The Singing of Frogs

I forgot how loud the frogs were at night, singing down in the valley. How the banana leaves clap in the wind before the rain. How everyone, everywhere, every time, wants to say hello and greet me. I had forgotten the beauty of the country, the energy it takes for people to survive, the laughter that rises so easily. I had forgotten the stories that take all afternoon to tell; the way the African sun feels on the back of my neck; the way the inside of my nose becomes black with diesel fumes after driving home from Kigali. I had forgotten the weight of children climbing in my lap; the sounds of mamas singing while they cook; the freedom of children dancing to the sound of the drum. I had forgotten the kindness of strangers and the excitement of village children when they say “Good morning!”.I had forgotten how it feels to drive the landcruiser up into the hills to run an errand with my kids in the back for a ride. I had forgotten how Papa Jojo’s jokes make me laugh, how Grace and I talk and laugh together, how the children take me by the hand. I had forgotten because to remember was to get on a plane and come back. 

I find I remember all my Kinyarwanda and use it every day; I am learning the new children’s names. I find myself craving the taste of ugali because I have not eaten Rwandese food yet. Everywhere I go, I see people I know, people who remember me. At the market I ran into mamas who used to work here, mamas of children who have left to be with them again, mamas who sold me carrots and peppers and tomatoes for a year. Everywhere I look I see what I have known – and I see the new.

I have said that Africa can break your heart every day, and it is true. If you listen long enough, if you see clearly, you can know fully the suffering – sometimes it seems like suffering without end. I see people I have known, who sacrifice everything to go to university and then find out their scholarship will not cover food costs for half the year. So when I see them now, I barely recognize them because they are so skinny. I see children I have known and loved, missing from inside these safe walls. I see food prices are high in the market, and everywhere I am stopped for money, maybe more than before. I see the empty promises of politicians. And I see the rains have come and crops are growing; there are still fields to be planted, crops to be harvested, life to go on.

Africa is joy. Africa is suffering. Africa is in my heart.