sun hat of many colors, as if she were going on a picnic. She was gracious, and her perfume was sweet, like the smell of fresh frangipani flowers. When she held us, she made sure her long painted nails didn’t dig into our skin. She smiled as easily as she breathed.
“Big Guy!” Yewa shouted, the scream cutting into the gathering silence of the neighborhood. She tapped me on the shoulder, then struggled to break free from Mama, pointing to the profile of a man who had just stepped out of the driver’s seat. “Look . . . Big Guy.”
“Big Guy?” I mumbled. “No. Where? He’s not the one.”
“It’s him!” Yewa insisted, still trying to break free. “He’s the driver of the car . . .”
“Shh . . . shh . . . quiet, quiet!” Mama said, holding on to us tightly.
When she had calmed us, Mama broke into a beautiful smile again that softened her hug. Then she let go of me and lifted up Yewa—whose eyes were still set on the vehicle and the man by it—and brought their cheeks together. She kissed her and rubbed her head.
“There’s no need to shout, honey,” she whispered. “Forget Big Guy for now. You’ll get a chance to greet him, OK?”
“Yes, Mama,” Yewa said, her attention slowly turning to the woman.
“My daughter, I have looked forward to seeing you. I have heard so many good things about you two. Big Guy told me you’re a great dancer. Do you want to dance with Big Guy later?”
“Yes, Mama,” Yewa said, her eyes lit up.
“And I want to see your beautiful baseball cap too.”
My sister nodded. I thought the fact that Mama knew Big Guy had taught us how to dance had a profound effect on Yewa. She began to pay the woman more attention and seemed to feel more comfortable with her.
“Good then, dear. We’ll arrange that. I dance well too.” She turned to Fofo Kpee, who had been watching us with fear. “Such lovely angels. . . . You go and bring the others into the house. Everything is OK.”
“Merci, madame,” he said, and bowed slightly. “Merci beaucoup.”
He walked over to the car. Big Guy opened the back door for Papa and two children while Mama herded the two of us into the house, carrying in the lantern as well. After closing the door, she sat on our bed, with Yewa on her lap, leaning against her breasts. It was as if she were our real mother. She had won Yewa over in no time. I began to feel relaxed, knowing that my sister wasn’t going to spoil the evening for everybody by being stubborn.
I was also touched by Mama’s gentleness. I began to think of how kind she must be to her own children, if she could be so motherly to us on our first meeting. Though she looked far richer than our mother, she acted every bit like her, and, though by now we knew her house must have been more beautiful, she appeared comfortable in our place. She looked around as if she knew what was in the next room. She was the first visitor to come into our house without my feeling embarrassed or out of place.
She was my first contact with an NGO. Her presence confirmed for me what Fofo had said: they were a group of smiling, caring people going around the world helping children like us. I couldn’t stop thanking God in my heart for bringing such a woman to us. I watched her closely, the way she doted on my sister, the way she held her and spoke softly in her ears, the way she threw her head back when she paused in her speech, the way she gestured with her right hand, bejeweled with bracelets, when she spoke. I was so comfortable around her that I no longer smelled the camphor on my clothes; her perfume took over the room the way the scent of the Nanfang had when it arrived.
“I heard you danced so well in church,” she said to Yewa in particular, which made me jealous.
“Yes, Mama,” she said, nestling closer to her.
“I dance too,” I said.
“Nice,” Mama said, and returned to my sister. “You like church then?”
“Yes.”
“Me too,” the woman said. “I like to sing and dance and pray with others. You know, I and my husband feel God has been good to us, and we should be good to others, especially children.”