Odwa

Sometimes it is better to write about experiences a few months after they happen, because then your brain has been able to sift through all of the input and that which remains is what truly affected you.
I spent only five weeks in South Africa, in a gorgeous seaside town called Knysna on the Garden Route, teaching English and Arts and Crafts in a school called Thembelisha. The 'h' is silent. My kids ranged in age from seven to ten years, and I assisted seven sections each week. As it so often happens, I became particularly attached to one class, Section 4A, and though Fridays were Arts and Crafts days for three sections, it was for 4A that I worked as hard as I did preparing each lesson and activity. I enjoyed the arts classes with all my kids, that is true, but 4A just had a special place in my heart, primarily because of one boy in the class, a boy named Odwa.
Odwa was a quiet and exceptionally well behaved child in a class full of strong, amusing, and sometimes rowdy personalities. He stuck out not only because of his self effacing and disciplined manner but also because of a genuine sweetness that emanated from his steady brown eyes. To me, I could tell from my very first interaction with him that he was different, that he had just a little bit more goodness than the average child.
I have two stories about Odwa that make his memory to me such a strong one. The first takes place on my first Friday at Thembelisha School. The teacher for 4A was out sick that day, and the school did not have any available substitute teachers, so I was told I would have to manage the class alone. Volunteers are not supposed to ever be left alone in a classroom as we are not certified teachers, but at Thembelisha it was more the norm than the exception for volunteers to have entire classes under them. That Friday 4A was to have English, and most of the kids there had some English, not enough to converse, but enough that they could understand very simple directions. Their primary language was Xhosa, and many times during my volunteer stint, I had moments of frustration when I wished I had the smallest grasp of it, but alas, as many of the words consist entirely of clicking tongue sounds, I was always to have only English to communicate.
Having forty five minutes with which to pass the class and looking for an activity to entertain them and teach them, I decided on a ten minute class discussion on favorite foods and then requested that each student write three to five sentences on what their favourite food was and why they chose it. In the discussion before the writing time, when I was asking kids to raise their hand and tell me their favourite food, their answers never deviated from the mundane. On the chalk board I had written a list composed of 'chicken', 'milk', 'rice', 'eggs', 'spinach' and 'bread'. I was shocked and asked if any of the kids liked 'ice cream' or 'chocolate cake', and while many said yes, they still preferred their original choices. That was a moment of culture shock and realization for me.
I told the children to write their "essays" and to bring them up to me for a gold star sticker when they had completed the assignment. At the mention of a sticker they immediately got to work.
There were 42 children in 4A. One by one they came up to my desk, handing me college ruled paper on which was written never more than three sentences in English, very short and to the point. An example of 41 of the students essays would be "I like chicken. It is my favourite food. My mom makes good chicken" or perhaps "Milk is good. It tastes good. Milk is my favourite food." The point is, the essays got the job done, followed instructions, and revealed to me how little English learning the children actually had. But one boy, one out of forty two, came up to me with his paper, and asked me before he handed it over whether it was okay that he had written five sentences instead of three. I said yes in a exclamatory tone full of surprise and pleasure that at least one had gone above and beyond, and when I read his essay I was still not prepared for how above and beyond he had gone. On his paper, the boy had written a five sentence essay as if he was a chicken standing on the street corner, sad because everyone seemed to prefer steak to chicken. He was sad and wished more people liked chicken. But then steak came walking down the street and saw the chicken and went over to say hi. The chicken said he was sad because people like steak more. The steak said no they didn't, they like them both just as much! That was Odwa writing. I fell in love instantly.
The next week, during a game of hangman with 4A, I was moderating and whoever won the game was the next person to think up a word and be up at the chalkboard. One by one each child won a game and would come up to me and tell me the word they had chosen, simple words like 'food', 'move', 'life', or 'tree', and I would confirm that they knew how to spell it and play would begin. Towards the end of the class, Odwa won a game and came up to the chalkboard to begin the next round. I asked him what word he would like to use. He leaned in close to my ear and whispered, "Cinderella". I smiled in spite of myself, trying not to laugh. I said to him, "Do you know who Cinderella is?" a little curious as to how that fairy tale had reached so far a place since I knew the rest of 4A would probably not know who Cinderella was. He told me "she is a princess who married a prince". Close enough. I asked him how to spell it, and he said"S-I-N-D-R-L-A". I told him I would help him and we went to the board. Sure enough, none of the kids were able to guess it, even when the name was said out loud. But Odwa did not seem upset or embarrassed. He just went his quiet, sweet natured way back to his seat.
I never saw him misbehave in class, never talk too much or not begin his work as soon as he was instructed to do so. He was not the brightest child, or at least, his marks did not reflect him to be, but he touched me with his purity and simplicity.
The sad part is I don't know and won't ever know what will become of him, what type of person he will grow to be. I can only hope he will be happy. This is my story of Odwa.