God lives in Kalingbe Etoe

The first people I met in Ghana were the bored children of a village called Kalingbe Etoe. It was Sunday morning at about noon, and the kids were supposed to be in Sunday school; unfortunately for their Christian edification, however, it was one of those monthly-ish events in which market day happens to fall on a Sunday, and showing up to hear the Word of God the kids discovered their teacher had gone to market instead. All the non-marketing adults were apparently in church singing to the noisy accompaniment of a full band audible for miles around, leaving the children completely unsupervised. Now I can't speak for all Americans, but I know that if that had happened at the Sunday school of MY childhood, nothing short of smashed glassware, copious amounts of glue coating the floor and possibly walls, at least three injuries, and possibly a small fire would have broken out. These kids, however, were remarkably well-behaved, never once straying from the yard in front of their teacher-less classroom - not even when horrible temptation in the form of a random foreigner inexplicably walked by on their town's dirt road.

I was walking along their main dirt road under my purple-with-green-dinosaurs umbrella because it was also the direct route from the Togolese border to the nearest regional transport hub of Ho. I was walking as opposed to riding in the vehicle we had taken with a dozen other passengers from Kpalime, Togo because said vehicle had run out of gas a few kilometers back. The driver hastened off down the road in search of gas/a taxi-moto to take him to gas; after about ten minutes of boredom on the dusty road I followed him (albeit at a more rambling pace). I was delighted to discover Kalingbe Etoe, even more so when I realized that the entire adult population was at church and therefore not around to stare at/ harass me. I guess I don't mind child harassment as much, 'cos when the Sunday school class noticed me from the windows of their building and began calling out and wildly beckoning for me to come over, I just stood around and waved at them. I felt bad disappointing them, but it seemed like a bad idea to wander off the only road in town - and potentially miss the driver coming back from who-knows-where with gas. So I stood and waved, and then after a little while I wandered away. As has often happened to me on this trip, I found myself with nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get there, so I just sort of floated around idly on the road between tin-roofed houses and watched butterflies.

Pretty soon the Sunday school class came to some sort of democratic decision that straying as far as the main road in order to get my attention wasn't really a sin; the older students verified the validity of this decision, and they all sprinted up to the roadside and resumed their calling and waving from where I had been standing. As talking to them would no longer require my leaving the road and missing any gas-bearing saviors, I decided, what the hey, and went over to say hello.

After the formalities, conducted via translation of the older sisters, I discovered their teacher-less plight. No sooner was it out than a younger child hatched a plan that gained immediate popularity : "Why don't YOU teach us!"

"Yes, yes!" the others echoed in angle-innocent chirping voices. "YOU can be our teacher!!"

It was like a horrible scene out of a white- man's-burden missionary novel. Small African children surrounding me on a dirt road, clapping and imploring me to teach them the wonders of Jesus, me looking all the more like a missionary for my wide Shari'a skirt. "Teach us, teach us!" they cry. A four-year-old grabs my hand to take me towards class, upturned face smiling sweetly at me. The CRU (Campus Crusade for Christ) kids I'd met touring Elmina's slave castle would have given their best Bibles for a moment like this. You know how the scene ends, don't you? Hand in hand, white lady wades through the children to the classroom to open a Bible and begin teaching in gentle tones about the love of Jesus Christ to smiling young faces, open ears, and naive hearts.

Fly in the ointment being, unfortunately, that I can't boast more than passing familiarity with Jesus H. Christ (H for holy, right?), don't really belong to a religion, and otherwise haven't got a clue about Bibleish schtuffs. Awkward.

"I think you know a whole lot more about the Bible than I do..." I began lamely, unwilling to shock them with my areligiosity. They chorused that this could not possibly be the case, and renewed their pleas.

For a moment I considered being their teacher anyway. I could pick any of a number of secular themes that line up nicely along Christian values: treat others as you would like to be treated, recognize when you've done something shameful, always remember to see the beauty in the world around you. Perhaps I could throw together something like a Sunday school class.

Then I remembered the gas, the waiting broken-down car, and had to decline. The crowd of kids generously gave me and my faith the benefit of the doubt, assuming they were missing out on some magnificent Bible-teaching, and grew terribly disappointed. (If only they knew.) We enjoyed learning each other's names, though, and high-fives all around concluded the meeting with high spirits. They waved goodbye for a long time as I walked away, back towards the broken-down bus, and I realized that if there is a god, those kids are probably a lot closer to him/her/it than I am.