I lean hard against the sturdy trunk of a stately palm tree around which the current housing of our children’s village circles. In the relative cool of evening, as the light slants long and golden on the ground, I catch up with mamas and children about their days.
I am oblivious of any threat of impending harm.
From clear across the yard Kaffi, one of our dear young men, launches himself straight towards me, a deeply concerned look furrowing his brow.
His broad intent strides devouring ground; I look quizzically at his coming.
“Mama, it is not good for you to stand there, ” he blurts out earnestly without even a breath or the common culture of greeting.
I look down expecting an army of ants to be marching my way or to be in the path of an oncoming snake. Seeing nothing but dirt, I look back at him rather confused.
“This is the season when coconuts fall in the evening, Mama. You really don’t want to stand there right now.”
Very grateful for the warning, I wisely take my conversations to the safe confines of Mama Serena’s front porch, far away from falling coconuts.
Walking back to my house giving the fall-zone wide berth, I realize again the gift Papa has given me.
A family who doesn’t just remind me of my own story when I need to remember it; but one who watches out for the things I cannot yet see and calls my gaze upward into vision.
I shut my persnickety half door as the last light of evening slips over the horizon. Grateful for family found a world away from the familiar, I shake my head, smile and say thank you to Papa for continued protection in a season of projectile coconuts and erratic first steps of a new nation.