Requiem for Gildas.

Gildas is one of my favorites among the village children who hang out around my house and regularly pester me for my deck of playing cards and other presents. He cannot be more than six years of age, has spindly arms and legs, and his belly is only slighly bloated from malnutrition. He stands out from the ragtag crowd of his peers with his gentleness (not once have I seen him hit another child, a rare occurrence) and his embarrassed smile. Gildas is also a little dancing fiend... whether he has won a hand of cards, wants to get my attention, or is just overcome momentarily with glee, he always celebrates with a ridiculously cute hopping session, that looks half-Russian-folk-dance and half-muppet. He has just started his first year of school, and looks shy and excited all at the same time, standing in front of me in his new shirt and carrying a backpack that is much too big for him. I freaking adore this kid.

Gildas died a week ago. He drowned in the lake next to the village. Nothing in my experience is so raw or painful as a Burkinabé mourning: the village women howled and wailed so piercingly, they could be heard throughout the entire area all morning; and the men stood stoically together in small groups, brooding silently as they watched. The funeral took place almost immediately after Gildas's tiny, limp body was retrieved from the shallows where it was found.

I did not know him very well or long, but I was fortunate enough to know Gildas for a brief period, and the very least I could do for him and his family is to share with you the side of him I knew, that through our combined memories a part of him might continue to live on.

Sarcasm will resume in the next posting, but please allow me this one opportunity for some genuine emotion.