!

I nearly lost it. Immediately I had visions of pulling Clivert off to the roadside and George Lyle-ing his behind with my leather belt for speaking such nonsense. I didn’t . I held myself together.

But I was close.