August, 2010
For some odd reason, I have had dad’s Father-son South Africa World Cup book idea on my mind all morning. I’m sitting on the couch holding two different journals, the journal dad bought me for our South Africa trip and the journal I bought to write down all the unexplainable dreams I’ve been having. It is a miracle that my South Africa journal made it out of the bus the same time I was ejected. It was found next to me. And I have been reading and remembering each day of that trip, each day this month. I open it and start reading.
I read about the game between Brazil and Cote D’Ivoire. And I read of my first Skype double date with Zaine and two beautiful Brazilian girls I met after the game. I talked to Zaine about them and we decided that I would Skype him when I’m with the girls so that we can chat and get to know each other. I can’t help but laugh at myself as I remember that day. I place my open journal on my chest and these interesting memories drift me off to sleep.
Sunny day. The sun came out about six hours ago and now it’s brightly shining over the water. The sun’s rays seem pretty hot but bearable. Being in the water in this weather must be super cooling. It is my first time at the lake. Little boys are playing in it, splashing each other and doing cool flips as they dive in.
A woman is holding my hand while holding in her other hand a big calabash made out of clay. She’s the same woman that held me in her arms the day of the big celebration. Most people call her Wimbi.
“Wimbi, wait for me” shouts a woman running toward us. By her side is a little boy about my height and age.
We both turn and stand still till they get closer to us. “Hi Sabine, how are you? And you Dieudonné?” Wimbi asks. They join us in our walk as we make our way down the hill to the water. Dieudonné doesn’t wait for any permission to take off his shirt and jump in the water. I want to do the same but Wimbi stops me with her hand on my chest before the idea fully shapes itself in my head. She puts down her calabash and sits by Sabine. I sit next to Wimbi but keep my focus on the happy children playing in the water.
“You can go near the water but you cannot enter the water, you hear me!” Wimbi says as she gently rubs my head.
I walk to the edge of the water and let my feet feel the cold water hitting the shore and I sit there. I look up and see the happy face of Dieudonné. Then I look down and start drawing on the sand. Without much effort I start drawing the smiling face of Dieudonné, then the smiling face of another boy. With the help of the muddy sand, I add details on those two sand drawings, which turns them into 3-D detailed faces.
An hour later, I draw about four of the six boys in the water with facial details and expressions resembling each boy. Wimbi comes to pick me up and both Sabine and her look at me amazed as soon as they see my sandy drawing.
“Beautiful talent in this miracle life,” Sabine says. Wimbi takes me in her arms and smiles.
“My miracle child” she says with pride as she wipes the sand off my body. Sabine waves at the boys in the water to get their attention. They swim to the shore and at the sight of my masterpiece; they all congratulate me for an awesome work.
“Is that me?” asks Dieudonné impressed by the resemblance. “I look very happy. I like that.”
Later that day after getting back to the village, I become the talk of the town. Maisha’s sand drawing is all the little boys and girls talk about. When Wimbi tells her husband about the drawing, he takes me in his arms and dances with me. When he puts me down, Wimbi gives me a little bit of water and let me draw on the sand till sun down.
Another sunny day in the village; Fabrice, Wimbi’s husband comes home with a gift wrapped in a golden cloth. A drawing book, sheets of papers and two pencils with two packs of lead.
“A gift from your dad and me,” Wimbi says with a smile.
“For your drawing and also to prepare you for school as we prepare for your enrollment,” Fabrice adds. I take the gift in my hands. I place paper on top of the book and start drawing. “We love you,” Fabrice says. They both place kisses on my head and get out of the house. That whole day, I immerse myself in drawing and barely spend time doing anything else. I draw trees, the surrounding mountains, the many people of town, the musical instruments, the goats and chickens. That night, I keep on drawing with the lamp beside my bed. About an hour after starting my fifteenth drawing of the day, I fall asleep with my head on my drawing.
“Please do not tell me you slept here?” a voice shouts at me. I sit up on the couch with the journal glued to my face. I open my eyes and there a few feet away stands mom. At first I think I’m still dreaming. As I’m trying to make sense of where I am and what has happened, the journal unglues itself from my face and hits the ground
“Please, just tell me that you did not spend your night down here?” mom yanks me out of sleep as she reaches for my journal. Before her fingers even touch the journal, I snatch it from the ground. “Huh….I woke up about two hours ago. I was very excited about moving in today that…huh” I say. I barely have any idea how to get myself out of this one so I look down at the journal in my hand.
“I decided to come down and journal about my first day of college,” I add hoping to get her off my case.
“Okay. But why were you sleeping instead of writing?” she asks unconvinced by my smart attempt to make her back off on the matter.
“I fell asleep. I’m not a writer like Dad; I easily get bored when writing. But I want to try to do it anyways,” I say annoyed at her. At the sound of my response she backs off and changes the subject.
“Well, go get ready, sleepy head. Your uncle and I have to have you moved in and registered for classes, today,” she says.
“Oh yeah! On my way to shower,” I respond.
“Are you going to let me read those?” she asks with a smirk on her face.
I pick up the other journal and hold both of them in my hands. “Woo, no. Of course not, it’s a surprise. I’m going to write my whole time in college, do a few crazy things and you’ll get to read about them when I write a book. You know. Just trying to be like dad, always,” I answer with a smile on my face.
Her silence hints me that she has nothing more to say. She opens the fridge and acts like we weren’t having a conversation.
Nice save, I whisper to myself as I make my way up the stairs. I don’t mind telling mom about my dreams but I would like to understand them first. If not mom will decide that seeing a psychologist is the answer when all I need is to live my life until all these dreams start making sense.
I might have lied to her about writing about my college experience but I didn’t totally lie about having a journal and writing. I have been jotting down every detail of every dream I have had since I came home from the hospital. I didn’t write the first and second dream I had at the hospital. I started with the third one because in the third dream people kept calling me “Maisha”. I do have a name now in these dreams. But I need to know more about this person and this place I keep dreaming about. In today’s dream, my eleventh dream so far, I learned that the person I’m dreaming about or the person, through whom I see all that I am dreaming about, is artistic. Hopefully by writing it all down I can start putting together the puzzle and figure out why I’m having them.
I carry with me my journal as I sometimes have dreams when I nap during the day. I often remember some details of previous dreams that I would like to include in the journal. There’s no way I’m letting it fall in the wrong hands, especially mom and Uncle Mike. My journals are probably going to be the last things I move into my room, probably when mom and Uncle Mike leave and let me start this new chapter of my life.
“I can’t believe I was in one of your dreams.” Dieudonné says confused. “I’m still trying to understand why.”
“You’ll understand soon enough, but let’s not jump.” I tell him. “The story is best told one puzzle piece at a time.” I tell him.
About three hours later, I am almost all moved in. Moving into college is such a different expe
rience. My room gets filled with more and more of my things. I can’t and don’t want to believe that I’m actually going to spend the next four years on this campus, away from home, it is still surreal. Dad and I always knew this would happen one day. We always joked that he would break his back moving my soccer stuff in the room. We both thought we would witness it together.
I do miss him very much. Wishing that he were here is an understatement, having him here is my real desire. If he was here I would ask him on which wall I should put my giant Messy poster. He would probably laugh and ask why not put a poster of him instead. I might actually put up a poster of him instead of Messy. I want to be reminded of the great player dad was and of the great man he shaped me into.
As I lay on my new bed with dad’s book on my chest, I want to always know that he’s in a great place; proud of the man I’ve become and will be.
“Ready?” Uncle Mike asks when he enters my room.
“Yes,” I answer as I jump off my bed, place the book in the last drawer of my desk.
When the campus is crowded by new students and their families, even though getting any help would be almost impossible, I hope to get myself situated today.
We head to the main office to figure out my class schedule situation. I had planned on choosing my classes when I would get back from my trip with Dad but things didn’t go as planned and I wasn’t able to do it till now. I must figure everything out because school starts in a few days.
I declared my major when applying and added a minor when I got accepted. I need to figure out the names of classes that cover needed credits for both my major and minor. I’m excited to study physical therapy and psychology. After a history of soccer players and psychos in the family, I really want to focus my learning on the different impacts of sport on the physical and psychological life of a person.
Mom, Uncle Mike and I sit with my advisor to explore my class options. He advises me on which classes to take this semester. Then he asks me to choose a general course that can cover as general education courses. The first thing that comes to mind is to take an ‘easy A’ class and a class I will enjoy. Drawing is the first idea I get. “I’m not great at drawing but a drawing class would be great,” I say.
“Okay, we can mark that one down. Any other you’re interested in?” he asks.
“I remember seeing an African Art and Culture class. Can it be the other option?” I ask.
Uncle Mike and mom stare at me surprised. They probably don’t understand why all of a sudden I’m interested in African art and culture.
“Yes, it is a great option as well,” the advisor answers. “We have great professors in the African Studies Program.”
I can feel mom’s eyes fixed on me trying to unveil the mystery behind this unexpected desire to learn more about African art and culture.
“I think drawing is best, don’t you?” she jumps in the conversation. Even though that was a question, she really means ‘pick drawing’. And I know that going against her choice would be giving her more reasons to be suspicious of my behaviors. “Yeah, I think I’ll go with drawing,” I say.
On our way back to my room, mom puts her arm around mine and her head on my shoulder. “African Art and Culture, what was that about?” she asks. They both stare at me waiting for an answer.
“The trip with dad opened my eyes to learning about other cultures and arts. And since I visited and loved South Africa, I want to learn more about African art and culture in general,” I express. I don’t want to tell them the real reason behind wanting to learn more. And most of all, I don’t want to talk about my plan to switch into the African Art and Culture class tomorrow.
This class might be the key to figuring out my dreams. I’m sure that what I see in my dreams look a lot like Africa and the language sounds like an African language. As someone who saw a part of Africa, I can say that I need to learn more about the continent, because the portrayals of Africa in our days can be misleading. Dancing people, living in huts, bathing in rivers, wearing colorful patterned clothes or no clothes at all, living with goats, chickens and different animals. Those are few of the ways they are portrayed in movies and documentaries. But I don’t want to learn those things. I hope that the class will give me another side of the culture and help me explore different African countries. And by looking at the culture and art, I’ll be able to pinpoint what part of Africa I’m dreaming of and maybe answer why.
I would love to please mom and Uncle Mike but I need to decide this one on my own. I’ll be on campus making my own decisions and no one will force anything on me. Today I’ll please them but tomorrow, I enter my own journey. A journey in the school I dreamed to go to. A journey playing soccer, learning from mistakes and a journey making wise decisions.
Ma Sabine cleans up the table after we’re done eating lunch. Miradel joins her in the kitchen and helps her with dishes by drying the ones she washes.
Dieudonné and I continue our story telling puzzle solving.