Days like this

Hannah Shenton

Have you ever met an African person? Well have you? I have. I don't mean to sound bigheaded or anything, but I have. Actually I've met quite a few. I've never been to Africa but I've met an African. O.K maybe you're getting a little confused, I certainly am, I'll explain

It was lunchtime 12.30 and I was sitting in the canteen (all right it was a portacabin) chewing down on my favourite sandwich ever, chicken and cheese, no butter. Outside the portacabin was our concrete playground, and it was from there we heard the shouts and screams, but loudest of all people calling "They're here they've arrived" They were the Africans. The children from Jolaurabbey School in Kernya. They, had come to visit us because we had given them money. They, had chosen us out of all the other schools a tiny primary of 30 pupils and two teachers in Dumfries and Galloway, Southwest Scotland.

We looked or should I say stared at them as they filed out of a gigantic bus. The first boy who set foot on our playground was tall and skinny. He had a black parker jacket on and he was making, amusing but more so odd faces at us through a tiny crowded window. Our head teacher marched clown from the school smiling like she didn't really know what to say or do. By this time we had burst open the door and entered the acute gravel square to meet the new comers. But one of the strangest things was they all had coats on. Big fluffy winter coats on. It was boiling, sweltering even. We all had T-shirts on and were plastered in suntan cream. And they had coats on claiming it was cold!

We where told to mix and make friends and mix and make friends we did! I was scanning them all to see who was on their own .Who hadn't been approached And it was then I saw my African. I approached her, 'my names Hannah, what's yours?' I said trying not to sound nerves or weird.

"Lourine. My names Lourine," her English was good, a little slow and muffled but good.

She grabbed my hand and insisted in holding it. We walked around the playround chatting small talk really but cbatting all the same. We went into the portacabin because she was curious to see what was in side and me tellingher it was just a dinner hall didn't settle her mind.

When we where walking out of the portacabin down the ramp I asked 'Don't you miss your parents being away from them for so long?'

She paused, her eyes left mine, catapulted to the ground. She looked back again at me: 'My mother and father are dead They went long time ago . Aids they died of aids. I felt so bad; why did I ask? Why? I spoke again "Oh I'm so sorry." Then my African said the sweatiest thing "Why you sorry not your fault. Come on can I see your class room now?

After I had given Lourine the grand our of our amazingly tiny school and millions of photos had been taken; all of them sang to us. They were-I don't know how to describe it. I was feeding my ears on gold.

We didn't have much time to talk after that. But I remember the last thing she said to me.

"You my friend, here my address write to me tomorrow." Then she was gone, they disappeared again into their gigantic bus.

I did write to her the very next day. I sent it first class; clearing my mum out of stamps. Bit I never received a reply. I will remember her as my African.