I was met with a burst of musical laughter. Next came a sea of wide eyes that followed me wherever I went. I had just arrived in a remote region of Zimbabwe at the office of Save The Children, an international organization with outlets around the globe. The obscure site, tucked on the outskirts of the capital city of Harare, sat on an expanse of sun-drenched land filled with lots of giggling, romping elementary school students.
It was October of 1985 — summertime below the equator – and I had volunteered to assist in the area. So, there I was, dressed American style in high top sneakers and skinny jeans, while at least hundred rural youngsters trailed behind me like I was the pied piper.
Indeed, I was a bit peculiar. Back then, I was a Rotary Foundation fellow and just as energetic and curious as all the youngsters who flocked around me that day. A typical adventure-seeking journalist, I had taken a leave of absence from my reporting job at The Detroit News so I could do just that. Rather than be a tourist, I chose to live in Africa. I wanted to plant myself on the soil of my ancestors for at least a year in order to explore the rich traditions and culture and truly get to know people on the other side of the world who look like me.
And today, for reasons I cannot explain, memories of that experience are dominating my thoughts. On the eve of what most expect to be a difficult new year, I’m taking a few moments to escape into the past.
I’m leapfrogging to a village where I’m curled up on a mat, hovering around a campfire with wizened elders and, later, sleeping soundly on the smooth, immaculate mud floor of a rondoval hut. I’m tuning in to the roar of lions at a distance as I camp with travel buddies along the shores of the Zambezi River. I’m reflecting on a trek through Nyanga Park where fellow hikers, and I duck every time a mischievous monkey tosses a stick our way. I’m contorting my body and cramming into the backseat of a small car with at least 13 others because the “emergency taxi” was the only transportation I could find. I’m traipsing with nearly 100 bright-eyed children as I teach them to play “What Time Is It Mister Fox?”
Does it appear as if I’m running from reality? Maybe. But I think there’s more to it than that. By contemplating the strange and illusory specter we call yesterday, I’m reminding myself that everything is temporary. That means I’m viewing our current political and socioeconomic circumstances through the lens of physics, which posits that nothing stands still.
Life is not a static experience. Either we evolve or we regress, we grow, or we allow our brains to atrophy. Americans did not advance, plain and simple. Our technology did. Yes, I said it. Not enough individuals in our society are reading, expanding mentally, thinking critically. The sad result is the foreboding trap known as Project 2025 and the very real possibility that gains and inroads made by our predecessors might erode and the rights they fought for limited to a select few.
And so, excuse me while I steal a bit of time just to daydream and reminisce and, for a brief period, lose myself in visions of frolicking children. In the scheme of things, my flashbacks probably aren’t all that meaningful. Yet so many young ones were following me about on that hot, sunny day in sub-Saharan Africa, I can’t dismiss it as total whimsy.
You see, those children, enchanted by my foreign accent, made me feel as if it was my duty to leave them with a dash of magic, a hug, a few innocent childhood games. I see some hidden significance in that. I can still picture them, their arms flailing as they scamper across the sand. I have no way of knowing what happened after I left, but I’m certain that at least one of my little admirers grew up and told his or her child or grandchild about a silly activity learned from a mysterious African American stranger. I’m convinced that somewhere in Zimbabwe, maybe in the city or perhaps in a dusty little village where there are no streetlights, some random children are playing “Red Light/ Green Light.”
Of course, none of this is Earth shattering and it has little to do with the trepidation of closing out an old year and entering one that feels intimidating. Still, I’ve been told it’s good to find joy in the simplest of pleasures. I suppose that’s what I’m doing right now. I’m looking back at a potential seed I may have planted and a frivolous scene of kids playing tag. When I remember them, the corners of my mouth turn up. I smile broadly. And right now, we all need more than one reason to do that as much as we can.
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