Patience is a Virtue.

*This is a piece I wrote for my Travel Writing class. It is a first draft, and has yet to be critiqued by my class and professor. Take it easy on me! haha*


I had no idea what to expect as we drove an hour and a half to the Ghanaian village of Atonkwa, and I liked it that way. The last time I did a service visit to a ‘village’ was in Nicaragua, five years ago. I learned my lesson about expectations then. No, the village I was staying in was not comprised of small grass huts, but rather a town on the outskirts of the city, complete with paved roads and tin houses. I knew Atonkwa wasn’t going to be like Nicaragua, but I also knew not to draw up a preconception in my head because I would not see it come to life.
Our bus pulled up to the village center, and thirty-one American college students stepped off. We were greeted by Nana, the chief of the village, about six African drummers, and extreme heat. On the bus ride there,  we all signed up for the area of the village we wanted to spend time in. I signed up for a third grade class in the elementary school, with one other guy, Joe.  We were told we were just going to observe. When we got there, the teacher Mr. Francis handed the class over to us… completely. I have no teaching experience what-so-ever, so I was at a complete loss. I let Joe take over most of the time, and I jumped in whenever I could.
There were four girls sitting on a bench for two in the front row, to my right. “Madame Lilly” they whispered every two minutes, “come help us.” The first few times I would slowly sneak over to them and see if I could help, only to be pelted with quiet questions: “Where are you from?” “How is your mother?” “Your father?” I thought it was adorable that they were so curious, but I told them to find me after school and I’d tell them everything. 
Finally it was time for the kids to go home. I figured they would all rush back to their houses for a meal or to get out of their crisp green uniforms, but they were much more interested in us: American college students who, for some reason, decided to visit their village. My four girls immediately latched onto my arms, and about five others tried to latch on as well, grabbing any piece of me they could. My pinky, my thumb, my shirt, my leg, my elbow… I have never felt more like a jerk for itching my nose! It meant I had to tug my arm away from at least 4 kids, and who knew if they would get their spot back?
On the walk back from the school to the center of the village, I started to notice one girl. She was smaller than the rest, and didn’t speak much. All the others were still asking me questions, rubbing my arms, telling me how beautiful I was, fighting for my attention. This small girl just held my hand and walked in silence. At this point, I had stopped asking the kids for their names. Not only could I not understand most of them, but a lot of the faces blended together for me. They were all wearing the same clothes, same shaved head, and about the same height. I couldn’t remember if I had asked this girl her name before or not, so I didn’t bother.
When we got back to the village center, I took my camera out and asked the kids if I could take their picture. They all loved seeing their faces on the screen, but after a while they got a little too grabby. They all wanted to use my camera, and take pictures for themselves. This camera cost me half the amount of my car, so I was very hesitant. I let a few kids take a few pictures, but then more kids started running towards me wanting to do the same. The small girl pushed her way through the crowed, smiled at me, turned towards the kid’s and said “NO!” She took my camera from one of the kids and handed it back to me. From then on, every time someone asked for my camera, she told them “No” and created almost a barrier with her tiny body.
The small girl did other things as well. Whenever someone asked me my name, she answered before I could open my mouth. “She is Madame Lilly,” And they all took turns practicing my name. She would correct most of them until they got it right. I insisted that they just call me Lilly, I didn’t want the powerful title of ‘Madame,’ but they wouldn’t stop.  She also made sure that there weren’t too many people fighting for my arms. One time, a little girl bit another so that she had to drop her hand and she could take her place. The small girl calmly removed the biter’s hand, and put the other girl’s back on. I let them figure it out on their own, I didn’t want to be the mean older white woman that decided who was better than the other.
We walked to a soccer field, and watched some of the older kids play. The small girl could tell that I was tired and overwhelmed, so she asked me if I wanted to walk back with her and have a seat. After a while we (the small girl and the three others from the school) walked back. By this time, the small girl’s even smaller sister had found us.  On the walk back, the small girl made her sister hold my hand, and didn’t let anyone push her away. I found myself always looking back to see if she was still close, and she always was.
When we got back, it was dinner time. I told my new friends that I’d be back in a while, and went into the community center with the rest of the group and ate and talked for a while. After about two hours, I came back out. The small girl was there with her sister, both in nice clean dresses, while the rest of the kids were wearing old torn apart shirts and shorts. She calmly made her way over to me, put her little sister’s hand in one of my hands, and she took the other.
We walked around and played with all the other kids for a while before bed time. I told the small girl that I had to go to another school the next day, but I’d see her when I got back. I spent at a special needs school the next day. I had an amazing time, but I found myself missing my own little bodyguard. I couldn’t wait to get back to the village and see if she would be there waiting for me.
When we finally got back, she came running over to me “Sister, sister, you’re really back!” This was the most excitement I had seen out of her! For the first time, not only did she not call me ‘Madame Lilly,’  but she called me ‘Sister.’ Our almost silent connection made the day before felt like it had been created over months. We spent the next hour together, again she fended off the camera hungry kids, and made sure they all knew my name.
When it was time to go, I looked around and realized that all the students in my group had made their own connections with a small group of children. The original four girls all said their goodbyes to me, but the small girl just stood silently holding my hand. She didn’t smile or try to hold me back, like the other girls, she just stood there. I realized that I didn’t know her name. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to pronounce it, so I decided that I shouldn’t ask. I didn’t want to disappoint her by not being able to say it. I got down on my knees and hugged her. By this time, all the kids were standing by the bus windows, jumping up and down, yelling their goodbyes. After hugging the small girl, I threw my previous decision out the window. “Forgive me,” I said to her, “But I can’t remember your name.” I needed a name so that I could stop thinking of her as the small girl who became my sister. She answered in a very small voice: “Patience.”  She hugged me one more time, turned and walked away.