Semean and Musu

This past week, I met Cathrine, an 8 year old who was in our hospital for club foot. Her and her mother had travelled far from up country to have her treated. It was difficult to communicate. In fact, the little girl never said a word to me. Her mother did all the talking, but she spoke in a rural dialect and I needed a translator, word for word. Nonetheless, I got some smiles out of Cathrine, and she knew I was praying for her. I asked her to tie a string around my wrist so that I could have a little reminder to visit her. She did it, happy to be responsible for something.



I was unable to say goodbye before she left so abruptly. However, on the same day we took the photograph above, I met Musu, who was crocheting a maroon table cloth. She made tight, orderly stitches and worked swiftly. I left and returned with my bright pink lace sock that I've been working on. She marvelled at it and asked me to teach her. She watched me closely. She told me she was from nearby, Supermarket, a local neighborhood where Duala Market is.

Duala Market is laid out over a huge expanse - perhaps comprised in the length of six American city blocks - that is crowded with sellers pushing everything from dried fish and meat to colorful fabrics to cell phones perched on a trash dump. It is one of the most unsanitary places I've ever been in. Musu is a vendor herself. She buys fish from Duala and then walks some ways away and sells it elsewhere.

I ask her if her child is here. She says yes.

"There he go! Semean!!"

A boy of seven turns his head. When he sees me, he smiles, shy a bit mischievous. He is playing with Cathrine and Masa, blowing bubbles and trying to catch them. Masa has stickers covering her face. She is very domineering and all the nurses are amused at her.



I ask her what kind of operation he has had. Musu points to her lap. I catch the words "pee pee" "pain" "he get the operation there." I'm nodding. There is alot of nodding between the Shippers and the Liberians when you only understand 60 per cent of one another on a good day.

"I show you Semean?"

Sure, of course, I want to meet your son! I say.

Semean responds to Musu's call. He runs over and she says something to him in their dialect. Before I can realize it, he pulls up his gown and shows me his affliction. He has a huge pustule, or a tumor, maybe the size of a golfball. It is very pink and shiny. I would've tried to get a closer look, but the affliction is right on his penis. It is sad, and I look away so that Semean can drop his gown. He is never for a moment ashamed, but keeps his smile on his face. His mother says that he is in pain and that urinating is very difficult for him. Her face drops and I put my arm around her to comfort her. She puts her head on my shoulder.

We knit together and she begins doing the knit stitch on my sock:



Tonight, I spent about five hours after work with her in the Ward, knitting and teaching her how to knit lace. I chatted with her and another female patient, Sonnie, about America, Liberia, life in the ward. Their relatives came by and visited them and I got to meet Musu's sisters and her brother in law. At one point, conversation turned to me, and I shared with them all about my mother and how she got through the time of my father's death because of her faith and her trust in Him. When I finished, Musu looked confidently into my eyes and said, "God alway make a way. You think there is no way, he alway make way." She told me about how she struggled with Semean and this affliction he's had since birth, but how coming to the ship has really been a huge blessing. Both of us teared up, and we squeezed each other's hands.

We continue knitting. Another crew member, Irene, drops by to say hi to Semean. Irene asks me if Musu knew how to knit before this stay and I say yes. Musu says, "No! You teach me." I disagree, I said, "Of course you knew. You did it so fast!" She shakes her head, insistent that she never knew. I was blown away! I have taught countless people how to knit and it has taken more than just observing to pick it up. Yet, she picked it up by just watching me. I teach her how to cast on the stitches next. My mom taught me sort of a rare, tricky way to do it. Musu watches once and does it perfectly. That has never happened to me where I show somebody this technique once and they catch on immediately. I am in awe of her and tell her so. She laughs and laughs. I ask her, "Are you proud of yourself?!" She smiles, ear to ear, and says, "Yes. I am." Good, I say, good. She is so brilliant and I am humbled that I get the privilege of her company.

Before I get up to go, she hands me a black plastic bag. Inside are three plaintains and two mangos. I walk down the hall, pass the heavy metal doors, and I am back in my cabin, in a different world, and I cannot stop thinking about my new Liberian friends.