It’s the Little Things That Count

Today…everyday, there are things that bring a smile to my face. It’s not hard to make me smile. I smile a lot, even when I may be feeling down. But it’s those special moments that can make my whole body happy and warm for half a minute and than it’s forgotten within a split second. And even when I tell myself, “don’t forget that ever Ciara!” I put it aside and store it away deep in my sub conscience thinking it will be useful later to lift up my spirits another day. But when that day rarely comes the moment is buried and perhaps lost forever.
“N te!” (Malinke for “I refuse to do that” often accompanied by a stamping of a foot while snapping both elbows to the side.) I refuse to live and to just forget what make life all the more hopeful, beautiful, and perfect. For it is through those moments that God is trying to tell you He is always there.
This blog is dedicated to my little sister Cerisa. She knew how to deal with those fleeting moments by simply writing them down in bullet form in a hand notebook while we backpacked around Europe together.
To the little things…
* A market lady I’ve never seen before snuck into my small purchase 2 packets of vanilla sugar as cadeaux.
* My brothers Baba & Bofis not only hug me but they let me hold onto them for as long as I like.
*I dropped my head wrap in the river when trying to balance a load on my head. A strange woman not only took the time to rewash it but then helped me balance the heavy load again.
*When I was at a loss of Malinke words au marche, a stranger came to my rescue and spoke to me in French and then translated to the vendor.
*I wasn’t paying attention and I hit a box with my rear. I began to sing aloud a popular Malinke song “bo bara ba.” N fa laughed and said it wasn’t true. “Bo bara ba” means “big butt.”
*Les filles run up to me and always want to play “Slide.” See Cerisa! You officially taught an African village how to play an American game.
*This happens every evening. The second I return from working in the garden my entourage of kids sings, “Fadima, Toubabou, Fadima, Toubabou!” The shouting of my name is rewarded by me dancing on my bike, but when I hear the shouting of white person I shake my head in disapproval while trying to mask my smiles.