New life

Just as I was boarding the AF flight out of Lome word came through that our second grandchild had arrived at about 3 PM in the afternoon on Saturday July 25, weighing in at some 8 pounds. I believe her name is Saffi but I can’t get anyone to answer the phone in the middle of the night in Easthampton. I spent the day anxiously waiting for news after hearing in the middle of Friday night that Sita had been admitted to the hospital and that a Cesarean was likely to happen yesterday. I kept beating myself up for not having taken the Friday night flight to Paris, but who could have known? The girl wasn’t scheduled to arrive until August 1.

A long wait

And so I spent Saturday morning, tired from the interrupted sleep and distracted about Sita, with my friend A and his wife at a lovely beach restaurant, relaxing, eating fish brochettes and drinking fresh pineapple juice. We talked about his plans to start a rehab center in Cameroon and how to get ready for the big jump to actually set it up. It would mean leaving his paying job with ICRC and risking the savings from friends and family, his salary and savings, career for the sake of a dream. I encouraged him and added bits and pieces from our course to the conversation. I have never taken such a jump and am not sure I’d have the courage. But then again, I pointed out, just about everything around us, except for the sand, the wind, the flora and sea, started as a glint in someone’s eye. I pointed at his latest model iPhone, yes, that one too. It also carries the message that you don’t get to the supermodel right away, so start small to show that one can deliver the dream in reality. It was a wonderfully inspiring conversation. I promised to support him in whatever way I could.

We left for the airport in the hotel shuttle. A few miles before the airport we encountered a huge crowd of cars (with the opponent of the President at the head, who had apparently just come in on the plane I was to leave on). He was followed by thousands of followers, in cars, in trucks, on motorbikes and on foot. Many were dressed in orange, the color associated with Dutch football fans, playful and dedicated. But these people didn’t look so playful. They stared at us, white folks stuck in the crowd in our little bus that could easily be upturned. I kept hoping that the generally good natured Togolese would stay that way. Still, it remained unsettling to find oneself in an immense crowd of people. I know crowds can easily go from friendly to nasty – we see this over and over on the television.

There was no visible presence of people representing the law; no uniforms anywhere in sight, only self-appointed traffic regulators with whistles in their mouth. But then, as quick as it started, the parade had gone by us and we resumed our trip to the airport. Our very alarmed French passenger let out a sigh of relief. I fear that in the excitement I dropped my travel (smart) phone on the floor. That my phone was missing I discovered too late after having gone through all the security check points. The receptionist at the lounge was not helpful and refused to let me use her phone to get in touch with the driver.

The phone was supposed to receive the signal that the baby had arrived. Now some unknown person has gotten that message, unless the phone is still in the bus but I am not counting on seeing it ever again. I can only hope that whomever found it, if not willing to part, will erase all names and phone numbers. If anyone who reads this gets a sketchy call from Togo, beware. It is not me.

And now I am waiting to board my flight from Paris to Boston. It will be about 14 hours before I will see the new baby. It seems an eternity.