Viscous, hot air rouses Charlie. A hunger for fresh oxygen and the smell of musty cotton urges his emergence from the green stained fleece. For an instant, Charlie Barton forgot the reasons for his man-made cotton womb.
Blow flies, with their tiny feathery legs, occasionally land on his exposed soiled ankles in hopes to extend their curly tongues to find a few morsels of nourishment. These frequent visitors are reminders of the reasons for his chrysalis state within the fleece. Their painful tickles are maddening. Their monotone buzzing reverberates, replacing the usual sound of Charlie's obnoxious radio-alarm clock.
The twilight air is cool and dry yet the oasis would soon end. The large African sun is now peeking through the statuesque baobab trees as it exhibits its grace before its fury. The brawny, thick trunks and heightened arms of the baobab trees seem to be the sole guardians for the village from the igneous sun. African roosters wail as the sunrays creep over the rocky earth. Their shrill crows echo as piercing cries of a mourning mother over her lifeless child.
These sounds are unfamiliar to Charlie within his cocoon. Crying children awaiting their first suckle of the day, sheep bellows and donkey brays replace the sounds of honking horns and city chatter. Charlie misses the sounds of the city. The new stimuli frightens him.
Charlie's dusty cotton tee shirt and rolled up Duckheads are moist from the warmth and perspiration, yet the safety of the blanket seems more important than his comfort in the moment.
Why am I afraid? Charlie wonders.
Can I really be here? Is this a dream?
His wonderings accompany his dilemma concerning his birth from the safety of his blanket.
(Shuffling and sliding of feet over loose gravel)
"I ni saxuma!" states the unseen voice and forced the appearance of Charlie from underneath his fleece.
For a moment, Charlie considers not acknowledging the mystery voice and pretends to be asleep in hopes of a few more minutes alone to gather the courage to engage in his new world. Charlie's honest spirit refuses this temptation.
Charlie rolls back the green fleece. His dilated pupils disappear as he tries to combat the early morning sun that found its way to his bedside. Numerous figures stand between him and the sun. Their fuzzy appearances bare the likeness of ghosts as the sunlight flashes in and out from behind them with each movement. Charlie's eyes focus.
A tall African man stands center before him. His skin is as black as the African night itself. His medium, muscular frame is covered with a red and black soccer jersey adorned with the number "1". His trousers are amber and rolled to his ankles. They are torn and patched with mismatched fabric. A small hand-woven rope serves as his belt. A wooden handled hoe-like tool hangs on his shoulder. The handle is smooth and shiny from hours of use. The smile on his face assures Charlie that his outer appearance is of no concern.
Five children stand at each side of the man. Each of them are situated according to height. Their innocent faces reflect happiness and curiosity. Light brown, earthy powder appears as makeup covering their faces and bloated bellies. Their bright eyes and mesmerizing smiles counteract their beggarly appearance.
"I ni kee!" utters Charlie hoarsely in response to the man's unannounced presence. These were the only words that he remembers in Malinké which meant "hello". He recalls this phrase from the airport and the travel literature he had read before arriving. The children giggle and increase their ivory smiles at the pale stranger's attempt to speak their language. The tall young Malinké man responds, "Mbaa!"
The young man extends his hand. Charlie reaches out and grasps it. The strong grip and calloused palms invite Charlie to pause in respect and assume that his morning greeter was on his way to work in the field.
Charlie is not dreaming. Every sound and smell is as real as his uncertainties. Charlie continues to question his reality as the stranger walks down the rocky path to his field. The children scatter after the man waving goodbye to Charlie.
One little girl lingers. Her bowed legs, possibly from polio, cause her to lag behind the others. Strength and acceptance of her crippled state seeps from her as she pulls her limp leg from behind. She is no more than five years old. She waddled to the edge of the wooden entrance of the courtyard. She turns to wave and offers a smile. Charlie returns the smile and waves.
This is Charlie Barton's new home. He is not afraid anymore.
