Friday

It was Friday. And every Friday is usually a good day. I mean, it’s Friday. The last time I had a “bad” Friday, I think I must have been in 7th grade. A Friday meant it would be a whole two days until I got to see most of my friends again. Or which ever boy I happened to have a crush on at the minute.

And Fridays here are usually great too because they are a holy day. People dress up a little bit and the nightly call to prayer, which in my village is sung by a single man sans horrible mega phone (thank goodness) in a little louder and draws more of a crowd. For kids, it’s the last day of school for the week, which means the same thing it does for kids at home; hanging out with family, a few extra chores, and playing outside with the kids in the neighborhood.

All of this and yet, I was having a “bad” Friday. I’d woken up, made my morning coffee (thanks Mom and Dad!), sat on my perch -the steps leading up to my roof, and watched the kids gathering for school. But I was tired, having spent the day before biking in and out of the market in a town about 25K away. And for some reason, I was in a mood. I was grumpy, tired of being the outsider, tired of struggling to have a “real” conversation, or any conversation I’d understand. And I was dreading the meeting I’d scheduled with my village for the next day.

I spent the morning writing letters, journaling, reading, lounging in my hammock, telling myself I needed to at least attempt to at least facilitate some sort of social contact. I made my own lunch, which I don’t often do anymore, ate on my own, and then spent the afternoon reading and feeling glum. And then feeling sorry for myself because I was feeling that way.

I’d almost resigned to forgo my daily run, thinking I felt too tired and it was so much effort. But, I reasoned, if nothing else it would get me out of my compound and away from the inquiring eyes of the random people at the well just next to my wall.

I set out, music up so loud I couldn’t hear anyone greeting me. I put on my business face, the one that says “don’t mess with me, please. I’m not in the mood.” Of course, I’d set out just as school was getting out and all the kids were walking home. On my running path. I was trying to ignore them, eyes forward, on my mission. But I couldn’t keep my grumpus face on for long when I noticed that one boy was running with me, drafting off my left shoulder. No smile on his face either, all business. All of the other children were biking home, but this boy, who was probably about 12 was running with me. In sandals and jeans, the whole 25 minutes from Niasso, my village to Cinzo, his village.

I couldn’t help but feel silly for having felt so crabby and upset. I’d turn my head, unable to hide my ever widening grin from my friend, and he’d flash one right back. We never said a word until we reached Cinzo, where he took a right and I took a left to turn back home. No “customary” greeting, no “I ni barra” (good work). I don’t even know his name. and some how he know just what I needed. With out a word, he’d lifted my mood, brightened my outlook for not only the rest of my run, but my whole day. Maybe even more than that. It will always be the little things.