Return to Phillips House.
Walking down the dirt path to Kiwanga orphanage, I have the feeling of returning to home. Do you remember the feeling when you were at University for the first time and it was Christmas break time and you are so homesick for your childhood dog at home and your family and your bed that you could just curl up in a ball and cry /and/or/ blow chunks? That is how I felt.
The feeling washed over me like a first splash of cold water from a bucket bath in the evening when there is a slight breeze. Then, the feeling turns into a complete fluffy-couch-comfort feeling.
“Hallo Mzungoo!” We smile and wave. Stepping through the small gate, We say Hello to the guard that I remember, only he doesn’t remember me. There have been countless numbers of pale skinned volunteers there since, I’m sure. Kelly smiles at me, a sort of look you give your child when you give a non-verbal go-ahead to jump into the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese. I lead her straight towards Phillips House, the gated part in the back with the mentally and physically challenged. When we are passing the library, the sound of the children singing gets louder. Maybe this next part sounds a little to Lifetime movie to you, but once I can figure out how to post the video, you will understand. It is hard to explain the sounds that passed by us. Its like a slight mist of rain. You can feel it. You can feel it on your body. We stepped past the corner of the library, and on our right, we see them. Halfway. The primary school children were jammed into the school dining hall practicing for their competition.
Out of the corner of her eye, Kawala catches us. Kawala is around the age of 35, but mentally she is 5.
Walking down the dirt path to Kiwanga orphanage, I have the feeling of returning to home. Do you remember the feeling when you were at University for the first time and it was Christmas break time and you are so homesick for your childhood dog at home and your family and your bed that you could just curl up in a ball and cry /and/or/ blow chunks? That is how I felt.
The feeling washed over me like a first splash of cold water from a bucket bath in the evening when there is a slight breeze. Then, the feeling turns into a complete fluffy-couch-comfort feeling.
“Hallo Mzungoo!” We smile and wave. Stepping through the small gate, We say Hello to the guard that I remember, only he doesn’t remember me. There have been countless numbers of pale skinned volunteers there since, I’m sure. Kelly smiles at me, a sort of look you give your child when you give a non-verbal go-ahead to jump into the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese. I lead her straight towards Phillips House, the gated part in the back with the mentally and physically challenged. When we are passing the library, the sound of the children singing gets louder. Maybe this next part sounds a little to Lifetime movie to you, but once I can figure out how to post the video, you will understand. It is hard to explain the sounds that passed by us. Its like a slight mist of rain. You can feel it. You can feel it on your body. We stepped past the corner of the library, and on our right, we see them. Halfway. The primary school children were jammed into the school dining hall practicing for their competition.
Out of the corner of her eye, Kawala catches us. Kawala is around the age of 35, but mentally she is 5.
She.is.amazing.
She starts to run towards us, with a slightly confused look on her face. She remembers me, just not fully, yet. She embraces me.
“What is my name?” I say.
“Aunt uhhhh….” – Kawala
“Aunt Kate!”
“AUNT KATE!”
She hugs me even tighter. Now she remembers. At Phillips house, they never forget. My favorite place. She introduces herself to Kelly by giving Kelly the biggest bear hug I have ever witnessed, and after a few times of asking her name, it is understood that ‘Aunt Kelly’ is now, “Auntie Karen”.
We are pulled by Kawala to Phillips house and are bombarded by Isabella, the basketball player, Michael, the jokester, and Gertrude, the storyteller. Each one, in the best way that they are able, scream ‘AUNTIE KATIE!’ My heart melts. Kelly is taken immediately into the family.
I see Charles through the doorway peering out trying to see who is causing the commotion. His eyes get wider and I hear him say my name. I have written of him before. My favorite. He can only get out the vowels, but I know what he says. He sits like a pretzel, with food dried to his face. We sit down with our ‘posse’ and begin catching up. Phillips House is a place of complete happiness for me. I love spending time with these beautiful people, who if it wasn’t for their amazing caretakers, would have been shunned to the streets or dead.
I spot Henry in the corner like a shy puppy, head cocked to the side. He cannot stand, so he uses flip flops on his hands to move around. We head into the art room so we can see what he has been working on. Dozens or purses and wallets, mats, leather bound pieces of art with colored straw, and others. It’s incredible really. He might not speak very much, if at all really, he might not be able to stand, and to most he is considered ‘mentally challenged’, but to me, he is a beautiful artist, a caring soul, and a friend.
We draw, we sing, we play, and a couple of hours later, Kelly and I head up to Aunty Maria’s quarters to have supper.
This entry made me cry. I remember you writing about these folks last time you were there. I remember your stories about them and it's like being reintroduced to old friends. Beautifully told, Katie.
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