You're a real Zulu when you eat KFC

Three weeks ago an 11 year old boy was admitted to the Respite. He was severely malnourished and had the most awful cough I have ever heard. A wealthy white woman brought him in per request of her domestic worker who is his neighbor down in the valley. Looking at him was like looking through him. He was so shut down. Every so often he would grace us with a fleeting look, but more often he was hidden beneath his blanket; a shield from the outside world.

Bits and pieces of information about his life started coming in. His name – Sibusiso. Age – 11. Living in Weybank. Orphan.

I don’t know what it is about children that sucks me in, but I wanted to be around him every second of my day. When I wasn’t sitting near him trying to get through to him I wanted to be there. I read to him, I sang to him, I drew him pictures and made silly faces. I crafted a journal of some sorts out of paper tied together with yarn and left it in his bed with markers and crayons (thank you cousin Chels for the supplies)

My borderline harassing efforts paid off. Mary-Kate, who alternates days at the Respite with me came home one evening and told me that I had to look at his journal the next day. To my surprise I found pages upon pages of drawings. A chicken, a car, a house, and images upon images of a white girl with brown hair. Next to each of the images of the girl he had written “Meg. Meg. Meg.”

From that moment on something changed. I would walk in, in the mornings and be greeted with a hug. I’d walk into another room and notice I had a shadow. He became my tag along friend. Every time I drove other patients to their appointments he was my co-pilot, sitting shotty.

I’ve always been a firm believer that a friendship can be found anywhere as long as you are open. His little hand fit perfectly in mine and regardless of the fact that we couldn’t communicate in the same language I would often find myself deep in a conversation that was a mixture of simple words and elaborate actions.

Two excursions in particular stand out in my mind. The first, he joined me in trekking around KZedN collecting papers and tablets for patients who were too sick to go to the clinics. I stopped at a store to buy him chapstick for his crusty crusts (I had to say it Vermont girls) and I asked him if he was hungry. I ended up buying him a bowl full of fried chicken, three rolls and a coke. For being 40lbs the kid, like any other 11 year old boy can pack away food.

Watching Sibu devour his lunch made my stomach grumble. He looked over at me, laughed and handed me a piece of chicken. I tried to give it back to him, but he kept shoving it towards my face so clearly I couldn’t resist.

As we sat lounging in the Kwikspar parking lot, stuffing our faces with chicken I couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. My fingers and face were covered in grease and I was holding a pile of gnawed on chicken bones. He threw his bones out the window and looked at me with a guilty "nothing to see here" look. I in return shrugged and threw mine out the window and we both laughed until it hurt.

As I pulled out of the parking lot I felt accepted in his world.

I brought him back to the Respite, which was unusually quiet and slow for a Friday. We sat around drawing and complaining that it was “shesha” – too hot which gave me the idea to try and convince my boss to let me take him to my house to go swimming.

Sibu and Delisile another patient whose health is on the mend and whose personality is sparking packed up towels and juice, magazines and sunglasses and headed for my house. For the first time in my life I was nervous about appearing like I had to much; too big of a house, too many possessions, a pool for goodness sake.

The afternoon was spent having underwater tea parties and doing handstand competitions, races and splashing contests. More than once I was thankful that I was in a pool surrounded by water because watching them brought tears to my eyes. At one point during the day I looked up and saw Sibu looking out over the valley.

The stark contrast of the two parallel worlds was more apparent to me then ever before. Behind him, an enormous pool with crystal clear water, gorgeous property and huge beautiful houses. In front of him valleys dotted with small cinderblock homes with no water. I walked up to him and put my arm around him and we sat like that for a very very long time. (Later that night I realized that Deli had taken a few pictures of us, all of which don't do the intensity of the moment justice, but are very cute)



Our day ended with me driving them back to the Respite while they chattered away in Zulu. I asked Deli what they were saying and she said that they named me “icecream” because I am very white and very sweet.

Day by day Sibu’s heath improved and instead of giving him piggy backs as we walked up to the administrative office we would run. Upon arrival to work early Tuesday morning I was heartbroken when I saw his empty bed. Consoled by the fact that he had probably been well enough to be discharged and return back home I began to walk away when a blur of blue wizzed by me.

I outbursted as I realized Sibu was roller-skating through the respite unit; spinning circles around the nurses, ducking under tables and sticking his tongue out at me at every chance. I had to sit on the floor I was laughing so hard, I honestly thought I was going to pee my pants. He didn’t just look good; he looked like a perfect 11 year old.

That afternoon Mary-Kate and I packed bags upon bags of toys and books that he had accumulated during his stay at the Respite and then accompanied a social worker in bringing him home. Both of Sibu’s parents have passed away. He lives down a winding road over the side of a steep embankment in a one room cinder block house with his 19 year old cousin as the primary caregiver. She is responsible for a 16 year old, a 14 year old, Sibu and another 11 year old, a 9 year old, a 5 year old, a 3 year old and her own 9 month old baby. There are two very small beds and a rug on the floor for some to sleep on.

I printed him three pictures, one of him jumping in the pool, one of him and I and one of Mary-Kate and I. As I handed him the pictures and hugged him goodbye I couldn’t help but feel overpowered by emotion. I was exuberant to see him so healthy and at home and I was also sad to say goodbye to my co-pilot. Mary-Kate and I have already talked about trying to visit him once a week which would be beneficial for both him and us.

He really taught me that if I know 1 Zulu word or 1000 it really doesn't matter. Conversations don't always have to be a verbal exchange between two understanding parties, love and friendship says it all.